 Chapter 1 of THE SHORT STOP Chase Allaway 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 preemptorily refused, he 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 a narrow street lined with frame houses. He entered a yard that could not boast of a gate, and approached the 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-pale into the corner. There, he said grimly, as if he had done with it. Mother, where are you? Mrs. Allaway 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. Your 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. Allaway. Chase was the only breadwinner in their household of three. His brother, a bright, studious boy of fifteen, was a crippled. Mrs. Allaway 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, with Don 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 flesh 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 a way to make it. I—how? The short query drew him up sharply, chilling his enthusiasm. He paced the kitchen, and then, with visible effort, turned to his mother. I'm 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—routies. 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're 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 had been the right sort, we wouldn't be here in this hovel. You'd have what you were 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, and 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 Roundhouse wants me. It's opened my eyes. With a little more experience, I could get on a salaried team somewhere. You wouldn't go away. I'll have to. And another. I want to go at once. Mrs. Allaway felt the ground slipping from under her. She opened her mouth 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, Chase said, 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 his want to use when 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 came into 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? Anyway, 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 it from me. There'll be a comfortable home for mother. Go go to college, and later I'll get into business. It's all settled. What do you think? It's great, exclaimed Will, slamming his book down. There was a flame in his eyes. Mrs. Allaway 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'm suited for something better than factory work. There's a big chance for me here. Mind you, I'm only seventeen. Because 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, said Will, but I'm not afraid of that. Mrs. Allaway 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 too 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 anyone 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, and 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. End of Chapter 1 Chapter 2 of the short stop This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Being by Rowdy Delaney, Idaho, U.S.A. The short stop. By Zane Gray. Chapter 2 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 den 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 departing 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 settled down by the time he came to the outskirts of 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 would cost money, and he must save what Lily 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 for bad 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. Then 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 running 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 car's rattle 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 then as one came abreast he dashed with it down the track. Reaching up with his left hand he grasped the 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 into an upright position he felt for the footstep, found it, and was safe. He climbed aboard and sat against the oil-tank, placing his grip beside him. He laughed as he wiped a sweat from his brow. That was a time when the fun of boarding of freight did not appear. The blackness was all about him, 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 car's, 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 open country that to Chase swept by monotonously for hours. Then a whistle enlivened him. He felt the engineer put on the air-breaks, then the bumping and jarring of cars, and the grinding of wheels. As the train slowed, Chase made ready to jump. He did so presently, expecting to see the lights of a town, but there were none. He saw the shadows of a blocked 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 laid 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. One followed the shuffling and scrambling noise of 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 quarreling 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 den 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. Horse cries and sodden blows, curses and a deep groan told him of a deed of violence. Let's beat it! One whispered in sudden silence. Here comes a break. The train stopped. Footsteps graded outside and streaks of light flickered into the car. Chase saw two men jump from the door and heard a breakman accost them. He lay there, trembling. What if the breakman 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 leapt 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. End of Chapter 2 CHAPTER 3 OF THE SHORT STOP This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Rowdy Delaney, Idaho, USA. The Short Stop by Zane Gray. CHAPTER 3 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. The 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 and OC. Chase sat in the grass beside the track, and he did not know whether to walk or wait for another train. Meanwhile the sun rose warm and bright, shining on the bursting green leaves, metal larks sang in a field nearby, 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 awake 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, Chase said. May I have a bite to eat? You ain't a tramp, queried she, eyeing him shrewdly. No, indeed. I can pay. I thought not. Tramps don't say good morning. I reckon you can have something. Sit on that 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. Morning, he said cheerfully. Be you travelling, fur? Quite far, I guess, replied Chase. How far is Columbus, or the first big place? Well, now Columbus is a mighty long way, much as fifty miles I calculate. The nearest town to hum here is Jacktown, Crossfield some five miles. It's a right pert place, and it'll be lively today by gum. Why? said Chase, his mouth full of ham. While Jacktown and Brownsville hiv it out today, and I bet it'll be the dog-gone-est ball game ever was. Ball game? You bet, Jacktown ain't never been beat, and another has Brownsville. They've been some time getting together, but today's the day, and I'll be there. I'm going to, said Chase quietly. I'm a ball-player. After Chase 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. While I swan, you be, be you. I might have known, a strapping young feller like you. But 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 and ride with me. That road leads over roundabout. 