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The Shortstop
by
Zane Grey




DEDICATION

To My Brother, "Reddy" Grey,
To Arthur Irwin, My Coach and Teacher,
To Roy Thomas and Ray Kellogg, Fellow-Players and Friends,
And to All the Girls and All the Boys Who Love the............
GRAND OLD AMERICAN GAME



CONTENTS

I     PERSUADING MOTHER
II    RIDING AWAY
III   FAME
IV    VICISSITUDE
V     THE CRACK TEAM OF OHIO
VI    FIRST INNINGS
VII   MITTIE-MARU
VIII  ALONG THE RIVER
IX    ON THE ROAD
X     MARJORY AND POND-LILIES
XI    INSIDE BALL
XII   POPULARITY
XIII  SUNDAY BALL
XIV   WAITING IT OUT
XV    THE GREAT GAME
XVI   LAST INNINGS



CHAPTER I

PERSUADING MOTHER

Chase Calloway hurried out of the factory door and bent his steps
homeward. He wore a thoughtful, anxious look, as of one who expected
trouble. Yet there was a briskness in his stride that showed the
excitement under which he labored was not altogether unpleasant.

In truth, he had done a strange and momentous thing; he had asked the
foreman for higher wages, and being peremptorily refused, had thrown
up his place and was now on his way home to tell his mother.

He crossed the railroad tracks to make a short cut, and threaded his way
through a maze of smoke-blackened buildings, to come into narrow
street lined with frame houses. He entered a yard that could not boast of
a fence, and approached a house as unprepossessing as its neighbors.

Chase hesitated on the steps, then opened the door. There was no one
in the small, bare, clean kitchen. With a swing which had something of
an air of finality about it, he threw his dinner-pail into a corner. "There!"
He said grimly, as if he had done with it. "Mother, where are you?"

Mrs. Alloway came in, a slight little woman, pale, with marks of care on
her patient face. She greeted him with a smile, which faded quickly in
surprise and dismay.

"You're home early, Chase," she said anxiously.

"Mother, I told you I was going to ask for more money. Well, I did. The
foreman laughed at me and refused. So I threw up my job."

"My boy! My boy!" faltered Mrs. Alloway

Chase was the only bread-winner in their household of three. His
brother, a bright, studious boy of fifteen, was a cripple. Mrs. Alloway
helped all she could with her needle, but earned little enough. The
winter had been a hard one, and had left them with debts that must
be paid. It was no wonder she gazed up at him in distressed silence.

"I've been sick of this job for a long time," went on Chase. "I've been
doing a lot of thinking. There's no chance for me in the factory. I'm not
quick enough to catch the hang of mechanics. Here I am over seventeen
and big and strong, and I'm making six dollars a week. Think of it!
Why, if I had a chance--See here, mother, haven't I studied
nights ever since I left school to go to work? I'm no dummy. I can make
something of myself. I want to get into business--business for myself,
where I can buy and sell."

"My son, it takes money to go into business. Where on earth can you get
any?"

"I'll make it," replied Chase, eagerly. A flush reddened his cheek.
He would have been handsome then, but for his one defect, a crooked
eye. "I'll make it. I need money quick--and I've hit on the way to
make it. I--"

"How?"

The short query drew him up sharply, chilling his enthusiasm. He paced
the kitchen, and then, with a visible effort, turned to his mother.

"I am going to be a baseball player." The murder was out now and he felt
relief. His mother sat down with a little gasp. He waited quietly for her
refusal, her reproach, her arguments, ready to answer them one by one.

"I won't let you be a ball player."

"Mother, since father left us to shift for ourselves I've been the head of
the house. I never disobeyed you before, but now--I've thought it out. I've
made my plan."

"Bah. Players are good-for-nothing loafers, rowdies. I won't have my son
associate with them."

"They've a bad name, I'll admit; but, mother, I don't think it's deserved.
I'm not sure, but I believe they're not so black as they are painted.
Anyway, even if they are, it won't hurt me. I've an idea that a young man
can be square and successful in baseball as in anything else. I'd rather
take any other chance, but there isn't any."

"Oh! the disgrace of it! Your father would--"

"Now, see here, mother, you're wrong. It's no disgrace. Why, it's a
thousand times better than being a bartender, and I'd be that to help
along. As for father," his voice grew bitter, "if he'd been the right sort we
wouldn't be here in this hovel. You'd have what you were once used to,
and I'd be in school."

"You're not strong enough; you would get hurt," protested the mother.

"Why, I'm as strong as a horse. I'm not afraid of being hurt. Ever since
last summer when I made such a good record with the factory nine this
idea has been growing. They say I'm one of the fastest boys in Akron,
and this summer the big nine at the round-house wants me. It's opened
my eyes. With a little more experience I could get on a salaried team
some where."

"You wouldn't go away?"

"I'll have to. And, another, I want to go at once."

Mrs. Alloway felt the ground slipping from under her. She opened her
lips to make further remonstrance, but Chase kissed them shut, and
keeping his arm around her, led her into the sitting-room. A pale youth,
slight, like his mother, sat reading by a window.

"Will," said Chase, "I've some news for you. Can you get through school,
say in a year or less, and prepare for college?"

The younger boy looked up with a slight smile, such as he was wont to
use in warding off Chase's persistent optimism. The smile said sadly that
he knew he would never go to college. But something in Chase's straight
eye startled him, then his mother's white, agitated face told him this was
different. He rose and limped a couple of steps toward them, a warm
color suddenly tingeing his cheeks.

"What do you mean?" he questioned.

Then Chase told him. In conclusion he said: "Will, there's big money in it.
Three thousand a season is common, five for a great player. Who knows?
Any way, there's from fifty to a hundred a month even in these Ohio and
Michigan teams, and that'll do to start with. You just take this from me:
there'll be a comfortable home for mother, you'll go to college, and later
I'll get into business. It's all settled. What do you think of it?"

"It's great!" exclaimed Will, slamming down his book. There was a flame
in his eyes.

Mrs. Alloway dropped her hands. She was persuaded. That from Will was
the last straw. Tears began to fall.

"Mother, don't be unhappy," said Chase. "I am suited for something better
than factory work. There's a big chance for me here. Mind you, I'm
only seventeen. Suppose I play ball for a few years: I'll save my money,
and when I'm twenty-two or twenty-five I can start a business of my own.
It looks good to me!"

"But, my boy--if it--ruins you!"

"I don't like to see Chase leave us," said Will, "but I'm not afraid of that."

Mrs. Alloway dried her eyes, called up her smile, and told them she was
not afraid of it either. Thereafter her composure did not leave her,
though her sensitive lips quivered when she saw Chase packing a small
grip.

"I don't want to take much," he mused, "and most of all I'll want my
glove and ball-shoes. Will, isn't it lucky about the shoes that college man
gave me? They're full of spikes. I've never played in them, but I tried
them on, and I'll bet I can run like a streak in them."

It was not long after that when he kissed his mother as she followed him
to the doorway. Will limped after him a little way down the path and
shook hands for the tenth time. His eyes were wet as his mother's, but
Chase's were bright and had a bold look.

"Chase, I never saw any one who could run and throw like you, and I
believe you'll make the greatest player in the whole country. Don't
forget. It'll be hard at first. But you hang on! Hang on! There!
Good luck! Good-bye!"

Chase turned at the corner of the street and waved to them. There was a
lump in his throat which was difficult to swallow. But it was too late to go
back, so he struck out bravely.


CHAPTER II

RIDING AWAY

The fact that Chase had no objective point in mind did not detract from
the new and absorbing charm of his situation. No more would he
breathe the dust-laden air nor hear the din of the factory. He was free;
free to go where he listed, to see new people and places, to find his
fortune. He crushed back the pain in his throat; he reconciled himself to
the parting from his mother and brother by the assurance that so he
could serve them best.

It was twilight when he reached the railroad tracks, where he stopped
momentarily. Would he go to the left or to the right? A moment only did
he tarry undecided; after all, there was only one course for him to start
on and keep to, whether of direction or purpose, and that was to the
right.

Darkness had settled down by the time he came to the outskirts of the
town, and now secure in the belief that he would not be seen, he
stopped to wait for a train. It was out of the question for him to think of
riding in a passenger train. That cost money; and he must save what
little he had. On Saturdays, before he left school, he had ridden on
freight trains; and what he had done for fun he would now do in earnest.
Some of the railroads running into town forbade riding, others did not
care; and Chase took his stand by the track of one of the generous
roads.

The electric lights shot up brightly, like popping stars out of the
darkness, and white glow arched itself over the town. Soon the shrill
screech of a locomotive split the silence, then a rumbling and puffing
told of an outward bound freight. The gleam of a headlight streaked
along the rails. Chase saw with satisfaction that the train was on his
track, but he had an uneasy feeling that it was running too fast to be
boarded. The huge black engine, like a one-eyed demon, roared by,
shaking the earth. Chase watched the cars rattle by and tried to
gauge their speed. It was so dark he could scarcely see, but he knew the
train was running too fast to catch with safety. Still he did not hesitate.
He waited a moment for an oil-car, and as one came abreast he dashed
with it down the track. Reaching up with his left hand, he grasped a
handle-bar. Instantly he was swung upward and slapped against the car.
But Chase knew that swing, and it did not break his hold. As he
dropped back to an upright position he felt for the foot-step, found it,
and was safe.

He climbed aboard and sat against the oil-tank, placing his grip beside
him. He laughed as he wiped the sweat from his brow. That was a time
when the fun of boarding a freight did not appear. The blackness was all
about him now; fields and woods and hills blurring by. The wind sang in
his ears and cooled his face. The stars blinked above. The rasp and creak
of the cars, the rhythmic click of the rails, the roar and rumble, were
music to him, for they sang of the passing miles between him and
wherever he was going.

Lights of villages twinkled by like Jack-o'-lanterns. These were
succeeded after a while by the blank dim level of open country, that to
Chase swept by monotonously for hours. Then a whistle enlivened him.
He felt the engineer put on the air-brake, then the bumping and jarring
of cars, and the grinding of wheels.

As the train slowed up Chase made ready to jump off. He did so
presently, expecting to see the lights of a town, but there were none. He
saw the shadow of a block-signal house against the dark sky, and
concluded the engineer had stopped for orders at a junction-crossing.
Chase hurried along the tracks, found an open box-car, and climbed in.

It was an empty car with a layer of hay on the floor. He groped his way in
the gloom, found a corner, and lay down with his head on his grip. It was
warm and comfortable there; he felt tired, a drowsiness overcame the
novelty of his situation, and he was falling asleep when he heard voices.
Then followed the shuffling and scrambling noise made by several men
climbing into the car. They went into another corner.

For a while he could not make out the meaning of their low, hoarse
whispering; but as it grew louder he caught the drift. The men were
thieves; they had robbed someone and were quarrelling over the spoils.
One was a negro, judging by his sullen, thick voice, and it was evident
the other two were leagued against him.

The train started up with a rattle and clatter, gathered headway, and
rolled on with steady roar. From time to time Chase heard angry voices
even above the din of the wheels. He was thankful for the dark and the
noise. What they might do if they discovered him, caused him to grow
cold with fear. He shrank into the corner and listened.

Whether it was after a few minutes or a long hour he had no idea, but
when the whistle shrieked out again and the train slackened for another
stop, he realized the thieves were fighting. Hoarse cries and sodden
blows, curses, and a deep groan told of a deed of violence.

"Let's beat it," whispered one, in the sudden silence. "Here comes a
brake."

The train had stopped. Footsteps grated outside, and streaks of light
flickered into the car. Chase saw two men jump from the door and heard
a brake man accost them. He lay there trembling. What if the brakeman
flashed his light into the car? What would be seen in the other corner?
But the footsteps died away. Before he noticed it the train got in motion
again; and he lay there wavering till the speed became so great that he
dared not jump off.

To ride with a dead thief was not so frightful as to ride with a live one,
thought Chase, but it was bad enough. His mind began to focus on one
point, that he must get out of the car, and the more he thought the
more fearful grew his state. While he lay there the train rolled on and
the time flew by. All at once it appeared the blackness had given way to
gray shadow. It grew lighter and lighter. He rose and went to the door.
Day was dawning.

The train was approaching a hamlet, and ran parallel with a dusty road.
Without a second's hesitation Chase leaped from the car. Through a rush
of wind he alighted on his feet, bounced high, to fall heavily and roll
over and over in the dust.


CHAPTER III

FAME

Chase would have sustained worse bruises than he got to rid himself of
the atmosphere of that car. When he was once free of it, however, he fell
to wondering if the negro were really killed. Perhaps he had only been
wounded and was in need of assistance that Chase could have rendered.
This thought cut him, but he dismissed it from mind, and addressed
himself once more to his problem.

The village consisted of a few cottages; there was no railroad station, and
on a siding stood a car marked T. & O. C. Chase sat in the grass beside
the track, and did not know whether to walk on or wait for another train.
Meanwhile the sun rose warm and bright, shining on the bursting green
leaves; meadowlarks sang in a field near by, and flocks of blackbirds
winged irregular flight overhead.

That May morning was full of life and hope for Chase, but even so, when
two hours passed by with no train or even person putting in appearance,
he began to grow restless and presently made a remarkable discovery.
He was hungry. He had not given a thought to such a thing as eating.
It was rather discomfiting to awaken to the fact that even in quest of
fortune meals were necessary.

A column of blue smoke was curling lazily from one of the cottages, and
thither Chase made his way. He knocked on the kitchen door, which
was opened by a woman.

"Good-morning," said Chase. "May I have a bite to eat?"

"You ain't a tramp?" queried she, eying him shrewdly.

"No, indeed. I can pay."

"I thought not. Tramps don't say 'Good-mornin''. I reckon you kin hev
somethin'. Sit on the bench there."

She brought him milk, and bread and butter, and a generous slice of ham.
While he was eating, a boy came out to gaze at him with round eyes, and
later a lanky man with pointed beard walked up the path, his boots wet with
dew.

