I

The first thing we found out about Crosby was that he couldn’t read. The next thing was that he was scared to death o’ women and girls. It was Buck Means that give us the info, and he done it out o’ spite.

You see, Buck and Crosby was with the Dallas Club together year before last, and Buck was sore because Crosby got drafted, while Buck was overlooked. And Buck didn’t like to see a kid with only one year’s experience go up, when Buck himself had been in the sticks four or five seasons and nobody’d paid any attention to him.

Crosby was recommended to us by Jake Atz. Jake wrote up along in July and ast if we could use the fastest young left-hander he ever seen. So the old man put in a draft and we got him.

Well, Jake was right about the kid’s speed. I’ve faced ’em all, from Rube Waddell down, but I never hit against nobody that could zip ’em through there like Crosby. If he ever beaned a man they’d have to get along afterwards without no head. O’ course that wouldn’t be no hardship to most o’ them. It wouldn’t affect the work o’ nobody on our club.

Our first exhibition game last spring was in Dallas. Buck Means was talkin’ to Gilbert and I before the practice.

“How’s Crosby comin’?” he ast us.

“I’m glad he’s on our club,” I says, “so I don’t have to hit against him all season.”

“He’s faster’n Johnson,” says Gilbert. “If he was only a little wild with it they’d all be swingin’ from the bench.”

“They’s no doubt about his smoke,” says Buck; “but he’s got nothin’ besides, not even a noodle. He can’t even read.”

“Can’t read!” I says. “Why, he looks brighter’n that.”

“Sure!” says Means. “He’s a good-lookin’ kid. But, from the shoulders up, he’s unimproved property.”

“Not bein’ able to read won’t hurt him,” I says. “He won’t be bothered if the newspaper boys handle him a little rough once in a while.”

“But if you got a joker on your club,” says Buck, “Crosby’ll be pie for him. McGowan, one of our outfielders, made a monkey of him all last year. He’d buy a paper and come and set down somewheres near Crosby and make up stuff that was supposed to be in there, and read it out loud. And he didn’t ‘read’ no compliments, neither, except when it come to Crosby’s looks. You see, that’s another thing about the poor simp: He’s afraid o’ skirts. He’s so bashful that if they’s a girl under ninety stoppin’ at the same hotel he’ll duck out and buy a meal at his own expense rather’n take a chance o’ havin’ her look at him in the dinin’ room. And McGowan, while pretendin’ that the papers was knockin’ him as a pitcher, pretended, besides, that they were always printin’ how handsome he was and how all the girls was wild about him. And, to make it good, Mac’d write fake love letters to him and he’d get somebody to read ’em, and then good night! He’d lock himself up in his room for a week and never come out, only to get to the ball park. We had him believin’ they was a girl in Austin that was crazy to marry him, and he was weak and sick all the times we was there, for the fear she’d call him up or he’d run into her on the street.”

Well, when I and Gilbert was alone, I says that maybe we’d better keep this dope to ourself, or somebody might take advantage o’ the kid and maybe spoil him as a pitcher. Gilbert was agreeable⁠—that is, he told me he was. But he didn’t lose no time spillin’ the whole thing to Harry Childs, and he couldn’t of picked out a worse one to tell it to.

Harry’d rather kid somebody than hit one on the pick, and him and Joe Jackson hates their base hits just alike.

So as soon as he got a chance he went after Crosby.

We was ridin’ to Fort Worth and Childs had a Chicago paper. He flopped down in the seat beside Crosby.

“Well, kid,” he says, “do you want to read what the reporters has sent up about you?”

“No,” says Crosby. “I ain’t interested in no newspaper talk. As long as I give the club the best I got, they can write anything they please.”

“Yes,” says Childs; “but this is a nice little boost and they’s no man can tell me he don’t like encouragement.”

“But readin’ papers on the train always puts my eyes on the bum,” says the kid.

“I’ll read it to you,” says Harry. “I don’t think your ears’ll be hurt.”

So Childs pulled somethin’ about like this:

“One o’ the most promisin’ recruits is Lefty Crosby, that was drafted from the Texas League last fall. Though this boy only had one year’s experience in the minors, he already handles himself like a veteran. His speed is terrific and his control a whole lot better than the average young left-hander’s.

“Manager Cahill’s only fear about him is that the female fans o’ Chicago and New York will bother him to death with telephone calls and sweet notes. In appearance, Crosby is a great deal like Francis X. Bushman. It is a certainty that he will take the fair sex by storm, provided he gives them the slightest encouragement.”

Crosby was redder’n an undershirt.

“That’s bunk!” he says. “Who wrote that?”

“The guy didn’t sign his name,” says Childs.

“I shouldn’t think he would,” says Crosby.

“I don’t know why not,” says Childs. “He was tellin’ the truth. A fella as handsome and young-lookin’ as you can just about take his pick of any dame in New York or Chi.”