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 respect of 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 if he were a ball-player, to be answered affirmatively, there was a general outburst. He's a ringer. Brownsville know they'd get beat with their home team, so they've loaded up. That was the burden of their refrain, and all Chase's stout denials and no wise mitigated their suspicion. He was a ringer. To them he was an object of scorn and fear, for he had come from nowhere out of the vast unknown to rest 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. For no reason there was for this, because some scout had sided 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 the game of ball between the 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 schoolteacher over at Brownsville, and I'm here to catch the game for our fellows. Now, it appears that 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 Jack-Town 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 Jack-Town was present and much of Brownsville. Hutchinson came up to Chase, then, tossed a ball to him, and said they 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-shot struck him in the stomach. Wherefore, he came up to Chase and said, I never saw a ball jump like that. What do you do to it? I'm throwing curves. A light broke over the schoolmaster's face, and it was one of pleasure. I've read about it. You're 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 shall I know when you're going to throw a curve? You sign for what you want. When you kneel back of the batter, sign to me, one finger for fast ball, 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 a Jack-town uniform came up to Chase and Hutchinson. Batten order, he said, waving his pencil. Hutchinson gave the names of his players, and when he mentioned Chase's, the Jack-town man either misunderstood or was inclined to be facetious. Chase away? Is that the name? Darn me if he won't chase away to the tall timber. He was the captain, and with a great show of authority he called both teams round the home plate for the purposes 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 the rules that on a past ball behind the catcher, or an overthrow at first, when Jacktown was at bat, the players could have all the bases they could make, and when Brownsville was at bat, for some inscrutable reason the 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, play ball! Chase could scarcely remove his gaze from the umpire, but as his turn came to bat in the first inning he directed his attention to the Jacktown pitcher. He remembered that someone 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 bare right arm looked like a branch of a rugged oak tree. The first ball he shot toward the home plate resembled a thin white street. One strike, shrieked the umpire. Two more balls, similar to the first, retired the batter. And three more performed the same office on 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 the 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 that he would have an easy time with them. For they stood with their feet wide apart, and held their bats with left hand over 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 sidelines rose in a body and roared their appreciation of this feat. The second batter hit a ground ball at the shortstop, who fielded it perfectly, but threw wild to the baseman. And the third batter sent up a very high fly. The whole Jacktown team made a rush to try and catch the ball when it came down. It went so high that it took some time 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 it 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 warpath, 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 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 11-0, 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 that? You watch him, and you think he's going to pitch the ball one way, and it comes in 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 cheeks blazed the hue of righteous indignation. Game called! he yelled in his penetrating tenor. Pandemonium broke loose among the spectators. They massed on the field in inextricable confusion. The noise was deafening. Hats were thrown in the air, and coats, and everything available for throwing. 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 in change! I don't like the looks of things. These jack-town fellows are rough, and 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 fervent congratulations and declarations of love and passionate denunciations of the umpire and the whole jack-town 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 jack-town players were marching toward the barn. The blacksmith led the way. Over his shoulder hung a long fence rail. Between them the crowd came yelling. Run for it! Hutchinson cried, 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 his hat, trousers, and coat, he bounded out the door and broke down the field like a scared deer. When the crowd saw him they let out a roar that lint wings to his feet. So frightened him that he dropped his trousers and did not dare stop to recover them. Over his shoulder he saw the jack-town 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. End of Chapter 3 Chapter 4 of the Short Stop This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Running by Rowdy Delaney, Idaho, U.S.A. The Short Stop By Zane Gray Chapter 4 Vecissitude Not until he had leapt fences and crossed a 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 struggling 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, Hey, seeds, hey, seeds! Then at the side 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. When ever 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 hey-seeds 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 anyone 