"Mornin'," he said cheerily, "be yew travellin' fur?"

"Quite far, I guess," replied Chase. "How far is Columbus, or the first big
place?"


"Wal, now, Columbus is a mighty long way, much as fifty miles, I
calkilate. An' the nearest town to hum here is Jacktown, cross fields
some five miles. It's a right pert place. It'll be lively today, by gum!"

"Why?" said Chase, with his mouth full of ham.

"Wal, Jacktown an' Brownsville hev it out today, an' I'll bet it'll be the
dog-gondest ball game as ever was."

"Ball game!"

"You bet. Jacktown ain't ever been beat, an' nuther has Brownsville.
They've been some time gittin' together, but today's the day. An' I'll be
there."

"I'm going, too," said Chase, quietly. "I'm a ball player."

After Chase had crossed this Rubicon he felt more confident. He knew he
would have to say it often, and he wanted practice. And the importance
of his declaration was at once manifest in the demeanor of the man and
the boy.

"Wal, I swan! You be, be you? I might hev knowed it, a strappin' young
feller like you."

The boy's round eyes grew rounder and took on the solemn rapture of
hero worship.

"How might I find my way to Jacktown?" Inquired Chase.

"You might wait an' ride with me. Thet road leads over, round about. You
can't miss it."

"Thank you, I shan't wait. I'll walk over. Good-day." Chase headed into
the grassy lane without knowing exactly why. The word "game" had
attracted him, as well as the respective merits of the two teams; but it
was mostly that he wanted to play. After consideration, it struck him
that he would do well to get into a few games before he made application
to a salaried team.

He spent the morning lounging along, the green lane, sitting under a tree,
and on a mossy bank of a brook, and killing time in pretty places,
so that when he reached Jacktown it was noon.

At the little tavern where he had lunch the air was charged with the
electricity of a coming storm. The place was crowded with youths and
men of homely aspect; all were wildly excited over the baseball game. He
was regarded with an extraordinary amount of interest; and finally,
when a tall individual asked him if he were a ball player, to be answered
affirmatively, there was a general outburst.

"He's a ringer! Brownsville knowed they 'd git beat with their home
team, so they've loaded up!"

That was the burden of their refrain, and all Chase's stout denials in no
wise mitigated their suspicion. He was a "ringer." To them he was an
object of scorn and fear, for he had come from somewhere out of the vast
unknown to wrest their laurels from them.

Outside little groups had congregated on corners and in the street, and
suddenly, as by one impulse, they gathered in a crowd before the tavern.
Ample reason there was for this, because some scout had sighted the
approach of the visiting team. Chase gathered that Brownsville was an
adjoining country town, and, since time out of mind, a hated rival.

Wagons and buggies, vehicles of all kinds and descriptions, filed by on
the way to the ball-grounds; and a hay-wagon with a single layer of hay
and a full load of husky young men, stopped before the tavern. The
crowd inspected the load of young men with an anxiety most manifest,
and soon remarks were heard testifying that the opposing team had
grace enough to come with but one ringer.

The excitement, enthusiasm, and hubbub were amusing to Chase. He
knew nothing of the importance of a game of ball between two country
towns. While he was standing there a slim, clean-faced young man came
up to him.

"My name's Hutchinson," he said. "I'm the school-teacher over at
Brownsville, and I'm here to catch the game for our fellows.
Now, it appears there's some fuss about you being a ringer.
We don't know you, and we don't care what Jacktown thinks. But the
fact is, our pitcher hurt his arm and can't play. Either we play or forfeit
the game. If you can pitch we'll be glad to have you. How about it?"

Chase assented readily, and moved to the hay-wagon with Hutchinson,
while the crowd hooted and yelled. Small boys kept up a running pace
with the wagon, and were not above flinging pebbles along with shouts
of defiance. At the end of the village opened up a broad green meadow,
upon which was the playground. There was a barn to one side, where
the wagon emptied its load; and here the young men went within to put
on their uniforms.

The uniform handed to Chase was the one belonging to the disabled
pitcher, who must have been a worthy son of Ajax. For Chase was no
stripling, yet he was lost in its reach and girth. The color of it stunned
him. Brightest of bright red flannel, trimmed with white stripes,
with white cotton stockings, this gorgeous suit voiced the rustic
lads' enthusiasm for the great national game.

But when Chase went outside and saw the uniforms decorating the
proud persons of the Jacktown nine he could hardly suppress a wild
burst of mirth. For they wore blue caps, pink shirts, green trousers, and
red stockings. Most of them were minus shoes, and judging from their
activity were as well off without them.

What was most striking to Chase, after the uniforms, was the deadly
earnestness of the players of both teams. This attitude toward the game
extended to the spectators crowding on the field. Chase did not need to
be told that the whole of Jacktown was present and much of Brownsville.

Hutchinson came up to Chase then, tossed a ball to him, and said they
had better have a little practice. After Chase had warmed up he began
throwing the ball with greater speed and giving it a certain twist which
made it curve. This was something he had recently learned. At first
Hutchinson was plainly mystified he could not get his hands on the ball.
It would hit him on the fingers or wrists, and finally a swift in-shoot
struck him in the stomach. Wherefore he came up to Chase and said:

"I never saw a ball jump like that. What'd you do to it?"

"I'm throwing curves."

A light broke over the school-master's face, and it was one of pleasure.

"I've read about it. You are throwing the new way. But these lads never
heard of a curve. They'll break their backs trying to hit the ball. Now tell
me how I shall know when you are going to throw a curve."

"You sign for what you want. When you kneel back of the batter sign to
me, one finger for fastball, two fingers for a curve."

"Good!" cried Hutchinson.

After a little more practice he managed with the aid of his lately acquired
knowledge to get in front of Chase's curves and to stop them. Presently a
pompous individual wearing the Jacktown uniform came up to Chase
and Hutchinson.

"Battin' order," he said, waving his pencil.

Hutchinson gave the names of his players, and when he mentioned
Chase's the Jacktown man either misunderstood or was inclined to be
facetious.

"Chaseaway? Is thet his name? Darn me, if he won't chase away to the
tall timber."

He was the captain, and with a great show of authority called both teams
round the home plate for the purpose of being admonished, lectured,
and told how to play the game by the umpire. Chase had not seen this
official, and when he did see him his jaw dropped. The umpire wore
skin-tight velveteen knee-trousers, black stockings, and low shoes with
buckles. His striped shirt was arranged in a full blouse, and on the side
of his head was stuck very wonderfully a small, jaunty cap. He addressed
the players as if he were the arbiter of fate, and he lifted his voice so that
the audience could receive the benefit of his eloquence and understand
perfectly the irrevocable nature of the decision he was about to
render. In conclusion, he recited a number of baseball rules in
general and ground-rules in particular, most remarkable in themselves
and most glaringly designed to favor the home team. Chase extracted
from the complexity of one of these rules that on a passed ball
behind the catcher, or an overthrow at first, when Jacktown was at bat
the player could have all the bases he could make; and when
Brownsville was at bat, for some inscrutable reason, this same rule did
not hold.

Then this master of ceremonies ordered the Jacktown team into the
field, tripped like a ballet-dancer to his position behind the catcher, and
sang out in a veritable clarion blast: "P-l-a-e-y B-a-w-l!"

Chase could scarcely remove his gaze from the umpire, but as his turn
to bat came in the first inning he directed his attention to the Jacktown
pitcher. He remembered that some one had said this important member
of the Jacktowns was the village blacksmith.

After one glance, Chase did not doubt it. The pitcher was a man of
enormous build and his bared right arm looked like a branch of a rugged
oak-tree. The first ball he shot toward the home-plate resembled a thin
white streak.

"O-n-e S-t r-i-e-k-e!" shrieked the umpire.

Two more balls similar to the first retired the batter, and three more
performed the same office for the second batter. It was Chase's turn next.
He was a natural hitter, and had perfect confidence. But as the first ball
zipped past him, looking about the size of a pea, he knew he had never
before faced such terrific speed.

Nor did he have power to see in that farmer blacksmith one of the
greatest pitchers the game was ever to produce. Chase struck at the next
two balls and was called out. Then the Jacktown players trooped in, to
the wild clamor of their supporters.

When Chase saw some of the big Jacktown fellows swing their bats he
knew he would have an easy time with them, for they stood with their
feet wide apart, and held their bats with the left hand over the right,
which made a clean, straight swing impossible. He struck out the first
three batters on nine pitched balls.

For several innings it went on in that manner, each club blanking the
other. When Brownsville came in for their fifth inning at bat, Chase got
Hutchinson to call all the players round him in a bunch.

"Boys," he said, "we can hit this Jacktown pitcher. He throws a straight ball,
almost always waist-high. Now, you all swing too hard. Let's choke the bat,
hold it half-way up instead of by the handle, and poke at the ball. Just meet
it."

The first player up, acting on Chase's advice, placed a stinging hit into
right field. Whereupon the Brownsville contingent on the side-lines rose
in a body and roared their appreciation of this feat. The second batter hit
a ground ball at the short-stop, who fielded it perfectly, but threw wild to
the base-man. And the third hitter sent up a very high fly. The whole
Jacktown team made a rush to try to catch the ball when it came down.
It went so high that it took sometime to drop, all of which time the
Brownsville runners were going like mad round the bases. When the ball
returned to earth, so many hands were raised to clutch it that it bounced
away to the ground. One runner had scored, and two were left, on second
and third bases respectively.

Chase walked to the plate with determination. He allowed the first ball
to go by, but watched it closely, gauging its speed and height. The next
one he met squarely with a solid crack. It shot out over second base,
went up and up, far beyond the fielder. Amid the delirious joy of the
Brownsville partisans the two runners scored ahead of Chase, and before
the ball could be found he too reached home.

The Jacktown players went to pieces after that, and fumbled so
outrageously and threw so erratically that Brownsville scored three more
runs before the inning was over.

Plain it was that when Jacktown came in for their bat nothing short of
murder was impossible for them. They were wild-eyed, and hopped along
the baselines like Indians on the war-path. But yell and rage and strive
all they knew how, it made no difference. They simply could not get
their bats to connect with Chase's curves. They did not know what was wrong.

Chase delivered a slow, easy ball that apparently came sailing like a
balloon straight for the plate, and just as the batter swung his bat the
ball suddenly swerved so that he hit nothing but the air. Some of them
spun around, so viciously did they swing, but not one of them so much
as touched the ball.

The giant pitcher grunted like an ox when he made his bat whistle
through the air; and every time he swung at one of the slow, tantalizing
balls to miss it, he frothed at the mouth in his fury. His reputation as a
great hitter was undone that day and he died hard.

In the eighth inning, with the score 11 to 0, matters were serious when
the Jacktown team came in for their turn at bat. They whispered
mysteriously and argued aloud, and acted altogether like persons
possessed. When the first batter faced Chase the other players crowded
behind the plate, where already a good part of the audience was standing.

"It's his eye, his crooked eye," said one player, pointing an angry finger.
"See thet! You watch him, an' you think he's goin' to pitch the ball one
way, an' it comes another, it's his crooked eye, I tell you!"

A sympathetic murmur from the other players and the crowd attested to
the value of this remarkable statement. The first batter struck futilely at
the balls, getting slower and more exasperating, and when he had
missed three he slammed his bat on the ground and actually jumped up
and down in his anger. The second batter aimed at a slow coming ball
and swung with all his might, only to hit a hole in the air.

With that the umpire tripped lightly before the plate, and standing on
his tiptoes, waved his hand to the spectators. His eyes were staring with
excitement, and on his cheek blazed the hue of righteous indignation.

"Ga-me cal-led!" he yelled in his Penetrating tenor. "Game called,
9 to 0, favor Jacktown! BROWNSVILLE PITCHER THROWS A CROOKED BALL!"

Pandemonium broke loose among the spectators. They massed on the
field in inextricable confusion. The noise was deafening. Hats were in
the air, and coats, and everything available for throwing up.

Hutchinson fought his way through the crazy crowd, and grasping
Chase pulled him with no gentle hand from the mob in the direction of
the barn. Once out of the tumult he said:

"Hurry and change. I don't like the looks of things. These Jacktown
fellows are rough. I think we'd better hurry out of town."

It was all so amusing to Chase that he could not help laughing, but soon
Hutchinson's sober aspect, and the wild anger of the other Brownsville
players, who poured noisily into the barn, put a different coloring on the
affair. What had been pure fun for him was plainly a life-and-death
matter to these rustics. They divided their expression in mauling
Chase with fervid congratulations and declarations of love, and
passionate denunciations of the umpire and the whole Jacktown outfit.

Suddenly, as loud shouts sounded outside the barn, Hutchinson ran
out, to return at once with a startled look.

"You've got to run for it!" he cried. "They're after you; they're in a devil of
a temper. They'll ride you on a fence-rail, or tar and feather you. Hurry!
You can't reason with them now. Run for it. You can't wait to dress."

One look down the field was sufficient for Chase. The Jacktown players
were marching toward the barn. The blacksmith led the way, and over
his shoulder hung a long fence-rail. Behind them the crowd came
yelling.

"Run for it!" cried Hutchinson, greatly excited. "I'll fetch your clothes."
Chase had removed all his uniform except stockings and shoes, and he
had put on his shirt. Grabbing up his hat, trousers, and coat, he
bounded out of the door and broke down the field like a scared deer.

When the crowd saw him they let out a roar that lent wings to his feet. It
frightened him so that he dropped his trousers, and did not dare stop to
recover them. Over his shoulder he saw the Jacktown players, with the
huge pitcher in the lead, start after him.

The race was close only for a few moments. Chase possessed a fleetness
of foot that now served him in good stead, and undoubtedly had never
appeared to such advantage.

With his hair flying in the wind, with his shirt-tails standing straight out
behind him, he sped down the field, drawing so rapidly away that his
pursuers seemed not to be running at all.