“I wasn’t thinkin’ about gettin’ married,” says Crosby. “I’m satisfied the way I am.”

“Cahill’d rather have you married, though,” says Harry. “He figures a man’s liable to behave himself better if he’s tied down.”

“I’ll behave all right,” says the kid. “I got no bad habits.”

“But if they’s a beautiful bride for you to support, you’ll work harder and improve faster,” Childs says.

“I always work as hard as I can,” says the kid.

“Maybe you already got a girl here in Texas,” says Harry. “Maybe it’s some little black-eyed peacherita from acrost the Border.”

“I haven’t no girl at all, and don’t want none,” says Crosby. “I don’t see why a man can’t get along without thinkin’ about girls all the while.”

“But,” says Harry, “the Lord wouldn’t of made you so beautiful if he thought you was goin’ to be a woman hater.”

“I ain’t beautiful or nothin’ o’ the kind,” says Crosby, blushin’ harder’n ever.

Childs started to tell him he was too modest; but the kid got up and moved away.

In the hotel at Fort Worth, Harry got one o’ the telephone girls to call up Crosby’s room and tell him she’d love to meet him. He hung up on her. In Oklahoma City, Childs had one o’ the local papers print a picture o’ Crosby in action. He brought the paper into the dinin’ room and flopped down at the same table with the kid.

“Did you see this?” he ast him. “It’s pretty fair; but it don’t hardly do you justice.”

“What do I care!” says Crosby.

“I’d care a whole lot if I was you,” says Harry. “If I had your looks I wouldn’t allow no picture to be printed that didn’t give me a square deal. And you ought to read what it says under it. But maybe it affects your stomach to read while you’re eatin’. I’ll read it to you.”

“I don’t care what it says,” says Crosby.

“It’s only a few words,” says Childs. “I don’t mind readin’ it at all.” And he handed him this kind o’ stuff: “Above is showed a likeness o’ Lefty Crosby, one o’ Manager Cahill’s recruits from Texas. They expect him to not only break a few strikeout records in the big circuit, but also the hearts of all the girls that gets a good look at him. Crosby promises to be the Adonis o’ baseball.”

I guess the kid didn’t know Adonis from Silk O’Loughlin; but that didn’t keep him from blushin’ like a beet. Childs leaned over and whispered to him.

“They’s a queen over there by the window,” he says, “and she’s done nothin’ only look at you for five minutes. Maybe if I leave you alone she’ll come over and introduce herself.”

“I don’t feel like eatin’ no more lunch,” says Crosby; and he beat it out o’ the room. He hadn’t hardly gargled half his soup.

From then on the kid tried to duck Harry all he could. But he didn’t have the nerve to offend nobody, and lots o’ times Childs’d corner him where he couldn’t escape without makin’ it too raw.

Crosby’s best pal on the club was Joe Martin. Joe’s always the bushers’ friend because he don’t believe in ridin’ ’em. Crosby tried to set with Joe at the same table on the diners and in the hotels, because Martin’d read pretty near the whole bill o’ fare out loud and Crosby could pick out what he really wanted to eat. Martin, o’ course, done this on purpose, knowin’ Crosby couldn’t read and was generally always hungry.

It’s pretty tough on a kid with a good appetite to not be able to tell what’s listed unless somebody reads it off to him.

But Joe couldn’t spend all his time makin’ things easy for Crosby, and whenever Childs could manage to set with the kid he was meaner to him than a snake. For instance, after we’d had a tough workout and everybody was starvin’, Childs’d pick up the bill and begin crabbin’ about how many things had been scratched offen it.

“We’re gettin’ a fine deal,” he’d say. “They’s nothin’ left only salad and ice cream.” Then he’d say to the waiter: “Bring me salad and ice cream.”

And Crosby’d have to say that he’d take the same. Childs was willin’ to go hungry himself for the sake o’ puttin’ it over.

The last day we was on the spring trip, Harry bought a rule book and brought it on the train.

“They’ve certainly made some radical changes this year,” he says to Crosby. “A left-handed pitcher can’t throw to first base without turnin’ round twice before he pegs. And a left-handed pitcher can’t throw more’n two curve balls to the same left-handed hitter durin’ one time at bat. They’re tryin’ to increase the hittin’. And only the first foul counts a strike. And the pitcher and catcher ain’t goin’ to be allowed to work with signs. And when it’s a pitcher’s first year in the Big League, he ain’t only allowed two strikes up there at bat. That’s to hurry the game. And you got to get four men out instead o’ three. And you can’t pitch nothin’ only new balls. The minute a ball’s even tipped by a bat, the umps throws it away and gives you a brand-new one. And a pitcher ain’t allowed to warm up the day he’s goin’ to pitch. And a pitcher can’t wear a glove. And a pitcher can’t wind up unless they’s a runner on first or second base. Then he’s got to. And if a pitcher’s taken out three times in three months, he’s automatically released, and either he’s got to go to a Class E league or quit playin’ baseball.”