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 noted a haystack at the foot of the knoll, and after one more hopeless glance over the darkening metals 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 happened to the other Brownsville players? A savage bunch of Indians that jacked town nine? How easily it had been to fool them with a simple, slow out-curve. It's his crooked eye. He looks one way and pitches another, that jaunty umpire with his dainty shoes and velvet knicker-bockers, wherever on earth did he come from? So Chase played the game over in his mind. Chris Moore 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 unbroken saved for the peep-peep of spring frogs and the low munch beside him. He asked himself if he were afraid, and said no, but he was not sure. Things seemed different in the dark and loneliness of the 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 gaffawed. "'Gal, durn my buttons if you ain't that Chase-Away feller. Say, I was over there yesterday, and I seen the whole show. Best thing I ever seen, by gosh. "'I'm a Brownsville boy I am. Now you come along with me. I'll get a pair of overalls for you, and a bite to eat, but you must light out quicker and you'd say Jack Robinson, for two of my farm hands played yesterday, and 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 that he, and everybody who was ever born in Brownsville, were ever lastingly bound to be grateful to a lad called Chase-Away. 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. Freight fall 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, Chase-Away, The Crooked Eye Wonder, Who Do's 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 his own Chase-Away, with his shirt-tails flying, that Chase laughed despite his mortification and chagrin. He gloomily tore the notice out, put it in his pocket, and started off to put Columbus far behind him. The illusion, 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 Blacklick he was told he might get a rail-ride there. At Newark the wise-boy fans recognized him at once and hooded him off the ground before he could see the manager of the team. The man's field-captain yelled for him to take himself and his hudu off into the woods. Golion 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 hudu 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 hudu worked. Lima had a weak aggregation, and readily gave him an 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 to Michigan. It seemed that Fortune favored him with opportunities that he could not grasp. Adrian, Jackson, Lansing, Owasso, Flint—all the clubs took him on for a game, lost it, and further spread the fame of his hudu. Chase's money had long since departed 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 farmhouses. In every town he came to, he would search out the baseball grounds, wailay the manager or captain, say 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 and more down-hearted, until black despair fixed on his heart. One morning he awoke stiff and sore in a fence-corner outside of a town. He asked the woman who gave him bread to eat what the name of the town was, and she said, Finley. Chase thought bitterly of how useless it would be to approach the manager of that team, for Finley 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 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 ballparks were situated in the outskirts of towns. Findlay, however, being a red-hot baseball center, had its grounds right in town on a prominent street. They were enclosed with a high-bored 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 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 practicing. 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, swarred, 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 heart-sickness 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 the 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, Fendley won't stand for it. The little man bit savagely at the cigar, tilting it up in line with his stubbed nose. And the way he frowned lowered the brim of his hat. Sure, it's a slump, Mr. Beekman, he said, in conciliating tones. Now, you know the game. You're up. You're up in the fine points. You ain't like most of them wooden-headed directors. The boys ain't been hittin'. Castorius is my only pitcher whose arm ain't gone lame this cold spell. I've been weak at shortstop all this spring. But we'll come round. Now you just take that from me, Mr. Beekman. The pompous director growled something and went up to the grandstand steps. Then a very tall fellow, with wide-sloping shoulders and red hair, accosted the little man. Say, Mac, what's he beefing about? I heard him speak my name. Did he have his hammer out? Hello, Cass. No. Beekman ain't knockin' you. He was knockin' me. So're on me because we're losin'. If some of them stiffs would stay away from the grounds and stop telling us how to play the game, we'd sooner break our bat 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, Castorius 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 everyone in the room heard him. The manager looked up to speak, when Castorius bawled out. Fellows, here he is. He's been campin' on our trail. I said somebody had jone at us. It's the crooked-eyed hudu. Ball-players are superstitious, and are like sheep in as much as that they follow one another. The uproar that succeeded Castorius'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. Chase away? Where's your pants? Hudu? Jonah? Don't look at me with that eye. To the woods with yours. Chase stood there bravely, with the red mantling his face, waiting for the manager to speak. Once or twice Mack attempted to make himself heard, and failing, turned on his jiving players and ordered them to shut up. Then he said, Are you really the fellow there, Guyon? Yes. But he was a pitcher. You said you could play shortstop. I can play anywhere. Let me see your mitts. Take out your hands. Chase's hands were broad, heavy, with long, powerful fingers. You're pretty young, ain't ya? Where have you played? Chase told his age, and briefly outlined his late experience. Name Hudu Fallaja, eh? Been up against it hard? Yes. Mack laughed, and said he knew what that was. He 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 developed into stars that set the baseball world on fire. 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 to-day at short. Barnes, get this fellow astute! 