CHAPTER IV

VICISSITUDE

Not until he had leaped fences and crossed half a dozen fields did
Chase venture to look back. When he did so, he saw with immense relief
that he had distanced his pursuers. Several were straggling along in
front of the others, but all stopped running presently, to send after him
a last threatening shout.

It made Chase as angry as a wet hornet. With all the power of his lungs
he yelled back at them: "Hayseeds! Hayseeds!"

Then at sight of his bare knees he took to laughing till he nearly cried.
What would his brother Will have thought of that run? What would his
mother have thought? This last sobered him instantly. Whenever he
remembered her, the spirit of adventure fled, leaving him with only the
uncertainty of his situation.

"It won't do to think of mother," he soliloquized, "for then I'll lose
my nerve. Now what'll I do if those dunder-headed hayseeds steal
my pants? I'll be in a bad fix."

He climbed a knoll which stood about a mile from the ball-grounds, and
from which he could see the surrounding country. The sun slowly sank
in the west. Chase watched and watched and strained his eyes, but he
could not see any one coming. The sun went down, leaving a red glow
behind the hills; twilight, like a gray shadow seemed to steal toward him
from the fields.

He had noted a haystack at the foot of the knoll, and after one more
hopeless glance over the darkening meadows, he went down to it. He
had visited farms in the country often enough to know that haystacks
left to the cattle usually had caves in them; and he found this one with a
deep cavern, dry, sheltered, and sweetly odorous of musty hay.

"If things keep up the way they've started for me I'm likely to find worse
beds than this," he muttered. He discovered he was very tired, and
that the soft hay was conducive to a gradual relaxing of his muscles. But
his mind whirled round and round. Would Hutchinson come? What had
happened to the other Brownsville players? A savage bunch of Indians,
that Jacktown-nine! How easy it had been to fool them with a simple,
slow outcurve!

"It's his crooked eye! He looks one way an' pitches another!" That jaunty
umpire with his dainty shoes and velvet knickerbockers,--wherever on
earth did he come from?

So Chase played the game over in his mind, once more ran his
desperate race, to come back to his predicament and the fear that he
might not recover his trousers. At length sleep put an end to his worry.

In the night he awoke, and seeing a bright star, which only accentuated
the darkness, and smelling the fragrant hay, and hearing a strange
sound, he did not realize where he was, and a chill terror crept over him.
This soon passed. Still the low sound bothered him. Stretching
forth his hand, he encountered a furry coat and heaving warm body. A
cow had sought the shelter of the haystack and lay beside him chewing
her cud.

"Hello, bossy!" said Chase. "I'd certainly rather sleep with a
nice, gentle cow like you than a dead bad nigger."

The strangeness of it all kept him awake for a while. The night was very
quiet, the silence being unbroken save for the "peep, peep," of spring
frogs and the low munch beside him. He asked himself if he were afraid,
and said "No," but was not sure. Things seemed different in the dark
and loneliness of night. Then his brother's words, "Hang on!" rang out of
the silence, and repeating these in his heart, he treasured up strength
for the future, and once more fell asleep.

The sun was rosy red on the horizon when he awakened. His gentle
friend stood browsing on the grass near at hand, and by way of
beginning the day well he said, "Good-morning" to her.

"Now what to do!" he said, seriously. "There's no use to expect any one
now, and no use to go back to look for my trousers."

The problem seemed unsolvable, when he saw a farmer in the field,
evidently come out to drive up the cows. Chase covered his nakedness as
well as possible with his coat, and hailed him. The farmer came up,
slapped his knee with a big hand, and guffawed.

"Gol darn my buttons, if it ain't thet Chaseaway fellar! Say, I was over
there yestiddy, an' seen the whole show. Best thing I ever seen, b'gosh!
I'm a Brownsville boy, I am. Now you come along with me. I'll git a pair
of overalls fer you an' a bite to eat. But you must light out quicker'n
you'd say 'Jack Robinson,' fer two of my farmhands played yestiddy, an'
they're hoppin' mad."

The kind-hearted farmer hid Chase in a wood-shed near his house and
presently brought him a pair of overalls and some breakfast. Chase right
gladly covered his chilly legs. Once more he felt his spirits rise.
Fortunately his pocket-book had been in his coat, so it was not
lost. When he offered to pay the farmer that worthy refused to
accept any money, and said he and everybody who was ever born in
Brownsville were everlastingly bound to be grateful to a lad called
Chaseaway.

Then, under direction from the farmer, Chase started cross-country with
the intention of finding the railroad and making for Columbus. When he
reached the railroad he had to take the spikes off his baseball shoes, for
they hurt his feet. He started westward along the track. Freight trains
passed him going too fast for him to board, so he walked all day.
Nightfall found him at a village, where after waiting an hour he caught a
westbound freight, and reached Columbus at ten o'clock. He stumbled
round over the tracks in the yards, climbed over trains, and made his
way into the city. He secured a room in a cheap lodging-house and went
to bed.

In the morning he got up bright and early, had breakfast, and bought a
copy of the Ohio State Journal. He knew Columbus had a baseball team
in the Tri-State League, and he wanted to read the news. The very first
column he saw on the baseball page contained in flaring headlines, the words:

"CHASEAWAY, THE CROOKED-EYE WONDER, HOODOOS THE GREAT JACKTOWN NINE!"

He could not believe his eyes. But the words were there, and they must
have reference to him. With feverish haste he read the detailed account
that followed the headlines. He gathered that the game had been
telephoned to the baseball editor of the journal, who, entirely
overlooking Jacktown's tragical point of view, had written the game up in
a spirit of fun. He had written it so well, and had drawn such a vivid
picture of the Jacktown players, and especially of his own "chase away"
with his shirttails flying, that Chase laughed despite his mortification
and chagrin.

He gloomily tore out the notice, put it in his pocket, and started off to
put Columbus far behind him. The allusion to his crooked eye hurt his
feelings, and he resolved never to pitch another game of ball. There
were other positions he could play better. It was Chase's destiny to
learn that wherever he went his fame had preceded him.

In Black Lick he was told he might get a rail ride there; at Newark the
wise boy fans recognized him at once and hooted him off the ground
before he could see the manager of the team; the Mansfield captain
yelled for him to take himself and his hoodoo off into the woods; Galion
players laughed in his face; Upper Sandusky wags advised him to go
back to scaring crows in the cornfields.

Every small town in Ohio, as well as every large one, supported a
baseball club, and Chase dragged himself and the hoodoo that haunted
him from place to place.

The Niles team played him in right field one day, and, losing the game,
promptly set him adrift. He got a chance on the Warren nine and here
again his hoodoo worked. Lima had a weak aggregation, and readily gave
him opportunity to make good. He was nervous and overstrained, and made
five errors, losing the game.

He drifted to Toledo, to Cleveland, thence back to Toledo and over into
Michigan. It seemed that fortune favored him with opportunities that he
could not grasp. Adrian, Jackson, Lansing, Owosso, Flint,--all the clubs
that took him on for a game lost it, and further spread the fame of his
hoodoo.

Chase's money had long since departed from him. His clothes became
ragged and unclean. Small boys called him "Hobo," and indeed in all
except heart he was that. For he rode on coal-trains and cattle-trains,
and begged his few and scanty meals at the back doors of farm-houses.

In every town he came to he would search out the baseball grounds,
waylay the manager or captain, say that he was a player and ask for a
chance. Toward the end of this time of vicissitude no one had interest
enough in him to admit him to the grounds.

Back he worked into Ohio, growing more weary, more down-hearted, till
black despair fixed on his heart. One morning he awoke stiff and sore in
a fence-corner outside of a town. He asked a woman who gave him bread
to eat, what the name of the town was, and she said Findlay.

Chase thought bitterly of how useless it would be to approach the
manager of that team, for Findlay was in the league, and moreover, had
been for two years the crack team of Ohio. He did not even have any
intention of trying. There was nothing left for him but to go back home
and beg to be taken into the factory at his old job and poor wages. They
did not seem so bad now, after all his experience. Alas for his dreams!

It occurred to him in wonder that he had persisted for a long time in the
face of adverse circumstances. It was now June, though he did not know
the date, and he had started out in May. Why had he kept on? For
weeks he had not thought of his mother and brother, and now, quite
suddenly, they both flashed into his mind. Then he knew why he had
persisted, and he knew more,--that he would never give up.

He saw her smile, and the warm light of faith in Will's eyes, and he
heard his last words: "Hang on, Chase. Hang on!"


CHAPTER V

THE CRACK TEAM OF OHIO


In the afternoon of that day Chase was one of the forerunners of the
crowd making towards the Findlay ballpark.

Most ball-parks were situated in the outskirts of towns; Findlay,
however, being a red-hot baseball centre, had its grounds right in town
on a prominent street. They were inclosed with a high board fence,
above which the roof of a fine grandstand was to be seen. Before the
gates the irrepressible small boy was much in evidence.

As Chase came up he saw a ball fly over the stand fall to the street and
bound away, with the small boys in a wild scramble after it. To secure
the ball meant admission to the grounds. Quick as a flash Chase saw his
opportunity and dashed across the street. He got the ball, to the infinite
disgust of the small boys. The gatekeeper took it and passed Chase in.

Players in gray uniforms marked "Kenton" were practising, some out in
the field, others on the diamond. Chase had never seen such a smooth
baseball ground. The diamond was bare; all the rest of the field was
green, level sward, closely cropped. Chase thought a fellow who could
not play well there was not worth much. As the noisy crowd poured in,
filling the bleachers, and more slowly the grandstand, he thrilled to
think what it would mean to him to play there.

Then when the thought came of what little chance he had, the old
heartsickness weighed him down again. By and by he would ask to see
the manager, but for the moment he wanted to put off the inevitable.

He stood in the aisle between the grandstand and bleachers, leaning
over the fence to watch the players. A loud voice attracted him. He
turned to see a very large, florid man, wearing a big diamond, addressing
a small man whose suit of clothes was as loud as the other fellow's voice.

"Hey, Mac, what's the matter with this bunch of dead ones you've got?
Eleven straight games lost! You're now in third place, and dropping fast,
after starting out to set the pace. Findlay won't stand for it."

The little man bit savagely at the cigar, tilting it up in line with his stub
nose; and the way he frowned lowered the brim of his hat. "Shure, it's a
slump, Mr. Beekman," he said, in conciliating tones. "Now, you know the
game; you're up; you're up on the fine points. You ain't like most of
them wooden-headed directors. The boys ain't been hittin'. Castorious is
my only pitcher whose arm ain't gone lame this cold spell. I've been
weak at short-stop all this Spring. But we'll come round, now you just
take that from me, Mr. Beekman."

The pompous director growled something and went on up to the
grandstand steps. Then a very tall fellow with wide, sloping shoulders
and red hair accosted the little man.

"Say Mac, what was he beefing about? I heard him speak my name. Did he
have his hammer out?"

"Hello, Cas. No, Beekman ain't knockin' you. He was knockin' me. Sore
on me, because we're losin'."

"If some of those stiffs would stay away from the grounds and stop telling
us how to play the game we'd sooner break our bad streak. Are you
going to work me today?"

"How's your arm?"

"Good. It's getting strong. What I need is work. When I get my speed I'll
make these puff-hitters lay down their bats."

With that Castorious swaggered into the dressing-room under the
grandstand, followed by the little manager. Chase left his post, went to
the door, hesitated when he saw the place full of ball players in the
various stages of dressing, and then entered and walked straight up to
the manager.

"I heard you say you needed a shortstop. Will you give me a chance?"

He spoke distinctly, so that every one in the room heard him. The
manager looked up to speak when Castorious bawled out:

"Fellows, here he is! He's been camping on our trail. I said somebody
had Jonahed us. It's the crooked-eyed hoodoo!"

Ball players are superstitious, and are like sheep, inasmuch that they
follow one another. The uproar that succeeded upon Castorious's
discovery showed two characteristic traits--the unfailing propensity of
the players to make game of any one, and the real anxiety with which
they regarded any of the signs or omens traditionally disastrous. How
well they recognized Chase showed the manner in which they followed
anything written about baseball.

"Hello, there, Chaseaway!"

"Where's your pants?"

"Hoodoo!"

"Jonah!"

"Don't look at me with that eye."

"To the woods for yours!"

Chase stood there bravely, with the red mantling his face, waiting for the
manager to speak. Once or twice Mac attempted to make himself heard,
and failing, turned on his gibing players and ordered them to shut up.
Then he said:

"Are you really the fellow they're guyin'?"

"Yes."

"But he was a pitcher. You said you could play short."

"I can play anywhere."

"Let me see your mitts; stick out your hands."

Chase's hands were broad, heavy, with long, powerful fingers.

"You're pretty young, ain't you? Where have you played?"

Chase told his age and briefly outlined his late experience.

"Name 'Hoodoo' followed you, eh? Been up against it hard?"

"Yes."

Mac laughed and said he knew how that was, then thoughtfully pulled
on his cigar. Now it chanced that he was not only an astute manager,
but a born trainer of ball players as well. He never overlooked an
opportunity. He had seen seedier-looking fellows than Chase develop
into stars that set the baseball world afire. Nevertheless, having
played the game himself, he was not exempt from its little peculiarities
and superstitions. If his team had been winning he certainly would have
thrown any slant-eyed applicant out of the grounds.

His small, shrewd eyes studied Chase intently.

"I'll play you at short today. Barnes, get this fellow a suit."

Barnes, the ground keeper, opened a locker and threw a uniform on the
floor at Chase's feet. His surly action was significant of how thoroughly
he had assimilated his baseball education. But he did not say anything
nor did the players, for at that moment there was a stern decision about
the little manager which brooked no interference.

Ordinarily Mac was the easiest-going fellow in the world, overrun and
ruled by his players; sometimes, however, he showed an iron hand. But
when he had left the dressing-room a storm burst over poor Chase's
head.

"You blank-eyed idiot! What do you want to queer the team for?"