I don’t know if Crosby fell for all o’ that or not; but, anyway, I got him alone a while later and told him Childs was just kiddin’ and the rules was the same as ever. It’d probably been hard enough for him to learn ’em in the first place without ringin’ in no long list o’ changes for him to try and master.

The train was late pullin’ into Chi next mornin’ and Harry got one more crack at the kid before we come to Englewood.

“Well, Lefty,” he says, “you’re goin’ to have a real tryout right away. I was talkin’ to Cahill and he says he’s goin’ to start you Friday o’ this week.”

Crosby looked tickled to death.

“The reason for it,” says Childs, “is because Friday is Lady’s Day at our park. The womenfolks all comes in free and the boxes and stand is always full o’ them. And the old man wants to get ’em well pleased with the club right from the jump. He figures that if they see you once, they’ll make their husbands and sweethearts bring ’em every time you pitch.”

“I don’t know if I’m goin’ to be right to pitch Friday or not,” says the poor boob. “The old souper felt kind o’ numb when I worked yesterday.”

“On Fridays,” says Childs, “the boxes right back of our bench is always saved for showgirls. And the ball players that looks good to them, they always talk to.”

“If Friday ain’t a nice hot day,” says Crosby, “I’m goin’ to ask him not to work me. My arm feels rotten.”

II

Well, Cahill didn’t ask the kid to pitch Friday’s game; never had no intention o’ doin’ it, o’ course. But he did start him the followin’ Monday, against the Cleveland gang.

For five innin’s he pitched as pretty a game o’ ball as I ever seen and we had ’em licked 3 to 0. Then Childs, who was warmin’ the bench, got after him, either because he was sore on havin’ been took out o’ the outfield or just naturally couldn’t resist a chance to pull somethin’.

While Cahill was coachin’ at first base, Childs called Crosby up to one side o’ the shed.

“Did you see her yet?” he ast him.

“See who?” says the kid.

“I guess you know who,” says Childs. “They’s a peach right behind the middle o’ this bench. I noticed her lookin’ at you ever since you warmed up. And while you was out there pitchin’ last innin’, she ast me your name. I told her and she says you was the handsomest man she ever looked at. So then she ast me would I introduce her to you when the game’s over.”

“I won’t have no time,” says Crosby.

“But, man,” says Harry, “I promised I’d do it.”

Just then the innin’ was over and we went out. You never seen such a change in a pitcher. He couldn’t get one near the plate. He acted like he was scared stiff. He was so wild that he had the ushers duckin’.

Cahill left him in there a few minutes to give him a chance to steady himself. But they wasn’t nothin’ to do but take him out after he’d walked four o’ them without pitchin’ a strike. Cahill was ravin’ mad.

“Another yellow dog!” he says. “The next time Jake Atz recommends a man to me, I’ll wire him at his own expense to take a dose o’ bichloride. What do you think o’ this stiff? We give him a three-run lead and they can’t hit him with a board, and he’s only got four innin’s to go! And he blows higher’n a kite! Sixteen balls without a strike! And once he pretty near missed the whole grand stand! Go climb in the shower so you’ll be clean when you start back for Texas.”

Crosby was glad to sneak to the clubhouse and get out o’ the park. But I and Martin was suspicious that somethin’ had come off, and next time we come in we ast Childs.

“Yes,” says Harry, “I suppose it’s my fault. But if the poor boob is as simple as that, he’d ought to lose out.”

“What did you pull on him?” ast Joe.

“I just told him,” says Harry, “that they was a pretty girl settin’ right back of our bench that ast to meet him after the game.”

“That ain’t right, Harry,” says Martin. “He looks as good as any left-hander in the league, and we can’t afford to spoil him. Just lay offen him. You know he’s scared o’ women; but that ain’t the worst fault in the world, and you got to admit that he didn’t look scared o’ them Cleveland boys till he blowed up. Leave him alone and he’ll win a lot o’ ball games for us.”

“Why should I leave him alone?” says Harry. “Since they got me settin’ on the bench, they’s nothin’ left for me to do only kid somebody.”

“All right,” says Joe, “if you won’t do it for me I’ll put it up to Cahill.”

And sure enough, in the clubhouse after the game, Martin told the M.G.R. just what had come off.

“Look here, Childs!” says Cahill. “That’ll be enough o’ that. I don’t care how much fun you have with him offen the field, but when we’re playin’ a game, lay off! If you don’t think I’m in earnest you may soon be takin’ a trip to Texas yourself!”