"This is a championship club, sonny."

"Don't look at me with your bum lamp!"

"I want my notice. I'm through with Findlay."

"Now for the toboggan! Last place for ours!"

Used as Chase had become to the manner of badinage directed at him,
he had never encountered it like this. The players spoke good-naturedly,
and a laugh followed each particular sally; nevertheless they were in
deadly earnest, and seemed to consider his advent a calamity which he
could have spared them. He dressed in silence, and avoided looking at
them, as if indeed their conviction was becoming truth to him, and went
out on the grounds.

He got through the few moments of practice creditably, but when the
gong rang calling the players in for the game to begin, a sudden
nervousness and nausea made him weak, blind, trembling. The crowded
grandstand blurred indistinctly in his sight. The players moved in a
sort of haze, and what he heard sounded far off.

Chase started into that game with a nightmare. When at the bat he
scarcely saw the ball, and was utterly at the mercy of the Kenton
pitcher. In the field he wobbled when the ball came toward him; it
bounded at him like a rabbit; it was illusive and teasing, and seemed to
lure him to where it was not; it popped out of his hands, and slipped like
oil between his legs; it had a fiendish propensity for his shins, and
though it struck sharply seemed to leave no pain.

On the solitary occasion when he did get his hands squarely on the ball
he threw it far over the first-baseman's head, far over the right-field
bleachers.

He was dimly conscious that the game was a rout; that the Findlay
players, rattled by his presence, sore at his misplays, went to pieces and
let Kenton make a farce out of it. He heard the growls of disapproval from
the grandstand, the roar from the bleachers--the hooting and tin-canning
from the small boys.

And when the game ended he sneaked off the field, glad it was all over,
and entered the dressing-room in a sick and settled hopelessness.

Roar on roar greeted him. He fell on a bench and bowed his head in his
hands. The scorn, invective, anger, and caustic wit broke about his
deadened ears.

Presently Castorious stalked into the room, followed by Mac and several
directors of the club. Cas was frothing at the mouth; big brown freckles
shone through his pale skin; his jaw set like a bulldog's. With the
demeanor of a haughty chieftain approaching a captive bound to the
stake, he went up to Chase and tapped him on the shoulder.

"Say! did anybody, did anybody, did anybody ever tell you you could
play ball?"

Chase lifted his face from his hands and looked at Cas.

"Yes," he said, with a wan smile, "but I guess they were mistaken."

Cas opened his lips to say something further, but the words never came.
He took a long look at Chase, then went to his locker, sat down, and
with serious, thoughtful brow began changing his clothes.

Mac's sharp voice suddenly stilled the babel in the room. "Gentlemen,
either I run this team my own way, or not at all. That's it. I'm ready to
resign now."

"Here, here, Mac, cool down!" said one. "We're perfectly satisfied with
you. We know we couldn't fill your place. Beekman was a little hasty.
He's a hard loser, you know. So never mind what's been said. Pull the
team out of this rut, that's all we want. We've got confidence in you, and
whatever you say goes. If you want money to get a new player or two to
strengthen up, why speak out. Findlay must be in front."

"Gentlemen, I don't need any money. I'm carryin' sixteen players now,
an' I've got the best team in this league. All I want is a little luck."

"Well, here's hoping you get it." The directors shook hands with Mac and
filed out of the dressing-room. When they were out of hearing the little
manager turned to his players. He seemed to expand, to grow tall; his
face went white, his small eyes snapped.

"Morris, go to the office an' get your money," he said. "Stanhope, you've
got ten days' notice. Ziegler, the bench for yours without pay till you can
hold your tongue. Now, if any of the rest of you fellows have some ideas
about runnin' this team, sing 'em out!"

He stamped up and down the room before them, waiting with blazing
eyes for their replies, but none came.

"Cas!" he shouted, confronting that individual. "Are you a liar?"

"Wha-at?" demanded Cas, throwing his head forward like a striking hawk.

"Are you a liar?"

"No, I'm not. Who says so? I'll take a punch--"

"Did you try to pitch today?"

"I had no steam; couldn't break a pane of glass," replied Cas, evasively.

"Stow that talk. Did you try?"

"No, I didn't," said Cas, sullenly.

"Now, ain't that a fine thing for you to do? You, the best pitcher in this
league, with more 'n one big manager watchin' your work! Ain't you
ashamed of yourself?"

Cas did not say so, but he looked it.

"I've got somethin' to say to the rest of you muckers. Of all the rotten
quitters you are the worst I ever seen. That exhibition you gave today
would have made a dead one out of a five thousand-volt storage battery.
Here you are, a bunch of stickers that the likes of ain't in the rest of the
league--and you fall down before a measly little slow ball, a floater that
babies could hit! You put the boots on every grounder in sight! You let
fly balls bounce off your head! You pegged the ball in the air or at some
body's shins! It just takes a bad spell of luck to show some fellows' yellow
streaks. Saffron ain't one-two-six to the color of some of you."

As Mac paused for breath some one grumbled: "Hoodooed!"

"Bah' You make me sick," cried Mac. "Suppose we've been hoodooed?
Suppose we've fallen into a losin' streak? It's time to bust somethin',
ain't it?" Then his manner altered, his voice became soft and persuasive.

"Boys, we've got to break our slump. Now, there's Cas, you all know
what a great twirler he is. An' he throwed us down. Look at the out-field.
Where's one outside of the big leagues thet can rank with mine? An'
they played today with two wooden legs. Look at Benny an' Meade--why,
today they were tied to posts. Look at reliable old Hicks behind the
plate--today he missed third strikes, overthrew the bases, an' had eight
passed balls. An' say, did any of you steady up this youngster as I was
givin' a chance? Did any of you remember when you was makin' your
first bid for fast company? Now, I ain't got no more to say to you, except
we're goin' to brace an' we're goin' through this league like sand
through a sieve!"

With that he turned to Chase, who had listened and now was ready to
get his summary dismissal.

"Didn't make nothin' of the chance you asked for, did you?" he said,
brusquely.

Chase shook his head.

"Lost your nerve at the critical time, when you had a chance to make
good. Here I need a short-stop who is fast, an can hit an' throw; an' you
come along trailin' a hoodoo an' muss up the game. Put my team on the
bum!"

Then there was a silence, in which Mac walked to and fro before Chase,
who still sat with head bowed.

"Now you see what losin' your nerve means. You're fast as lightnin' on
your feet, you've got a great arm, an' you stand up like a hitter. But you
lost your nerve. A ball player mustn't never lose his nerve. See what a
chance you had? I'm weak at short. Now, after I turn you down you won't
never get such a chance again."

He kept pacing slowly before Chase, watching him narrowly; and when
Chase at last lifted his pale, sombre face from his hands, Mac came to a
sudden stop. With some deliberation he put his hand into his coat pocket
and brought forth a book and papers. Then in a different voice, in the
same soft tones with which he had ended his talk to the other players,
he said to Chase:

"Here's twenty-five dollars advance, an' your contract. It's made out, so
all you need to do is sign it. A hundred per month for yours! Don't stare
at me like thet. Take your contract. You're on! An' as sure as my name's
Mac Sandy I'll make a star of you!"


CHAPTER VI

FIRST INNINGS

When Chase left the grounds his eyesight was still as blurred as it had
been during the game, only now from a different source. His misery fell
from him like a discarded cloak. He kept his hand deep in his right
trousers' pocket, clutching the twenty-five dollars as if it were the only
solid substance to give actuality to his dream of bliss. First he thought
he would send all the money to his mother; then he reflected that as he
resembled the most ragged species of tramp he must spend something
for at least respectable clothing. He entered a second-hand store, where
he purchased for the sum of five dollars a complete outfit, even down to
shoes and hat.

It was not much on style, Chase thought, but clean and without a rip or
hole. With this precious bundle under his arm he set out to find the
address given him by Mac, where he could obtain board and lodging at a
reasonable rate. After some inquiry he found the street and eventually
the house, which, because of a much more pretentious appearance than he
had supposed it would have, made him hesitate.

But following a blindly grateful resolve to do anything and everything
that Mac had told him, he knocked on the door. It opened at once to
show a stout matron of kindly aspect, who started somewhat as she saw
him.

Chase said he had been sent there by Mac, and told his errand,
whereupon the woman looked relieved.

"Exkoose me," she replied, "come righdt in. I haf one rooms, a putty nice
one, four thalers a weeg."

She showed Chase a large room with four windows, a big white bed, a
table and bureau, and chairs and a lounge; and with some difficulty
managed to convey to him that he might have it and board for the sum of
four dollars weekly. When he was certain she had not made a mistake
he lost no time in paying her for a week is advance. Good fortune was
still such a stranger to him that he wanted to insure himself against
moments of doubt.

He washed and dressed himself with pleasure that had not been his for
many a day. Quite diligently did he apply the comb and brush Mrs.
Obenwasser had so kindly procured. His hair was long and a mass of
tangles, and it was full of cinders, which reminded him grimly of his
dearly earned proficiency as a nightrider on fast mail trains and slow
freights.

"That's all over, thank Heaven!" breathed Chase. "I hope I can forget
it."

But he knew he never would. When he backed away from the mirror and
surveyed his clean face and neat suit, and saw therein a new Chase, the
last vanishing gleam of his doubt and unhappiness left him. The supper
bell, ringing at that moment, seemed to have a music of hope; and he
went downstairs hungry and happy. Several young men at the table
made themselves agreeable to him, introduced themselves as clerks
employed down town, and incidentally dyed-in-the-wool baseball fans.
Chase gathered that Mrs. Obenwasser was a widow of some means and kept
boarders more out of the goodness of her heart and pride in her table
than from any real necessity.

Chase ate like a famished wolf. Never had meat and biscuits and milk
and pie been so good. And it was shame that made him finally desist,
not satisfied appetite.

After supper he got paper, pen, and ink from his landlady and went to
his room to write home. It came to him with a sudden shock that he had
never written since he left. What could they have thought? But he
hastened to write, for he had good news. He told Will everything, though
he skimmed over it lightly, as if his vicissitudes were but incidents in the
rise of a ball player. He wrote to his mother, telling her of his good
fortune, of the promise of the future, of his good health and spirits. Then
he enclosed all his money, except a dollar or so in silver, in the letter
and sealed it. Try as hard as he might, Chase could not prevent his tears
from falling on that letter and they were sealed up with it.

Then he sallied forth to look for the post-office and incidentally to see
something of Findlay. He was surprised to find it a larger and more
prosperous place than he had supposed. Main Street was broad and had
many handsome buildings. The avenues leading from it were
macadamized and lined with maple-trees. Chase strolled round a block
and saw many fine brick residences and substantial frame houses with
vine-covered, roomy porches and large lawns. Back on Main Street again
he walked along without aim. There was a hotel on the next corner, and
a number of young men were sitting outside with chairs tilted back
against the window, and also on the edge of the sidewalk.

Chase had sauntered into the ken of his fellow players.

"Say, fellars, will you get onto thet!"

"It's Chaseaway!"

"Hello, Chase, old sport, come an' have a drink."

"Dude Thatches; we can see your finish. Our new short-stop is some on
the dress himself. He'll show you up!"

"Would you mind droppin' your lid over thet lame blinker? I don't want
to have the willies to-night."

Then an incident diverted their attack on Chase. Some one kicked a leg
of Enoch Winter's chair, and being already tipped far back, it
overbalanced and let Enoch sprawl in the gutter. Whereupon the group
howled in glee.

"Cap'n, wasser masser?" Inquired Benny, trying to help Enoch to his
feet and falling over him instead. Benny was drunk. Slowly Enoch
separated himself from Benny and righted his chair and seated himself.

"Now, ain't it funny?" said he.

His slow, easy manner of speaking, without a trace of resentment, made
Chase look at him. Enoch was captain of the team and a man long past
his boyhood. Yet there remained something boyish about him. He had a
round face and a round bullet head, cropped close; round gray eyes,
wise as an owl's, and he had a round lump on his right cheek. As this
lump moved up and down, Chase presently divined that it was only
a puffed-out cheek over a quid of tobacco. He instinctively liked
his captain, and when asked to sit down in a vacant chair near at hand
he did so, with the pleasant thought that at last he was one of them.

Chase sat there for over an hour, intensely interested in all of them, in
what they said and did. He felt sorry for Benny, for the second-baseman
was much under the influence of liquor, had a haggard face and
unkempt appearance. The fellow called Dude Thatcher was a tall youth,
good looking, very quiet, and very well dressed. Chase saw him flick dust
off his shiny shoes, and more than once adjust his spotless cuffs. Meade
was a typical ball player, under twenty, a rugged and bronzed fellow of
jovial aspect. Hicks would never see thirty again; there was gray hair over
his temples; he was robust of build and his hands resembled eagles'
claws. He was a catcher, and many a jammed and broken finger had
been his lot.

What surprised Chase more than anything was the fact that baseball
was not once mentioned by this group. They were extremely voluble, too,
and talked on every subject under the sun except the one that concerned
their occupation. Under every remark lay a subtle inflection of humor.
Mild sarcasm and sharp retort and ready wit flashed back and forth.

The left-fielder of the team, Frank Havil by name, a tall, thin fellow with
a pale, sanctimonious face, strolled out of the hotel lobby and seated
himself near Chase. And with his arrival came a series of most peculiar
happenings to Chase. At first he thought mosquitoes or flies were
bothering him; then he imagined a wasp or hornet was butting into his
ear; next he made sure of one thing only, that something was hitting the
side of his face and head. Whatever it was he had no idea. It came at
regular intervals and began to sting more and more. He took a sidelong
glance at Havil, but that young man's calm, serious face disarmed any
suspicion. But when Havil got up and moved away the strange fact that
the stinging sensation ceased to come caused Chase to associate it
somehow with the quiet left fielder.

"Chase, did you feel anythin' queer when Havil was sittin' alongside of
you?" asked Winters.