So Childs laid offen him entirely for a while, not even tryin’ to pester him when we went on our first trip. But I knew it wouldn’t never last. While it did last, though, Crosby done better work than any o’ the rest of our pitchers and had the whole league stood on their heads with that fast one o’ his.

III

We left Cleveland one evenin’, goin’ to St. Louis, and the boys started a game o’ cards. Childs was in it and Crosby was leanin’ over the back of a seat, watchin’. I was settin’ in the game, too, right where I could look at Crosby.

Well, Gilbert win three pots in a row, with aces one time, aces up the next time, and the third time he beat Childs with three o’ the big bulls.

“Come on, Gil!” says Harry. “Give the aces a chance to roam round the deck once in a while.”

“I can’t spare ’em, Harry,” says Gilbert.

“You put ’em in the deck!” says Childs, just kiddin’.

“You make me put ’em in the deck!” says Gil.

Well, Harry had a gun on his hip, with nothin’ in it but blanks, and he pulled it out and laid it on the table in front of him, just for a joke.

But Crosby didn’t see the joke. I happened to be lookin’ at him when Childs showed the gun. He turned white as a sheet and I thought for a minute he was goin’ to keel over. Then he grabbed the top o’ the seat to steady up, and the next thing we knew he was beatin’ it for the other end o’ the car as fast as he could navigate.

“What’s the matter with him now?” says Harry.

“Looks like he objected to the firearms,” says Gilbert.

“What the hell ain’t he scared of?” says Childs.

“Well,” I says, “Ty Cobb for one thing and Bob Veach for another.”

“Did he think I’d be monkeyin’ with a loaded gat?” says Harry. “I’ll have to try him out and see which he likes best, women or artillery.”

“Oh, leave him alone!” says I. “As long as he keeps winnin’ ball games for us, what’s the difference if he’s scared o’ wild cats or fishworms?”

But Harry’d been good long enough. The next mornin’, when we was crossin’ the bridge into St. Louis, he finds Crosby in the washroom. Without sayin’ nothin’, he just simply laid his gun on one o’ the sills, pointin’ it straight at the kid. And Crosby begin shakin’ like a leaf and staggered out o’ the room without even waitin’ to grab his collar.

Childs told us about it and seemed to think it was the funniest thing ever pulled off. But some o’ the rest of us didn’t think it was so funny, especially when we had to put Crosby to bed the minute we got to the hotel, and then get along without him all through the series with the Browns.

And Cahill made the remark, so as Childs could hear him, that the next guy that pulled a gun where Crosby was, or left one where he would see it, was through with our ball club for life.

IV

For a while after that, Harry was satisfied to just pull the girl stuff on his victim. He begin writin’ fake love letters, like the guy’d done down in the Texas League. Some o’ them was wonders. I know, because I read ’em to Crosby myself, he tellin’ me that the different handwritin’s was so funny that he couldn’t make ’em out. But this wasn’t much joy for Childs, because you can bet he wasn’t never ast to read ’em.

Crosby wouldn’t only let me get so far when he’d make me stop, and then he’d take the letters and tear ’em up.

“I wisht all girls would leave me alone,” he’d say.

“What have you got against ’em?” I’d say to him.

“Bill,” he’d say, “I’d just as lief own up to you. I don’t feel comfortable round ’em. I’m just plain bashful. That’s what my sister used to tell me. She was the only one I could ever talk to without pretty near faintin’.”

“You’d get over that soon enough, if you’d try,” I’d tell him. “You won’t never know what livin’ is till you get married and have a home o’ your own. And they’s nothin’ about girls to be scared of, especially for as nice a lookin’ guy as you are. They wouldn’t never make fun o’ you.”

“I ain’t afraid o’ that,” he’d say to me. “I wouldn’t mind talkin’ to ’em if I thought they’d just laugh and joke with me or talk baseball. But girls is liable to get personal and begin makin’ eyes; and if they done that with me, I’d run a mile.”

“Wasn’t they no girls in the town you come from?”

“Too many o’ them,” he says. “They was only about two hundred people in the town and half o’ them was girls, seemed like to me.”

“How’d you get away from ’em?” I says.

“Just by runnin’,” he says. “I beat it from home when I was twelve years old and that’s why I didn’t get no schoolin’ to speak of. I joined in with a minin’ gang up North, where I was sure they wouldn’t be no skirts to bother me.”

“You was young to be mixed up with a crowd like that,” says I.

“Yes; but they treated me fine,” says Crosby. “I’d of been in that game yet only for somethin’ happenin’.”

“What happened?” I ast.

“Oh, you’d think I was crazy if I told you,” he says. “They was too rough for me. I can fight as good as the next guy when it’s just usin’ your fists. But I can’t stand guns. Between you and I, I’m scareder o’ them than I am o’ girls. It started, I guess, one night when they was a scrap in a saloon. Everybody was lit up and, first thing you know, they had their gats out and was pluggin’ away. And the guy that had took care o’ me, when I first come to the camp, was shot dead right in front o’ my eyes. I got sick at the time, watchin’ it, and ever since then I get sick every time I see one o’ the damn things.”

“You’re gun-shy and girl-shy,” I says. “Anything else you’re scared of?”

“Yes,” he says; “a fast ball that’s comin’ at my bean. But I guess I got plenty o’ company there.”

“Well, Lefty,” I says, “I can say one thing for you: You’re brave enough when it comes to pitchin’ against a .400 hitter in a pinch. And that’s more than can be said for some o’ the rest of our beautiful pitchers.”

V

One o’ the prettiest girls I ever seen was a telegraph operator at the hotel where we stop at in Detroit. Her name was Mary Lloyd. All the single guys on the ball club was more’n half crazy about her, and even the married ones was never heard objectin’ when she give ’em a smile. To see us in that hotel, you’d of thought we was the greatest bunch o’ telegram senders in the world.

Harry Childs had probably fell for her stronger than any o’ the rest. When he wasn’t busy talkin’ base hits or kiddin’ Crosby, he was tellin’ somebody what a pippin she was, like nobody else had suspected it. And I guess he’d sent her enough cards from round the circuit to start a pinochle deck.

“Bill,” he’d say to me, “she’s the only one I ever met that I felt like I wanted to marry her.”

“Go ahead!” I’d tell him. “I’d want to marry her, too, only I kind o’ feel my own Missus might make a holler.”

“Go ahead!” he’d say. “It’s all right to say ‘Go ahead’; but every time I start she says ‘Back up!’ She’s worse’n a traffic cop.”

“Keep tryin’, Harry,” I’d say to him. “Maybe she’s heard about you bein’ the world’s champion joker and thinks you’re just triflin’ with her.”

“She does all the jokin’ when I’m round,” he says. “She makes a regular monkey out o’ me.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t blame that on her!” I says.

Now Mary wasn’t no flirt, but she didn’t mind bein’ admired. She never give one guy more encouragement than another; she didn’t play no favorites, or she didn’t never let nobody on the club get the idear that she was to be had for the astin’. But she wasn’t never too busy to talk to any of us, or to smile back when we smiled at her.

I and Gilbert was standin’ there kiddin’ with her the first time she seen Crosby. We’d just got in that mornin’, and when he come out from breakfast he beat it through the lobby past her desk and out on the front walk.

“Who’s that handsome wretch?” she ast us.

“That’s the guy that made a sucker out o’ Cobb and Veach over home,” says Gilbert.

“Maybe if I ast him not to,” she says, “he’ll leave our team win a game or two this series.”

“You got a sweet chance of astin’ him anything,” says I, “unless you got a megaphone.”

“Is he deef?” says Mary.

“When they’s girls round he’s deef and dumb and blind,” I says.

“He must of been disappointed in love,” she says.

“Not him,” says Gil. “The only time he was ever disappointed was when they postponed the game he was goin’ to pitch.”

“What’s the trouble between him and girls?” says Mary.

“He just naturally don’t like ’em⁠—that’s all,” I says.

“Well,” says Mary, “I don’t think that’s hardly fair to our sex. They ain’t so many handsome men in the world that we can afford to have ’em woman haters.”

“No,” I says; “and they ain’t so many good pitchers on our ball club that we can have him scared to death by gettin’ a smile from you. So when you happen to run into him, face to face, kindly act like you didn’t see him.”

“I’m much obliged,” she says, “for bein’ told that my smile is terrifyin’. I’ll keep it to myself after this.”

“Not at all,” says I. “I’d pretty near rather miss a hit-and-run sign than that smile o’ yours. But this kid is just plain bashful; he ain’t no woman hater; he’s too backward to hate anything. He wants to be left alone⁠—that’s all. If a girl looks at him cross-eyed it takes him a week to get so’s he can pitch again.”

“I believe I’ll go right out now,” says Mary, “and look at him cross-eyed. You know I ought to be loyal to the Tigers.”

“You ought to be loyal to this here beanery,” says I; “and if you put him out o’ commission, why, we’ll just pass up this hotel.”

“All right,” she says. “I won’t pay no attention to him, because I know I’d simply die if you boys stopped somewheres else and gave me a chance to do a little work.”

“Has Childs been round yet?” says Gilbert.

“Foolish Question 795!” I says. “He was here even before he went in for his prunes.”

“What’s the matter with Harry Childs?” she ast us. “Why ain’t he playin’?”

“We like to win once in a while,” says Gilbert.

“The reason Harry ain’t playin’,” I says, “is a young outfielder from the Coast, named Patrick.”

“Why,” says Mary, “Harry told me he was out of it with a Charley Horse.”

“Yes,” I says; “and a battin’ average last year o’ .238.”