"I certainly did. What was it?"

"Havil is a queer duck. He goes round with his mouth full of number
ten shot, an' he works one out on the end of his tongue, an' flips it off
his front teeth. Why, the blame fool can knock your eye out. I've seen
him make old baldheaded men crazy by sittin' behind them en' shootin'
shot onto the bald spots. An' he never cracks a smile. He can look
anybody in the eye, an' they can't tell he's doin' it, but they can feel it
blamed well. He sure is a queer duck, an'--you look out for your one
good eye."

"Thank you, I will. But I have two good eyes. I can see very well out--out
of the twisted one."

Chase went to his room and to bed. Sleep did not soon come. His mind
was too full; too much had happened; the bed was too soft. He dozed off,
to start suddenly up with the bump of a freight train in his ears. But
when he did get to sleep it was in a deep, dreamless slumber that lasted
until ten o'clock the next morning. After breakfast, which Mrs. Obenwasser
had kept waiting for him, he walked out to the ball-grounds to find the
gates locked. So with morning practice out of the question he returned to
Main Street and walked toward the hotel.

He saw Castorious sitting in the lobby. "Hello, Chase, now wouldn't this
jar you?" he said, in friendly tones, offering a copy of the Findlay
Chronicle.

Could this be the stalking monster that had roared at him yesterday,
and scared about the last bit of courage out of him? Cas laid a big
freckled hand on the newspaper and pointed out a column.

"Mac gave Morris his walking-papers yesterday and Stanhope his notice.
This is a good move, as these players caused dissension in the club. Now
we can look for the brace. Findlay has been laying down lately.
Castorious's work yesterday is an example. We would advise him not
to play that dodge any more. The new short-stop, Chaseaway, put
the boots on everything that came his way, but for all that we like
his style. He is fast as lightning and has a grand whip. He stands up like
Brouthers, and if we're any judge of ball players--here we want to say
we've always called the turn-this new youngster will put the kibosh on a
few and 'chase' the Dude for batting honors."

Chase read it over twice and it brought the hot blood to his face. After
that miserable showing of his in the game--how kind of the reporter to
speak well of him! Chase's heart swelled. He had been wrong--there
were lots of good fellows in the world.

"Make a fellow sick, wouldn't it?" said Cas, in disgust. "Accused me of
laying down! Say, come and walk over to the hotel where the Kenton
fellows are staying."

Chase felt very proud to be seen with the great pitcher, for whom all
passers-by had a nod or a word. They stopped at another hotel, in the
lobby of which lounged a dozen broad-shouldered, red-faced young men.

"Say," said Cas, with a swing of his head, "I just dropped in to tell you
guys that I'm going to pitch today, and I'm going to let you down with
two hits. See!" A variety of answers were flung at him, but he made no
reply and walked out. All the way up the street Chase heard him
growling to himself.

The afternoon could not come soon enough for Chase. He went out to
the grounds in high spirits. When he entered the dressing-room he
encountered the same derisive clamor that had characterized the
players' manner toward him the day before. And it stunned him. He
looked at them aghast. Every one of them, except Cas, had a scowl and
hard word for him. Benny, not quite sober yet, was brutal, and Meade
made himself particularly offensive. Even Winters, who had been so
friendly the night before, now said he would put out Chase's other lamp
if he played poorly today. They were totally different from
what they had been off the field. A frenzy of some kind possessed them.
Roars of laughter following attacks on him, and for that matter on each
other, detracted little, in Chase's mind, from the impression of
unnatural sarcasm.

He hurriedly put on his uniform and got out of the room. He did not
want to lose his nerve again. Cas sat on the end of the bleachers,
pounding the boards with his bat.

"Say, I was waiting for you," he said in a whisper to Chase. "I'm going to
put you wise when I get a chance to talk. All I want to say now is, I'll
show up this Kenton outfit today. They can't hit my speed, and they
always hit my slow ball to left-field, through short. Now you lay for them.
Play deep and get the ball away quick. You've got the arm for it."

This was Cas's way of showing his friendship, and it surprised Chase as
much as it pleased him. Mac came along then, and at once said "Howdy,
boys. Cas, what are you dressed for?"

"I want to work today."

"You do? What for?"

"Well, I'm sore about yesterday, and I'm sore on--Kenton, and if you'll
work me today I'll shut them out."

"You 're on, Cas, you're on," said Mac, rubbing his hands in delight.
"Thet's the way I want to hear you talk. We 'll break our losin' streak
to-day."

Then Mac pulled Chase aside, out of earshot of the players pouring from
the dressing-room, and said, "Lad, are you goin' to take coachin'?"

"I'll try to do everything you tell me," replied Chase.

"Shure, thet's good. Listen. I'm goin' to teach you the game. Don't ever
lose your nerve again. Got thet?"

"Yes."

"When you're in the field with a runner on any base make up your mind
before the ball's hit what to do with it if it should happen to come
to you. Got thet?"

"Yes."

"Play a deep short unless you're called in. Come in fast on slow hit
balls; use a underhand snap throw to second or first base when you
haven't lots of time. Got thet?"

"Yes."

"When the ball is hit or thrown to any base-man, run with it to back up
the player. Got thet?"

"Yes.

"All right. So far so good. Now as to hittin'. I like the way you stand up.
You 're a natural-born hitter, so stand your own way. Don't budge an
inch for the speediest pitcher as ever threw a ball. Learn to dodge wild
pitches. Wait, watch the ball. Let him pitch. Don't be anxious. Always
take a strike if you're first up. Try to draw a base on balls. If there's
runners on the bases look for a sign from me on the bench. If you see
my score-card stickin' anywhere in sight, hit the first ball pitched. If you
don't see it--wait. Turn round, easy like, you know, an' take a glance my
way after every pitched ball, an' when you get the sign--hit. We play the
hit-an'-run game. If you're on first or any base, look for the same sign
from me. Then you'll know what the batter is up to an' you'll be ready.
Hit an' run. Got thet?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Well, don't get rattled even if you do make a mistake, an' never, never
mind errors. Go after everythin' an' dig it out of the dust if you can, but
never mind errors!"

"An' Chase, wait," called Mac, as the eager youngster made for the field.
Then in a whisper, as if he were half afraid some of the other players
would hear, he went on: "Don't sass the umpire. Don't ever speak to no
umpire. If you get a rotten deal on strikes, slam your bat down, puff up,
look mad, do anythin' to make a bluff, but don't sass the umpire. See!"

"I never will," declared Chase.

The Findlay team came on the grounds showing the effects of the
shake-up. They were an aggressive, stormy aggregation. Epithets the
farthest remove from complimentary flew thick and fast as the passing
balls. A spirit of rivalry pervaded every action. In batting practice
he who failed to send out a clean hard hit received a volley of abuse.
In fielding practice he who fumbled a ball or threw too high or too
low was scornfully told to go out on the lots and play with the kids.
It was a merciless warfare, every player for himself, no quarter asked
or given!

Chase fielded everything that came his way and threw perfectly to the
bases, but even so, the players, especially Meade, vented their peculiar
spleen on him as well as on others who made misplays. All of which did
not affect Chase in the least. He was on his mettle; his blood was up.

The faith Mac had shown in him should be justified, that he vowed with
all the intensity of feeling of which he was capable. The gong sounded
for the game to start, and Castorious held forth in this wise:

"Fellows, I've got everything today. Speed--well say! it's come back. And
my floater--why, you can count the stitches! You stiffs get in the game.
If you're not a lot of cigar-signs there won't be anything to it."

Big and awkward as Cas was in citizen dress, in baseball harness he
made an admirable figure. The crowds in the stands had heard of his
threat to the Kentons--for of all gossip that in baseball circles flies the
swiftest--and were out in force and loud in enthusiasm. The bleachers
idolized him.

As the players went for their positions Cas whispered a parting word to
Chase: "When you see my floater go up get on your toes!"

The umpire called play, threw out a white ball, and stood in expectant
posture.

As Cas faced the first Kenton player he said in low voice: "Look out for
your coco!" Then he doubled up like a contortionist and undoubled to
finish his motion with an easy, graceful swing. With wonderful swiftness
the white ball travelled straight for the batter's head. Down he fell flat,
jumped up with red face and yelled at Cas. The big pitcher smiled
derisively, received the ball from the catcher, and with the same violent
effort delivered another ball, but with not half the speed of the first.
The batter had instinctively stepped back. The umpire called the ball a strike.

"'Fraid to stand up, hey?" Inquired Cas, in the same low, tantalizing
voice. When he got the ball again he faced the batter, slowly lifted his
long left leg, and seemed to turn with a prodigious step toward third
base, at the same instant delivering the ball to the plate. The ball
evidently wanted to do anything but reach its destination. Slowly it
sailed, soared, floated, for it was one of Cas's floaters.

The batter half swung his bat, pulled it back, then poked at the ball
helplessly. The result was an easy grounder to Chase, who threw the
runner out.

It was soon manifest to Chase that Cas worked differently from any
pitcher he had ever seen. Instead of trying to strike out any batters, Cas
made them hit the ball. He never threw the same kind of a ball twice. He
seemed to have a hundred different ways for the ball to go. But always he
vented his scorn on his opponents in the low sarcasm which may have been
heard by the umpire, but was inaudible to the audience.

At the commencement of the third inning neither side had yet scored. It
was Chase's first time up, and as he bent over the bats trying to pick out
a suitable one, Cas said to him:

"Say, Kid, this guy 'll be easy for you. Wait him out now. Let his curve
ball go."

Chase felt perfectly cool when he went up. The crowd gave him a great
hand, which surprised but did not disconcert him. He stood square up to
the plate, his left foot a little in advance. He watched the Kenton pitcher
with keen eyes; he watched the motion, and he watched the ball as it
sped towards him rather high and close to his face. He watched another,
a wide curve, go by. The next was a strike, the next a ball, and then
following, another strike. Chase had not moved a muscle.

The bleachers yelled: "Good eye, old man! hit her out now!"

With three and two Chase lay back and hit the next one squarely. It rang
off the bat, a beautiful liner that struck the right-field fence a few feet
from the top. Chase reached third base, overran it, to be flung back by
Cas.

The crowd roared. Winters, the captain, came running out and sent Cas
to the bench. Then he began to coach.

"Look out, Chase! Hold your base on an infield hit! Play it safe! Play it
safe! Here's where we make a run, here's where we make a run! Here's
where we make a run! Hey, there, pitcher, you're up in the air already!
Oh! What we won't do to you! Steady, Chase, now you're off. Hit it out,
old man! That's the eye! Make it good! Mugg's Landing! Irish stew! Lace
curtains! Ras-pa-tas! Oh my--" Bawling at the top of his voice, spitting
tobacco juice everywhere, with wild eyes and sweaty face, Winters
hopped up and down the coaching line. When Benny put up a little fly
back of second Winters started Chase for the plate and ran with him.
The ball dropped safe and the run scored easily.

When Chase went panting to the bench Mac screwed up his stubby cigar
and gazed at his new find with enraptured eyes. "I guess maybe thet hit
didn't bust our losin' streak!"

Whatever Chase's triple had to do with it, the fact was that the Findlay
players suddenly recovered their batting form. For two weeks they had
been hitting atrociously, as Mac said, and now every player seemed to
find hits in his bat. Thatcher tore off three singles; Cas got two and a
double; and the others hit in proportion.

Chase rapped another against the rightfield fence, hitting a painted
advertisement that gave a pair of shoes to every player performing the
feat; and to the delirious joy of the bleachers and stands, at his last time
up, he put the ball over the fence for a home run.

It was a happy custom of the oil-men of Findlay, who devoted themselves
to the game, to throw silver dollars out of the stand at the player making
a home run. A bright shower of this kind completely bewildered Chase. He
picked up ten, and Cas handed him seven more that had rolled in the
dust.

"A suit of clothes goes with that hit, me boy," sang out Cas.

It was plainly a day for Chase and Cas. The Kenton players were at the
mercy of the growling pitcher. When they did connect with the ball,
sharp fielding prevented safe hits. Chase had eleven chances, some
difficult, one particularly being a hard bounder over second base, all of
which he fielded perfectly. But on two occasions fast, tricky base runners
deceived him, bewildered him, so that instead of throwing the
ball he held it. These plays gave Kenton the two lonely runs chalked up
to their credit against seventeen for Findlay.

"Well, we'll give you those tallies," said Cas, swaggering off the field. He
had more than kept his threat, for Kenton made but one safe hit.

"Wheeling to-morrow, boys," he yelled in the dressing-room. "We'll take
three straight. Say! Did any of you cheap-skates see my friend Chase hit
today? Did you see him? Oh! I guess he didn't put the wood on a few!
I guess not! Over the fence and far away! That one is going yet!"

Chase was dumfounded to hear every player speak to him in glowing
terms. He thought they had bitterly resented his arrival, and they had;
yet here was each one warmly praising his work. And in the next breath
they were fighting among themselves. Truly these young men were
puzzles to Chase. He gave up trying to understand them.

A loud uproar caused him to turn. The players were holding their sides
with laughter, and Cas was doing a Highland fling in the middle of the
floor. Mac looked rather white and sick. This struck Chase as remarkable
after the decisive victory, and he asked the nearest player what was
wrong.

"Oh! nuthin' much! Mac only swallowed his cigar stub!" It was true, as
could be plainly seen from Mac's expression. When the noise subsided
he said:

"Shure, I did. Was it any wonder? Seein' this dead bunch come back to
life was enough to make me swallow my umbrella. Boys," here a smile
lighted up his smug face, "now we've got thet hole plugged at short the
pennant is ours. We've got 'em skinned to a frazzle!"


CHAPTER VII

MITTIE-MARU

"Chase, you hung bells on 'em yes-tiddy."

Among the many greetings Chase received from the youngsters
swarming out to the grounds to see their heroes whip Wheeling, this one
struck him as most original and amusing. It was given him by
Mittie-Maru, the diminutive hunchback who had constituted himself
mascot of the team. Chase had heard of the boy, and had seen him on
the day before but not to take any particular notice.