Crosby pitched the first game for us and win 2 to 1 in eleven innin’s. He was goin’ to wind up the series, but it begin to pour rain at noon o’ the last day and the battle was off before we went out to the park. We wasn’t startin’ home till nine o’clock that night; so we had a lot o’ time to kill. Naturally they was a reception all afternoon round Mary’s desk. I and Joe Martin happened to be left there alone with her while Childs was gettin’ shaved and some o’ the others was celebratin’.

“Well,” says Mary, “now that they ain’t no more chance o’ me spoilin’ your trip, I think you might bring Mr. Shy round.”

“She means the kid,” I says to Joe. “I told her all about him.”.

“Have you seen him?” Joe ast her.

“O’ course I seen him,” she says.

“What do you think of him?” says Joe.

“Well, gentlemen,” she says, “I don’t want to hurt the feelin’s o’ the present company, so I’ll just keep still.”

“He is a pretty kid,” says Martin, “and he’s a whole lot better-lookin’ since I coaxed him into some decent clothes. But he don’t want to meet no girls.”

“They’s no sense to it,” I says. “It wouldn’t hurt him a bit to mingle a little with the dames. It’d do him good. And he’d get along OK when he found out they wasn’t all tryin’ to steal him.”

“I’ll promise not to steal him,” says Mary.

“Well, it’s up to Joe, here,” I says. “He’s his best pal.”

“I guess he’d come if I ast him,” says Martin. “But I don’t know if I want to take a chance.”

“Oh, come on!” says Mary. “I don’t feel comfortable when they’s one o’ your boys I ain’t acquainted with.”

“Well,” says Joe, “maybe he’s up in his room takin’ a nap.”

“If he is in his room,” says I, “that’s probably what he’s doin’. It’s a cinch he ain’t readin’.”

“Why not?” says Mary.

Joe give me the wink.

“He hates books,” I says.

It was just then that the kid come across the lobby, toward the front windows. He looked like he was goin’ to cry.

“My! He needs cheerin’ up,” says Mary. “Do you suppose he’s sick?”

“You bet he’s sick,” says Martin. “He was goin’ to give your Tigers another lickin’ today, and the rain beat him out of it.”

“Well, how about callin’ him over?” I says.

So Martin went up to him and made the proposition. I could see the poor kid blush and then start like he was goin’ to run out in the rain. Then Joe grabbed ahold of his arm and begin arguin’ with him. And finally the pair o’ them come toward us. Nobody only Joe could of done it.

“Miss Lloyd,” says Martin, “this is another o’ the boys, Mr. Crosby. He’s disappointed about the rain and I thought maybe you could cheer him up.”

Mary give him her best smile.

“I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Crosby,” she says. “You’re the first ball player I ever seen that was disappointed about the rain.”

“Except when it didn’t fall,” I says.

The kid didn’t say nothin’; didn’t even look at her. I caught him moistenin’ his lips, tryin’ to get a word out. But he couldn’t. He seen her put her hand out to shake, and he finally managed to meet it. But he done it with the one he uses in pitchin’. And then, the minute Martin left go his arm, he backed away, pivoted on a pillar and dashed for the elevator.

“Good night!” says Mary. “Well, of all the rummies!”

“We warned you,” says Martin.

“You certainly cheered him up,” I says⁠—“all the way up to his room.”

“He can stay there, for all o’ me,” she says. “I won’t never try to force my acquaintance on nobody again.”

“I bet he’s offen me for life,” says Joe.

“You ought to be glad if he is,” she says.

“But you got to admit he’s a handsome brute,” says I.

“Yes,” says Mary; “and I’d like to scratch his handsome face to pieces.”

When we got on the train that night Harry Childs come up to me.

“Bill,” he says, “I believe I’m goin’ to win out.”

“Win out what?” I ast him.

“With Mary,” he says. “I took her out to supper. It was the first time she ever let me do it. And she acted like she really was fond o’ me.”

“Here’s luck, Harry!” I says.

I didn’t tell him the reason she was so friendly. It was because she’d been stung. And Harry’s attentions was salve.

We was in Detroit again the first week in July. Harry took her out to supper or a picture show, or somethin’, every night. I never heard her mention Crosby, and I was scared to mention him in front of her.

I did see her try to get even though. She come out from behind her desk one mornin’, just as he was walkin’ in from outside. She got right in his way, so as he either had to run into her or dodge. And he couldn’t help lookin’ at her. She looked him right in the eye and didn’t speak.

And the kid looked like he was mighty glad of it.

VI

Young Patrick got hurt and Childs was back in the game when we went East in August. Harry was full o’ pep.

“I’ll show ’em I can hit,” he says to me. “I never felt luckier in my life.”

“You don’t need no luck to hit if you take care o’ yourself,” I says.

“Don’t worry about that,” he says. “I got to keep in shape. I’m tryin’ to save the coin.”

“What for?” I ast him.

“Well, Bill,” he says, “I’m kind o’ figurin’ on gettin’ married.”

“Nice work, Harry!” I says. “I didn’t know you’d gone as far as that.”

“They’s nothin’ settled,” he says. “But she’s writin’ to me, and when we strike Detroit next month I’ll make her say yes.”

Harry started to paste that pill in Philly. He broke up two games for us there and got seven blows in three days. He was the pepper kid when we got to Washington and he couldn’t resist takin’ some of it out on Crosby.

They set at lunch together the second day.

“Lefty,” he says, “looks like we’re goin’ to fight Germany. I was down to the White House this mornin’ to call on a friend o’ mine, a Mr. Wilson, and he says he don’t think we can hold out much longer.”

“Well,” says Crosby, “let ’em fight, as long as they leave us guys out of it.”

“Who says they’d leave us out of it?” Harry ast him.

“They’ll leave me out of it, all right,” says Crosby. “I never shot a gun in my life.”

“It ain’t guns they want you to shoot. It’s Germans,” says Childs. “And if the President called for volunteers I bet you’d be one o’ the first to go.”

“You’d lose your bet,” says the kid. “I can’t take no chance o’ gettin’ my left arm shot off.”

“Good Lord! That reminds me o’ somethin’,” says Harry. “I seen in the papers this mornin’ that most o’ the guns this country’s got is left-handed guns. And they’ll probably call for all the left-handed men in the United States to handle ’em.”

Crosby didn’t wait for no desert.

In New York, a couple o’ days later, Childs was at him again.

“War’s gettin’ closer every minute,” he says to Crosby.

“The Germans torpedoed the City o’ Benton Harbor yesterday and sunk eleven bootblacks without even givin’ ’em a chance to take their stands with ’em. And the Kaiser went fishin’ in the mornin’ and caught an American sturgeon. The President says if that kind o’ thing keeps up he’s offen the Kaiser and we’ll all have to enlist⁠—that is, all the able-bodied guys.”

“That lets me out,” says the kid. “My ankles wouldn’t hold up a minute if I was to try and march.”

“They’d stick you in the calvary and leave you ride a motorcycle,” says Childs.

“I don’t know how,” says Crosby; “and, besides, a man couldn’t ride no motorcycle acrost the ocean.”

“Oh, yes, they could,” says Childs, “if the tires was blowed up tight enough. And, anyway, they’s lots of us would have to do our fightin’ here in this country, to keep the Germans from breakin’ up the League.”

I went in to breakfast with the kid the mornin’ we landed in Boston. I had a paper myself and they was a piece in it sayin’ that this country was thinkin’ about callin’ on all the young men o’ nineteen and twenty, to train ’em for war⁠—that is, all the ones that wasn’t married. Childs, settin’ at the next table, read it and couldn’t get over to us fast enough.

“Crosby,” he says, “how old are you?”

“Twenty,” says the kid.

“You’re in tough luck, old boy!” says Childs; and he begin readin’ out loud. It was a cinch this time, because the readin’ matter was really there.

“Congress,” it says, “is considerin’ a proposition to start universal military trainin’ on account o’ the strained relations with Germany and the prospects o’ war. The plan is to draft every unmarried man in the United States o’ the ages o’ nineteen and twenty, and make ’em fit for war.”

Anyway, it was somethin’ like that.

“It looks like your baseball career was pretty near over,” Harry says to the kid. “It’s a crime too! You’ve had a great year, and without knowin’ nothin’ about pitchin’ at that. But still, it ain’t hard to learn to shoot and duck bullets; and they’s a whole lot o’ satisfaction in knowin’ that you’re workin’ for the Stars and Stripes.”

“When does this business come off?” says Crosby.

“Oh, not for a couple months,” says Childs. “They’ll probably leave you stick with us through the city series.”

Then Childs got up and left us.

“Bill,” says Crosby to me, “they ain’t no kiddin’ about this, is they?”

“No, Lefty,” I says. “It’s there in the paper, all right. But it just says they’re thinkin’ about it. If I was you I wouldn’t start worryin’ yet.”

“Bill,” he says, “before I’ll join a army I’ll walk out in Lake Michigan till my hat floats.”

“Quit frettin’ over it,” says I. “You won’t be able to pitch in this series, and you know we want some o’ these games.”

“But they’re goin’ to draft all the twenty-year-olds,” he says, “and I just broke into that class. I wisht to the devil I was your age.”

“Yes,” I says; “or married.”

“Married!” says Crosby. “That’s right! It’s just the single fellas that’s gone.”

“They ain’t nobody gone,” says I. “But if you don’t quit worryin’ you’ll be just as good.”