"Let me carry yer bat."

Chase looked down upon a sad and strange little figure. Mittie-Maru did
not much exceed a yard in height; he was all misshapen and twisted,
with a large head, which was set deep into the hump on his shoulders.
He was only a boy, yet he had an almost useless body aid the face of an
old man.

Chase hurriedly lifted his gaze, thinking with a pang of self-reproach
how trifling was his crooked eye compared to the hideous deformity of
this lad.

"Three straight from Wheelin' is all we want," went on Mittie-Maru.

"We'll skin the coal diggers all right, all right. An' we 'll be out in front
trailin' a merry 'Ha! Ha!' fer Columbus. They're leadin' now, an' of all
the swelled bunches I ever seen! Put it to us fer three straight when they
was here last. But we got a bad start. There I got sick an' couldn't report,
an' somehow the team can't win without me. Yestiddy was my first day
fer--I don't know how long,--since Columbus trimmed us."


"What was the matter with you?" asked Chase.

"Aw! Nuthin'. Jest didn't feel good," replied the boy. "But I got out
yestiddy, an' see what you done to Kenton! Say, Chase, you takes
mighty long steps. It ain't much wonder you can cover ground."

Chase modified his pace to suit that of his companion, and he wanted
to take the bat, but Mittie-Maru carried it with such pride and conscious
superiority over the envious small boys who trooped along with them that
Chase could not bring himself to ask for it. As they entered the grounds
and approached the door of the club-house Mac came out. He wore a
troubled look.

"Howdy, Mittie; howdy, Chase," he said, in a loud voice. Then as he
hurried by he whispered close to Chase's ear, "Look out for yourself!"

This surprised Chase so that he hesitated. Mittie-Maru reached the
dressing room first and turning to Chase he said; "Somethin' doin', all
right, all right!" This was soon manifest, for as Chase crossed the
threshold a chorus of yells met him.

"Here he is--now say it to his face!"

"Salver!"

"Jollier!"

"You mushy soft-soaper!"

Then terms of opprobrium fell about his ears so thickly that he could
scarcely distinguish them. And he certainly could not understand why
they were made. He went to his locker, opened it, took out his uniform,
and began to undress. Mittie-Maru came and sat beside him. Chase looked
about him to see Winters lacing up his shoes and taking no part in the
vilification. Benny was drunk. Meade's flushed face and thick speech
showed that he, too, had been drinking. Even Havil made a sneering remark
in Chase's direction. Chase made note of the fact that Thatcher, Cas,
and Speer, one of the pitchers, were not present.

"You're a Molly!" yelled Meade. "Been makin' up to the reporters, haven't
you? Fixin' it all right for yourself, eh? Playin' for the newspapers? Well
you'll last about a week with Findlay."

"What do you mean?" demanded Chase.

"Go wan!" shouted the first base man.

"As if you hadn't seen the Chronicle!"

"I haven't," said Chase.

"Flash it on him," cried Meade.

Some one threw a newspaper at Chase, and upon opening it to the baseball
page he discovered his name in large letters. And he read an account of
yesterday's game, which, excepting to mention Cas's fine pitching, made
it seem that Chase had played the whole game himself. It was extravagant
praise. Chase felt himself grew warm under it, and then guilty at the
absence of mention of other players who were worthy of credit. "I don't
deserve all that," said he to Meade, "and I don't know how it came to
be there."

"You've been salvin' the reporter, jollyin' him."

"No, I haven't."

"You 're a liar!"

A hot flame leaped to life inside Chase. He had never been called that
name. Quickly he sprang up, feeling the blood in his face. Then as he
looked at Meade, he remembered the fellow's condition, and what he
owed to Mac, and others far away, with the quieting affect that he sat
down without a word.

A moment later Benny swaggered up to him and shook a fist in his face.

"I'm a-goin' t' take a bing at yer one skylight an' shut 't for ye."

Chase easily evaded the blow and arose to his feet. "Benny, you're
drunk."

Matters might have become serious then, for Chase, undecided for the
moment what to do, would not have overlooked a blow, but the gong
ringing for practice put an end to the trouble. The players filed out.

Mittie-Maru plucked at Chase's trousers and whispered, "You ought to
've handed 'em one!"

Chase's work that afternoon was characterized by the same snap and
dash which had won him the applause of the audience in the Kenton
games. And he capped it with two timely hits that had much to do with
Findlay's victory. But three times during the game, to his consternation,
Mac took him to task about certain plays. Chase ran hard back of second
and knocked down a base-hit, but which he could not recover in time to
throw the runner out. It was a splendid play, for which the stands gave
him thundering applause. Nevertheless, as he came in to the bench Mac
severely reprimanded him for not getting his man. "You've got to move
faster 'n thet," said the little manager, testily. "You're slow as an
ice-wagon."

And after the game Mac came into the dressing-room, where Chase
received a good share of his displeasure.

"Didn't you say you knew the game? Well, you're very much on the pazaz
today. Now the next time you hit up a fly-ball, don't look to see where
it's goin', but run! Keep on runnin'. Fielders muff flies occasionally, an'
some day runnin' one out will win a game. An' when you make a base-hit,
don't keep on runnin' out to the foul-flag just because it's a single.
Always turn for second base, an' take advantage of any little chance
to get there. If you make any more dumb plays like thet they'll cost
you five each. Got thet?"

Chase was mystified, and in no happy frame of mind when he left the
grounds. Evidently what the crowd thought good playing was quite removed
from the manager's consideration of such.

"Hol' on, Chase," called Mittie-Maru from behind.

Chase turned to see the little mascot trying to catch up with him. It
suddenly dawned on Chase that the popular idol of the players had taken a
fancy to him.

"Say, Cas tol' me to tell you to come to his room at the hotel after
supper."

"I wonder what he wants. Did he say?"

"No. But it's to put you wise, all right, all right. Cas is a good feller. Me
an' him has been friends. I heard him say to Mac not to roast you the
way he did. An' I wants to put you wise to somethin' myself. Mac's stuck
on you. He can't keep a smile off his face when you walk up to the plate,
an' when you cut loose to peg one acrost he jest stutters. Oh! he's stuck
on you, all right, all right! 'Boys, will you look at thet wing?' he keeps
sayin'. An' when you come in he says you're rotten to yer face. Don't
mind Mac's roasts."

All of which bewildered Chase only the more. Mittie-Maru chattered
about baseball and the players, but he was extremely reticent in regard
to himself, this latter fact, in conjunction with his shabby appearance,
made Chase think that all was not so well with the lad as it might have
been. He found himself returning Mittie-Maru's regard.

"Good-bye," said Mittie-Maru at a cross street. "I go down here. See you
to-morrer."

After supper Chase went to the hotel, and seeing that Cas was not
among the players in the lobby, he found his room number, and with no
little curiosity mounted the stairs.

"Come in," said Cas, in answer to his knock.

The big pitcher sat in his shirt sleeves blowing rings of smoke out of the
open window.

"Hello, Chase; was waiting for you. Have a cigar. Don't smoke? Throw
yourself round comfortable--but say, lock the door first. I don't want any
one butting in."

Chase found considerable relief and pleasure in the friendly manner of
Findlay's star pitcher.

"I want to have a talk with you, Chase. First, you won't mind a couple of
questions."

"Not at all. Fire away."

"You're in dead earnest about this baseball business?"

"I should say I am."

"You are dead set on making it a success?"

"I've got to." Chase told Cas briefly what depended on his efforts.

"I thought as much. Well, you'll find more than one fellow trying the
same. Baseball is full of fellows taking care of mothers and fathers and
orphans, too. People who pay to see the game and keep us fellows going
don't know just how much good they are doing. Well, Chase, it takes
more than speed, a good eye, and a good arm and head to make success."

"How so?"

"It's learning how to get along with managers and players. I've been in
the game ten years. Most every player who has been through the mill will let
the youngster find out for himself, let him sink or swim. Even managers
will not tell you everything. It's baseball ethics. I'm overstepping it
because--well, because I want to. I don't mind saying that you 're the
most promising youngster I ever saw. Mac is crazy about you. All the
same, you won't last two weeks on the Findlay team, or a season in fast
company, unless you change."

"Change? How?"

"Now, Chase, don't get sore. You 're a little too soft for this business.
You 're too nice. Lots of boys are that way, but they don't keep so and
stay in baseball. Do you understand me?"

"No, I don't."

"Well, baseball is a funny game. It's like nothing else. You've noticed
how different the players are off the field. They'll treat you white away
from the grounds, but once in uniform, lookout! When a professional
puts on his uniform he puts on his armor. And it's got to be bullet-proof
and spike-proof. The players on your own team will get after you,
abuse you, roast you, blame you for everything, make you miserable,
and finally put you off the team. This may seem to you a mean thing.
But it's a way of the game. When a new player is signed everybody gets
after him, and if he makes a hit with the crowd, and particularly
with the newspapers, the players get after him all the harder. In
a way, that's a kind of professional jealousy. But the main point I
want to make clear to you is the aggressive spirit of the players
who hold their own. On the field ball-playing is a fight all the time.
It's good-natured and it's bitter-earnest. Every man for himself!
Survival of the fittest! Dog eat dog!"

"Then I must talk back, strike back, fight back?"

"Exactly. Else you will never succeed in this business. Now, don't take a
bad view of it. Baseball is all right; so are the players. The best thing is
that the game is square--absolutely square. Once on the inside, you'll
find it peculiar, and you've got to adapt yourself."

"Tell me what to do."

"You must show your teeth, my boy, that's all. The team is after your
scalp. Apart from this peculiarity of the players to be eternally after
someone, I'm sure they like you. Winters said you'd make a star if you
had any sand. Thatcher said if you lasted you 'd make his batting
average look sick. One of them, I think, has it in for you just because
he's that sort of a guy. But I mention no names. I'm not a knocker, and
let me tell you this--never knock any lad in the business. The thing for
you to do, the sooner the better, is to walk into the dressing-room and
take a punch at somebody. And then declare yourself strong. Say you'll
punch the block off any one who opens his trap to you again."

"And after that?"

"You'll find it different. They'll all respect you; you'll get on better for
it. Then you'll be one of us. Play hard, learn the game, keep sober--and
return word for word, name for name, blow for blow. After a little this
chewing the rag becomes no more to you than the putting on of your uniform.
It's part of the game. It keeps the life and ginger in you."

"All right. If I must--I must," replied Chase, and as he spoke the set of his
jaw boded ill to some one.

"Good. I knew you had the right stuff in you. Now, one thing more. Look
out for the players on the other teams. They'll spike you, knee you, put
you out, if they can. Don't ever slide to a base head first, as you did today.
Some second-baseman will jump up and come down on you with both feet,
and break something, or cut you all up. Don't let any player think you
are afraid of him, either."

"I'm much obliged to you, Cas. What you've told me explains a lot. I
suppose every business has something about it a fellow don't like. I'll do
the best I can, and hope I'll make good, as Mittie-Maru says."

"There's a kid with nerve!" exclaimed Cas, enthusiastically. "Best fan I
ever knew. He knows the game, too. Poor little beggar!"

"Tell me about him," said Chase.

"I don't know much. He turned up here last season, and cottoned to the
team at once. Some one found out that he ran off from a poor-house, or
home for incurables or bad boys or something. There was a fellow here
from Columbus looking for Mittie, but never found him. He has no
home, and I don't know where he lives. I'll bet it's in a garret somewhere.
He sells papers and shines shoes. And he's as proud as he's
game--you can't give him anything. Baseball he's crazy over."

"So is my brother, and he's a cripple too."

"Every boy likes baseball, and if he doesn't, he's not a boy."

Chase left Castorious then and went downstairs, for he expected to meet
several of the young men who boarded with him, and who had invited
him to spend the evening with them. They came presently and carried
him off to an entertainment in one of the halls. Here his new
friends, Harris, Drake, and Mandle, led him from one group of boys and
girls to another, and introduced him with evident pride in their
opportunity. It was a church fair and well attended. Chase had never
seen so many pretty girls.

Being rather backward, he did not very soon notice what was patent to
all--that he was the young man of the hour--and when he did see he
felt as if he wanted to run away. Facing Mac and the players was easier
than trying to talk to these gracious ladies and whispering, arch-eyed
girls. Ice-cream was the order of the evening, and as long as Chase could
eat he managed to conceal his poverty of speech; but when he absolutely
could not swallow another spoonful he made certain he must get away.

When four girls in white vivaciously appropriated him and whirled him
off somewhere, his confusion knew no bounds. His young men friends
basely deserted him and went to different parts of the hall. He was lost,
and he gave up. From booth to booth they paraded with him, all
chattering at once. He became vaguely aware that he was spending money,
and attaching to himself various articles; he caught himself saying he
would like very much to have this and that, which he did not want at all.

The evening passed very quickly and like a dream. Chase found himself
out of the bright lights in the cool darkness of the night. He walked two
blocks past his corner. He reached his room at length, struck a light,
and saw that he had an armful of small bundles and papers. He made
the startling discovery that he had purchased four lace-fringed
pin-cushions, a number of hand-painted doilies, one sewing-basket, one
apron, two match-scratchers, one gorgeous necktie, and one other
article that he could not name.

Discomfited as he was, Chase had to laugh. It was too utterly ridiculous.
Then more soberly he began to count the money he had, in order to find
out what he had spent. The sum total of his rash expenditures
amounted to a little over five dollars.

"Five dollars!" ejaculated Chase.

"For this truck and about a gallon of ice-cream. That's how I save my
money. Confound those girls!"

But Chase did not mean that about the girls. He knew the evening had
been the pleasantest one he could remember. He tried to recollect the
names of the girls and how they looked. This was impossible. Nothing of
that wonderful night stood out clearly: as a whole, it left a confused
impression of music and laughter, bright eyes and golden hair, smiles
and white dresses.

Next morning he wrote to his mother and told her all about it, adding
that she must not take the expenditure of his money so much as an
instance of reckless extravagance as it was a case of highway robbery.

In the afternoon on the way to the ball-park he met Mittie-Maru, and
relating last night's adventure, asked him if he could use a pin-cushion
or two.

"Not on yer life!" cried Mittie-Maru. "Sorry I didn't put you wise to
them church sociables. They jobbed you, Chase. Sold you a lot of bricks.
You want to fight shy of thet bunch, all right, all right."

"Don't you ever go to church?"

"I went to Sunday school last Fall. Miss Marjory, she was in the school,
got me to come. She's a peach. Sweeter 'n a basket of red monkeys. She
was all right, all right, but I couldn't stand fer the preacher, an' some
others, so I quit. An' every time I see Miss Marjory I dodge or hit it up out
of sight."

"What was wrong with the preacher?"

"He's young, an' I think preachers oughter be old. He fusses the wimmen
folks too hard. He speaks soft an' prays to beat the band, an' everybody
thinks he's an angel. But--oh, I ain't a knocker."

"Wait for me after the game."

"Shure. An' say, Chase, are you goin' to stand fer the things Meade calls
you?"

"I'm afraid I can't stand it much longer."

If anything, Chase's reception in the dressing-room was more violent
than it had been the day before. Nevertheless he dressed without
exchanging a word with any one. This time, however, he was keenly alert
to all that was said and to who said it. All sense of personal affront or
injustice, such as had pained him yesterday, was now absent. He felt
himself immeasurably older; he coolly weighed this harangue at him with
the stern necessity of his success, and found it nothing.

And when he went out upon the field he was conscious of a difference in
his feelings. The mist that had bothered him did not now come to his
eyes; nor did the contraction bind his throat; nor did the nameless
uncertainty and dread oppress his breast. He felt a rigidity of muscle, a
deadliness of determination, a sharp, cold confidence.

The joy of playing the game, as he had played it ever since he was big
enough to throw a ball, had gone. It was not fun, not play before him,
but work,--work that called for strength, courage, endurance.

Chase gritted his teeth when the umpire called: "Play ball!" and he
gritted them throughout the game. He staked himself and all he hoped
to do for those he loved, against his own team, the opposing team, and
the baseball world. He saw his one chance, a fighting chance, and he
meant to fight.

When the ball got into action he ran all over the field like a flash. He was
everywhere. He anticipated every hit near him, and scooped up the ball
and shot it from him, with the speed of a bullet. He threw with a
straight, powerful overhand motion and the ball sailed low, with terrific
swiftness, and held its speed. He grabbed up a hit that caromed off
Winter's leg, and though far back of third base, threw the runner out
with time to spare. He caught a foul fly against the left-field bleachers.
He threw two runners out at the plate, and that from deep short field.

He beat out an in-field hit; he got a clean single into right field; and for
the third time in three days he sent out a liner that by fast running he
stretched into a three-bagger. Findlay had clinched the game before this
hit, which sent in two runners, but for all that, the stands and bleachers
rose in a body and cheered. The day before Chase had doffed his cap in
appreciation of their applause. Today he did not look at them. He put
the audience out of his mind.

But with all his effort, speed, and good luck he made an unfortunate
play. It came at the close of the eighth inning. Wheeling got runners on
second and third, with only one out. The next man hit a sharp bouncer
to Chase. He fielded the ball, and expecting the runner on third to dash
for home he made ready to throw him out. But this runner held his
base. Chase turned to try to get the batter going down to first, when the
runner on second ran right before him toward third. Chase closed in
behind him, and as the fellow slowed up tried to catch him. Then the
runner on third bolted for home. Chase saw him and threw to head him
off, but was too late.

In the dressing-room after the game the players howled about this one
run that Chase's stupidity had given Wheeling. They called him
"wooden head," "sap-head," "sponge-head," "dead-head." Then Mac came
in and delivered himself.

"Put the ball in your pocket! Put the ball in your pocket, didn't you?
Countin' your money, wasn't you? Thinkin' about the girls you was with
last night, hey? Thet play costs you five. See! Got thet? You're fined.
After this when you get the ball an' some runner is hittin' up the dust,
throw it. Got thet? Throw the ball! Don't keep it! Throw it!"

When the players' shout of delight died away, Chase turned on the little
manager.

"What d' you want for fifteen cents--canary birds?" he yelled, in a voice
that rattled the windows. He flung his bat down with a crash, and as it
skipped along the bench more than one player fell over himself to get
out of its way.

"Didn't I say I had to learn the game? Didn't you say you'd show me? I
never had that play before. I didn't know what to do with the ball. What
d' you want, I say? Didn't I accept nine chances today?"

Mac looked dumfounded. This young lamb of his had suddenly roused
into a lion.

"Shure you needn't holler about it. I was only tellin' you."
Then he strode out amid a silence that showed the surprise of his
players. Winters recovered first, and turned his round red face and
began to bob and shake with laughter.

"What--did he--want for fifteen cents--canary birds? Haw! Haw; Haw!"
In another moment the other players were roaring with him.


CHAPTER VIII

ALONG THE RIVER

Castorious blanked the Wheeling club next day, and the following
day Speer won his game. Findlay players had returned to their old form
and were getting into a fast stride, so the Chronicle said. Three straight
from Columbus, was the slogan! Mac had signed a new pitcher, a
left-hander named Poke, from a nearby country village, and was going to
develop him. He was also trying out a popular player from the
high-school team.

Mac had ordered morning practice for the Columbus series of games.
The players hated morning practice, "drill" they called it, and presented
themselves with visible displeasure. And when they were all on the
grounds Mac appeared with a bat over his shoulder, and with his two
new players in tow.

Poke was long and lanky, a sunburned rustic who did not know what to
do with his hands and feet.

"Battin' practice," called out Mac, sharply, ordering Poke to the
pitcher's box.

Poke peeled off his sweater, showing bare arms that must have had a
long and intimate acquaintance with axe and rail-pile.

"Better warm up first," said Mac. It developed that Poke did not need any
warming. When he got ready he wound himself up, and going through
some remarkable twist that made him resemble a cartwheel, delivered
the ball towards the plate. Thatcher just dodged in time to save his head.

"Speed! Whew! Wow!" exclaimed the players.

"Speed!" echoed Thatcher. "Wait till you, get up there!"

Poke drove Thatcher away from the plate and struck Meade out.

"Put 'em over," said Benny, as he came up.

The first ball delivered hit Benny on the foot, and roaring, he threw
down his bat. "You Rube! You wild Indian! I'll git you fer thet!"

Enoch Winters was the next batter. "Say, you lean, hungry-lookin'
rubberneck, if you hit me!" warned Enoch, in his soft voice.

Poke struck Enoch out and retired Chase on a little pop-up fly. Then Cas
sauntered up with his wagon-tongue bat and a black scowl on his face.

"Steady up, steady up," said he. "Put 'em over. Don't use all your steam."

"Mister, I ain't commenced yit to throw hard," replied Poke.

"Wha-at?" Yelled Cas. "Are you kidding me? Slam the ball! Break your
arm, then!"

The rustic whirled a little farther round, unwound himself a little
quicker, and swung his arm. Cas made an ineffectual attempt to hit what
looked like a white cord stretched between him and the pitcher. The
next ball started the same way, but took an upward jump and shot
under Cas's chin.

Cas, who had a mortal dread of being hit, fell back from the plate and
glared at Poke.

"You've got his alley, Poke!" Cried the amiable players. "Keep 'em under
his chin!" Cas retired in disgust as Mac came trotting up from the field,
where he had been coaching the high-school player.

"What's he got?" asked Mac, eagerly. "What's he got!" yelled nine voices
in unison.

"Oh! nothing!"

"Step up an' take a turn," said Mac to his new player. "No, don't stand
so far back. Here, let me show you. Gimme the bat."

Mac took a position well up to the plate, and began illustrating his idea
of the act of hitting.

"You see, I get well back on my right foot, ready to step forward with my
left. I'll step just before he delivers the ball. I'll keep my bat over my
shoulder an' hit a little late, so as to hit to right field. Thet's best
for the hit-an'-run gam. Now, watch. See. Step an' set; step an' set. The
advantage of gettin' set this way is the pitcher can't fool you, can't hit
you. You needn't never be afraid of bein' hit after you learn how
to get set. No pitcher could hit me." Then raising his voice, Mac
shouted to Poke, "Hey, poke up a couple. Speed em over, now!"

Poke evidently recognized the cardinal necessity of making an
impression, for he went through more wonderful gyrations than ever.
Then he lunged forward with the swing he used in getting the ball away.
Nobody saw the ball.

BUMB! A sound not unlike a suddenly struck base-drum electrified the
watching players. Then the ball appeared rolling down from Mac's
shrinking person. The little manager seemed to be slowly settling to the
ground. He turned an agonized face and uttered a long moan.

"My ribs I my ribs!--he hit me," gasped Mac.

Chase, Poke, and the new man were the only persons who did not roll
over and over on the ground. That incident put an end to the morning
"drill." After dressing, Chase decided to try to find Mittie-Maru.
The mascot had not been at the last two games, and this fact determined
him to seek the lad. So he passed down the street where he had often
left Mittie, and asked questions on the way. Everybody knew the hunchback,
but nobody knew where he lived.

Chase went on until he passed the line of houses and got into the
outskirts of the town, where carpenter-shops, oil refineries, and
brick-yards abounded. Several workmen he questioned said they saw
the boy almost every day, and that he kept on down the street toward
the open country. Chase had about decided to give up his quest, when
he came to the meadows and saw across them the green of a line of
willows. This he knew marked a brook or river, along which a stroll
would be pleasant.

When he reached the river he saw Mittie-maru sitting on a log patiently
holding a long crooked fish-pole. "Any luck?" he shouted.

Mittie-maru turned with a start, and seeing Chase cried out, "You ole
son-of-a-gun! Trailed me, didn't you? What yer doin' out here?"

"I'm looking for you, Mittie."

"What fer?"

Chase leaped down the bank and seated himself on the log beside the
boy. "Well, you haven't been out to the grounds lately. Why?"

"Aw! nuthin'," replied Mittie, savagely.

"See here, you can't string me," said Chase, earnestly. "Things aren't
right with you, Mittie, and you can't bluff it out on me. So I've been
hunting you. We're going to be pards, you know."

"Are we?"

Chase then saw Mittie's eyes for the first time, and learned they were
bright, soft, and beautiful, giving his face an entirely different look.
"Sure. And that's why I wanted to find you--where you lived--and if you
were sick again."

"It's my back, Chase," replied Mittie, reluctantly. "Sometimes it--hurts
worse."

"Then it pains you all the time?" asked Chase, voicing a suspicion that
had come to him from watching the boy.

"Yes. But it ain't bad today. Sometimes--hol' on! I got a bite. See! It's a
whopper--Thunder! I missed him!"

Mittie-Maru rebaited his hook and cast it into the stream.

"Fishin' fer mine, when I can't git to the ball-grounds. Do you like
fishin', Chase?"

"Love it. You must let me come out and fish with you."

"Sure. There's good fishin' fer catfish an' suckers, an' once in a while
a bass. I never fished any before I came here, an' I missed a lot. You
see, movin' round ain't easy fer me. Gee! I can walk, but I mean playin'
ball or any games the kids play ain't fer me. So I take mine out in
fishin'. I 've got so I like sittin' in the sun with it all lonely aroun',
'cept the birds an' ripples. I used to be sore--about--about my back an'
things, but fishin' has showed me I could be worse off. I can see an' hear
as well as anybody. There! I got bite again!"

Mittie-maru pulled out a sunfish that wriggled and shone like gold in
the sunlight.

"Thet's enough fer today. I ain't no fish-hog. Chase, if I show you where
I live you won't squeal? Of course you won't."

Chase assured him he would observe absolute secrecy; and together
they mounted the bank and walked up stream. The meadows were
bright with early June daisies and buttercups; the dew had not yet dried
from the clover; blackbirds alighted in the willows and larks fluttered up
from the grass. They came presently to an abandoned brickyard, where
piles of broken brick lay scattered round, and two mound-like kilns
stood amid the ruins of some frame structures.

"Here we are," said Mittie-Maru, marching up to one of the kilns and
throwing open a rudely contrived door. A dark aperture revealed the
entrance to this singular abode.

"You don't mean you live in this oven?" ejaculated Chase.

"Sure. An' I've lived in worse places. Come in, an' make yourself to home."

Mittie-maru crawled into the hole, and Chase followed him. It was roomy
inside. Light came in from the chimney hole in the roof, and also on one
side where there was a crack in the bricks. The floor was clean and of
smooth sand. A pile of straw and some blankets made Mittie-Maru's bed.
A fireplace of bricks, a few cooking utensils, and a box cupboard told
that he was his own housekeeper.

"This's not bad. How long have you lived in here?"

"Aw, I fooled round town fer a while last Summer, spendin' my money
fer swell lodgin's, an' then I found this place. Makes a hit with me."

"But when you're sick, Mittie, what do you--how do you manage?"

"Out of sight, an' I ain't no bother to no one."

And that was all Mittie-Maru would vouchsafe concerning himself. They
came out after a while and Chase wanted to walk farther on up the river.
Rolling meadows stretched away to the hills; there was a grove of maples
not far off.

"It's so pretty up that way. Can't we go farther on and strike another
road into town?"

"Sure. But them meadows an' groves is private property," said Mittie,
dubiously. "I used to fish up thet way, till I threw Miss Marjory down,
then I quit. She lives in one of them grove houses. We ain't likely to meet
no one, though, so come on."

They crossed several fields to enter the grove. The river was narrow there
and shaded by big trees. Violets peeped out of the grass. A white house
gleamed in the distance.