Childs spoiled whatever chance the Kid had to quit worryin’ by sayin’ to him, just before we started the game:

“Well, Lefty, they’s one pipe: You’ll be the handsomest guy in the army.”

Before Crosby was taken out, Harry probably regretted that remark; because in the five innin’s he pitched our outfielders must of ran back to the fence fifty times.

VII

Joe Martin told me about the kid bracin’ him in the hotel that night. “Joe,” Crosby says to him, “I’d kind o’ like to get acquainted with a girl.”

“Good Lord!” says Joe. “What girl?”

“It don’t make no difference,” says the kid. “Some girl that ain’t married, but might like to be, and ain’t liable to want to spoon or make eyes or nothin’ like that.”

“Are you thinkin’ o’ gettin’ married?” Joe ast him.

“Yes; only keep it quiet,” says Lefty.

“And do you expect a girl to marry you for your money?” says Joe.

“You know I got no money,” Crosby says.

“Well,” says Joe, “if you got no money and you want to get married, you got to find a girl that’s fond o’ you. And a girl that’s fond o’ you might want to hold hands sometime.”

“Ain’t they no sensible girl that might take me?” says the kid.

“What girls do you know?” Joe ast him.

“Joe,” he says, “I ain’t met a girl since I was fifteen or sixteen years old.”

“Oh, yes, you have,” says Joe. “How about that girl you was so nice to in Detroit?”

“Do you mean that girl you introduced me to?” says Crosby.

“Sure!” says Martin. “Mary Lloyd, the telegraph operator.”

“Do you think she’d like me?” ast the kid.

“Well,” Joe told him, “she ast to meet you, and she certainly was broke up the way you treated her.”

“But what kind of a girl is she?” he says. “She ain’t too soft?”

“I never caught her at it,” says Joe.

“But she’s probably sore at me,” says Crosby.

“You can apologize to her,” says Martin.

“But we won’t be in Detroit for ten days,” says the kid.

“Write her a letter,” says Joe.

“I don’t like to write letters,” Crosby says. “Joe, will you write her a letter for me?”

“That’d make her sorer than ever,” says Martin. “Besides, I don’t know what you’re tryin’ to pull off.”

“I’m on the square,” says the kid. “If she’ll marry me⁠—why, I’ll take her.”

“That’s damn sweet o’ you!” says Joe. “But what’s your idear in gettin’ married?”

“Never mind, Joe,” says the kid. “I just feel like I want to.”

“Well,” says Joe, “if you want to square it with Mary, and you don’t feel like writin’ to her, why not send her a night letter?”

“What’s that?” says Crosby.

“It’s a telegram that goes at night, and you can say about fifty words for fifty cents,” Joe told him.

“But I don’t know no fifty words to say,” says the poor kid.

To make it short, Joe done it for him, either because he was sorry for the kid or because he thought it was a joke or because he ain’t none too good friends with Harry Childs. The telegram said that the kid was sorry he’d froze her, that he’d been feelin’ tough that afternoon, that he apologized, and would she please forgive him, because he thought a whole lot of her.

The answer come next day, at noon. Mary wired that she’d pay more attention to him if he said all that to her face.

VIII

Harry Childs’ lucky spell ended when we stopped over for a game in Cleveland on the way home. He changed his mind at the last minute about makin’ a slide to the plate, and they carried him off with a busted leg.

So Harry Childs didn’t make the last trip to Detroit.

Young Mr. Crosby did, though he was so scared leavin’ Chi that I and Gil and Martin was afraid he’d throw himself offen the train in the night.

The three of us talked it all over.

“He’ll fall down, sure!” says Gil. “She’ll give him an unmerciful pannin’ and he’ll faint dead away.”

“But suppose he don’t,” I says. “Suppose he goes through with it and wins. Are we bein’ fair to Harry?”

“Why not?” says Martin. “Childs played jokes on him all season. It’s pretty near time the kid got back.”

“I’m for helpin’ him,” says Gilbert.

“Me too,” says Joe.

“All right; you’re on!” I says; and we begin discussin’ how to go about it.

We finally fixed it up that we’d get a taxi to come to the hotel at Mary’s lunchtime. Then we’d coax ’em into it and slam the doors, and tell the driver to break all the laws o’ Michigan.

Because, as Joe said, if we put ’em together where Crosby could get away, he’d get away sure!

They’s nothin’ more to it. They were back from their ride at one o’clock, both o’ them as red as an open switch. But the smile Mary give us was an inch or so wider than we ever got before.

Crosby come blushin’ acrost the lobby.

“Well?” we says.

“Well, boys,” he says, “it wasn’t bad.”

“What do you mean⁠—wasn’t bad?” says Martin.

“Her,” says the kid.

“Not half as bad as one o’ them German centipede guns,” says I.

“Not half!” says Crosby.

I suppose by this time she’s got him through the First Reader.