Suddenly they came round a huge spreading tree to a green
embankment. A boat rode in the water, one end lightly touching the
sand. And in the boat was a girl. Her eyes were closed; her head rested
on her arm, which hung over the side. A mass of violets lay in her lap.
All about the boat was deep shade, but a gleam of sunshine, filtering
through the leaves, turned the girl's hair to gold.

Mittie-Maru uttered a suppressed exclamation and bolted behind some
bushes.

Chase took a step to follow suit, when the girl opened her eyes and saw
him. She gave a little cry, which rooted Chase to the spot.

Then because of the movement of the girl the boat left the sand and
drifted into the stream. Whereupon Mittie-Maru returned valiantly to the
scene. "Miss Marjory! Don't be scart. It's all right. We'll get you in.
Where's the oars? Chase, you'll hev to wade in. The water ain't deep.
Come here, the boat's goin' close to this sand-bar."

Chase became animated at Mittie's words, and hurriedly slipping off his
shoes and stockings, he jumped to the sand below and waded out.
Deeper and deeper the water grew, till he was far over his knees. Still
the boat was out of reach. He could tell by feeling with his foot that
another step would plunge him over his head, and was about to swim,
when Mittie came to the rescue.

He threw a long pole down to Chase. "There! let her grab that, an' pull
her in."

Chase extended the pole, and as the girl caught it he saw her eyes.
They were dark blue and smiled into his.

"Careful!" shouted the pilot above. "Don't pull so hard, Chase, this ain't
no tug-o'-war. There! All right."

When Chase moored the boat Miss Marjory gathered up the violets and
lightly stepped ashore. Then an obvious constraint affected the three.
She murmured a low "Thank you," and stood, picking the flowers; Chase
bent over his shoes and stockings with a very flushed face, and
Mittie-Maru labored with sudden and painful emotions.

"Miss Marjory, it 'peared like we pushed the boat out, me an' Chase, but
thet ain't so. We was walkin' this way--he wanted to go in the grove--an'
all to onct we spied you, an' I ducked behind the bushes."

"Why? Are you afraid of me, Mittie-Maru?" she asked.

"Yes--no--it ain't thet, Miss Marjory. Well, no use lyin'. I've been
keepin' out of your way fer a long time now, 'cause I know you'd have me
in Sunday school."

"Now you will come back, won't you?"

"I s'pose so," he said with resignation, then looked at Chase. "Miss
Marjory, this's my friend Chase, Findlay's new short-stop."

"I met the--new short-stop last week," was the demure reply.

"Miss Marjory, you didn't sell Chase none of them gold bricks at the
church sociable?"

"No, Mittie, but I sold him five plates of ice-cream," she answered, with a
merry laugh. "Your friend has forgotten me."

Mittie-Maru regarded Chase with a fine contempt. Chase was tongue-tied.
Somewhere he had indeed seen those deep blue eyes; they were like the
memory of a dream.

"Miss--Miss--" stammered Chase.

"Miss Dean, Marjory Dean."

"I met--so many girls--I didn't really have time to get to know anybody
well."

Mittie-Maru watched them with bright, sharp eyes, and laughed when
Chase broke into embarrassed speech again.

"Finest time I ever had. I told Mittie about it, how they sold me a
lot of old maid's things. I sent some of them to my mother. And I asked
Mittie if he could use a pin-cushion or two. I've been hunting Mittie all
morning. Found him fishing down here. He's got the cutest little den in
a kiln at the old brickyard below. He lives there. It's the cosiest place."

Mittie had administered to Chase a series of violent kicks, the last of
which had brought him to his senses.

"Chase, you peached on me. You give me away, an' you said you wouldn't!"

"Oh! Mittie, I'm sorry--I didn't think," cried Chase in contrition.

"Is it true?" asked Marjory, with grave eyes.

"Sure. An' I don't mind yer knowin'. Really I don't, if you'll promise not
to tell a soul."

"I promise. Will you let me come to see you?"

"I'd be tickled to death. You an' Chase come to call on me. I'll ketch you
a mess of fish. Won't thet be fine?"

Marjory's long lashes fell. The sound of a bell came ringing through the
grove.

"That's for me. I must be going. Good-bye."

Chase and Mittie watched the slight blue-clad figure flit along the path,
in and out among the trees, to disappear in the green.

"An I promised to go to Sunday school again," muttered Mittie-Maru.


CHAPTER IX

ON THE ROAD

At six o'clock on the twelfth of June the Findlay baseball club, fifteen
strong, was assembled at the railroad station to begin a two weeks' trip
on the road. Having taken three games from Columbus, and being now
but a few points behind that team, they were an exceedingly lively
company of young men. They were so exuberant with joy that they made
life a burden for everybody, particularly for Mac. The little manager had
trouble enough at home, but it was on the road that he got his gray
hairs. "Shure, Cas, you ain't after takin' thet dog again?" asked Mac.

Castorious had a vicious-looking beast, all head and jaws, under his
arm. "Dog!" roared Cas, insulted. "This's a blooded bull-terrier pup.
Course I'm going to take him. We can't win the pennant without Algy."

"Algy? Is thet his name?" burst out Mac, who had already exhausted
his patience. "Thet's a fine name for a mongrel brute. He's uglier than
a mud fence."

As Mac concluded, a rat ran across the platform. Algy saw it, and with a
howl wriggled out of his master's arms and gave chase. The platform was
crowded with people, of whom ladies made up the greater part. Algy
chased the rat from under the trucks and between the trunks right into
the crowd. Instantly a scene of great excitement prevailed. Women
screamed and rushed frantically into each others' arms; some fell over
their grips; several climbed upon trunks; all of them evinced a terror that
must have had its origin in the movements of the escaping rat, not the
pursuing pup. And the course of both animals could be marked by a
zigzag line of violent commotion in the crowd.

Presently a woman shrieked and seemed to sit down upon a moving
object only to slip to the floor. Algy appeared then with the rat between
his jaws. "It was a cinch he'd get it," yelled Cas. He gathered up the pup
and hid him under his coat.

"Line up! Line up!" shouted Mac, as the train whistled.

The players stepped into a compact, wedge-shaped formation; and when
the train stopped in the station they moved in orderly mass through the
jostling mob. Ball players value a rest to tired legs too much to risk
standing up, and even in the most crowded stations always board the
train first.

"Through to the Pullman!" yelled Mac.

Chase was in the seventh heaven of delight. He had long been looking
forward to what the players called "on the road." and the luxurious
Pullman suited his dreams of travel. He and Winters took a seat opposite
a very stout old lady who gazed somewhat sourly at them. Havil and
Thatcher were on the other side of the aisle; Cas had a seat in the
forward end; Mac was behind; and the others were scattered about.
There were some half-dozen passengers besides, notable among whom
was a very tall, thin, bald-headed man sitting in front of Havil. Chase
knew his fellow-players too well by this time to expect them to settle
down calmly. "On the road" was luxury for ball players. Fast trains, the
best hotels, all expenses paid, these for a winning baseball team were
things to appreciate. Chase settled back in the soft cushioned seat to
watch, to see, to enjoy every move and word of his companions.

"Where will we sleep?" he asked Winters.

"Never on a sleeper?"

Chase smiled and shook his head. Then Enoch began to elaborate on
the beds that were let down from the ceiling of the car, and how difficult
they were to get into and out of, especially the latter in case of fire,
which broke out very frequently on Pullmans.

"An' if anybody yells 'Fire!' you skedaddle to the fire-escape," concluded
Enoch.

"Fire-escape? On a train? Where is it?" queried Chase, wonderingly.

"Don't you know where the fire-escape is?" asked Enoch, in innocent
surprise. His round owl eyes regarded Chase in a most kindly light.

"Well, you ask the porter. He'll take an' show you."

Straightway Chase forgot it in the interest of other things. The train was
now in smooth, rapid motion; the fields and groves and farms flashed by.
He saw the conductor enter the car and stand by Cas. Cas looked up,
and then went on calmly reading his paper.

"Tickets," said the conductor, sharply. Cas paid not the slightest
attention to him.

"Tickets," repeated the conductor, getting red in the face. He tapped Cas
not lightly on the shoulder.

"Wha-at?" demanded Cas.
"Your ticket! I don't wish to be kept waiting. Produce your ticket."

"I don't need a ticket to ride on this bum road."

The conductor looked apoplectic. He reached up to grasp the bell-cord.

"Your ticket, or I'll stop the train and put you off."

"Put me off! I'd like to have a tintype of your whole crew trying to put me
off this train."

Mac came into the car, and divining how matters stood, hurried forward
to produce his party ticket. The conductor, still in high dudgeon, passed
on down the aisle.

"Good-evenin', Mr. Conductor, this's fine weather for travellin'," said
Enoch, in his soft voice. The conductor glanced keenly at him, but
evidently disarmed by the placid round face and kind round eyes,
replied in gracious affirmation.

Enoch whispered in Chase's ear, "Wait till the crew finds Cas's bulldog
Don't miss thet!"

Some thirty miles out of Findlay the train stopped at a junction. A
number of farmers were lounging round the small station. Enoch raised
the window and called one of them.

"Hey! What's the name of this place?" he asked of the one who approached,
an angular, stolid rustic in overalls and top boots.

"Brookville, mister," was the civil reply.

"Brookville! Wal, I swan! You don't say! Fellow named Perkins live here?"

"Yep. Hiram Perkins."

"Hiram--Hiram Perkins, my ole friend." Enoch's round face beamed
with an expression of benign gratitude, as if he would, were it possible,
reward the fellow for his information. "Tell Hiram his ole friend Si
Hayrick was passin' through an' sends regards. Wal, how's things?
Ploughin' all done? You don't say! An' corn all planted? Do tell! An' the
ham-trees grown' all right?"

"Whet?" questioned the farmer, plainly mystified, leaning forward.

"How's yer ham-trees?"

"Never heerd of sich."

"Wal, dog-gone me! Why, over in Indianer our ham-trees is sproutin'
powerful. An' how about bee's knees? Got any bee's knees this Spring?"

The rustic stretched his long neck. Then as the train started off Enoch
put his head out of the window and called: "Rubber-neck! Rubber-neck!"

The stout lady in the opposite seat plainly sniffed her disgust at these
proceedings on the part of a grown man. His innocent round stare in no
wise deceived her. She gave him one withering glance, adjusted her
eye-glass, and went on reading. Several times following that, she raised
a hand to her face, as if to brush off a fly. But there was no fly. She
became restless, laid aside her magazine, and rang for the porter.

"Porter, close the window above. Cinders are flying in on me."

"Window's closed, ma'am," returned the porter.

"Something is most annoying. I am being stung in the face by something
sharp," she declared testily.

"Beggin' yo pahdon, ma'am, yo sho is mistaken. There's no flies or
muskeeters in my car."

"Don't I know when I'm stung?"

The porter, tired and crushed, wearily went his way. The stout lady
fumed and fussed, and fanned herself with a magazine. Chase knew
what was going on and was at great pains to contain himself. Enoch's
solemn owl face was blank, and Havil, who was shooting shot and
causing the lady's distress, bent a pale, ministerial countenance
over his paper. Chase watched him closely, saw him raise his head at
intervals when he turned a leaf of his paper, but could see no movement
of his lips. He became aware, presently, when Havil changed his position,
that the attack was now to be directed upon the bald-headed man in the
forward seat.

That individual three times caressed the white spot on his head, and
then looking in the air all about him, rang for the porter.

"Porter, drive the flies out of the car."

"They ain't no flies, suh."

"Don't talk back to me. I'm from Georgia. Blacks don't talk back to me
where I live."

"Yo mought be from a hotter place than Georgia, suh, fer all I care,"
replied the porter, turning at the last, like a trodden worm.

"I am annoyed, annoyed. Something has been dropping on my head. Maybe
it's water. It comes dot, dot, like that."

"Spect yo'se dotty, suh!" said the negro, moving off. "An' yo sho ain't
the only dotty passenger this trip."

The bald-headed man resumed his seat. Unfortunately he was so tall
that his head reached above the seat, affording a most alluring target for
Havil. Chase, watching closely, saw the muscle along Havil's jaw
contract, and then he heard a tiny thump as the shot struck much
harder than usual. The gentleman from Georgia jumped up, purple in
the face, and trembled so that his newspaper rustled in his hand.

"You hit me with something," he shouted, looking at Thatcher, for the
reason, no doubt, that no one could associate Havil's sanctimonious
expression with an untoward act.

Thatcher looked up in great astonishment from the book in which he
had been deeply interested. The by-play had passed unnoticed so far as
he was concerned. Besides, he was ignorant of Havil's genius in the
shot-shooting line, and he was a quiet fellow, anyway, but quick in
temper.

"No, I didn't," he replied.

The Southerner repeated his accusation.

"No, I didn't, but I will jolt you one," returned Thatcher, with some heat.

"Gentlemen, this is unseemly, especially in the presence of ladies,"
interposed Havil, rising with the dignity of one whose calling he
appeared to represent.

"Most unseemly! My dear sir, calm yourself. No one is throwing things
at you. It is only your imagination. I have heard of such cases, and
fortunately my study of medicine enables me to explain. Sometimes on a
heated car a person's blood will rise to the brain and, probably because
of the motion, beat so as to produce the effect of being lightly struck.
This is most often the case in persons whose hirsute decoration is
slightly worn off--er, in the middle, you know."

The gentleman from the South sputtered in impotent rage and stamped
off toward the smoking-car.

"Dinner served in the dining-car ahead," called out a white-clad waiter;
and this announcement hurried off the passengers, leaving the car to the
players, who had dined before boarding the train.

Time lagged then. The porter lit the lights, for it was growing dark; four
of the boys went into the smoker to play cards, and the others quieted
down. After a while the passengers returned from the diner, and with
them the porter, who began making up the berths. Chase watched him
with interest.

"Let's turn in," said Enoch. "It's a long ride and we'll be tired enough.
Some of us must double up, an' I'm glad we 're skinny." Enoch boosted
Chase into the upper berth a