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 the moment there was a stern decision about the little manager which brooked no interference. Ordinarily Mack was the easiest-going fellow in the world, never run and ruled by his players. Sometimes, however, he showed an iron hand, but when he 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 Finley. Now for the toboggan. Last place for hours. Used as Chase had become, to the manner of the badnish, he looked at him, he 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 he went out on the grounds. He got through the few moments of practice credibly, but when long 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 it 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 elusive, 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. The friendly players, rattled by his presence, soar at his misplays, went to pieces, and let Kenton make a farce out of it. He heard 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 over, and entered the dressing room in a sick and settled hopelessness. More on roar greeted him. He fell on the bench and bowed his head in his hands. The scorn, invictive, anger, and caustic wit broke about his deadened ears. Presently Kastoria stalked into the room, followed by Mack and several directors of the club. Cass was frothing at the mouth, big brown freckles shown through his pale skin, his jaw set like a bulldog's. With the demeanor of a haunting chieftain approaching a captive bound to the stake, he went up to Kast 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 Kast. Yes, he said, with a wands smile, but I guess they were mistaken. Kast 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. Mack's sharp voice suddenly stilled the babble in the room. Gentlemen, either I run this team my way or not at all. That's it. I'm ready to resign now. Here, here, Mack, 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? Finley must be in front. Gentlemen, I don't need money. I'm carrying sixteen players now, and I've got the best team in the league. All I want is a little luck. Well, here's hoping you get it. The directors shook hands with Mack 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, and his small eyes snapped. Morris, go to the office and get your money, he said. Stanhope, you've got ten days' notice. Ziegler, the bench for yours, and without pay till you can hold your tongue. Now, if any of the rest of you fellas have some ideas about running this team, sing them out. He stamped up and down the room before them, waiting with blazing eyes for their replies. But none came. Taz, he shouted, confronting that individual. Are you a liar? What? Demanded Taz, 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 Taz evasively. Stow that talk. Did you try? No. I didn't, said Taz sullenly. Now, ain't that a fine thing for you to do? You, the best pitcher in this league, with more than one big manager watching your work. Ain't you ashamed of yourself? Taz did not say so, but he looked it. I've got something 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 your boots on every ground or in sight. You let fly balls bounce off your head. You peg the ball in the air or at somebody's shins. It just takes a bad spell of luck to show some fellas yellow streaks. Saffron ate one-two-six to the color of some of you. As Mack paused for a breath, someone grumbled, who, dude? Bah! You make me sick, cried Mack. Suppose we've been who, dude? Suppose we've fallen into a losing streak? It's time to bust something, ain't it? Then his manner altered. His voice became soft and persuasive. Boys, we've got to break our slump. Now there's Cass. You all know what a great twirlery is? And he throwed us down. Look at the outfield. Where's one outside the big leagues that can rank with mine? And they played today with two wooden legs. Look at Benny and Mead. Why? Today they were tied to posts. Look at reliable old Hicks behind the plate. Today he missed third strikes, overthrew the bases, and had eight past balls. And say, did any of you steady up this youngster as I was given a chance? Did any of you remember when you was making your first bid for Fast Company? Now I ain't got no more to say to you. Except we're going to brace and we're going 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 nothing 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 shortstop, who is fast and can hit and can throw, and you come along trailing hoodoo and must up the game, put my team on the bum. Then there was silence, in which Mack walked to and fro before Chase, who still sat with his head bowed. Now you see what losing your nerve means. You're as fast as lightning on your feet. You got a great arm, and 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? And I'm weak at short. Now, after I turn you down you won't never get such a chance again. He kept pacing slowly in front of Chase, watching him narrowly. And when Chase at last lifted his pale somber face from his hands, Mack came to a sudden stop. With some deliberation he put his hand in 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 $25 and your contract. It's made out, so all you have to do is sign it. A hundred a month is yours. Don't stare at me like that. Take your contract. You're on. And as sure as my name's Mack Sandy, I'll make a star out of you. End of Chapter 5. Chapter 6 of the Short Stop. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Rowdy Delaney. Idaho, USA. The Short Stop. By Zane Gray. Chapter 6. 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 trouser 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 the 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 Mack, 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 Mack told him, he knocked on the door. It opened at once to show a matron of kindly aspect, who started somewhat as she saw him. Chase said he had been sent there by Mack, and told his errand, whereupon the woman looked relieved. "'Excuse me,' she replied. "'Come ride in. I have one rooms, a pretty nice one, four thallas a week.' She showed Chase a large room with four windows, a big white bed, a table and a 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 in advance. Good fortune was still such a stranger to him that he wanted to ensure himself against moments of doubt. He washed and dressed himself with pleasure that had not been his for many a day. Quite diligently he applied the comb and brush Mrs. Obenwasser had so kindly procured. His hair was long and a mass of tangles, and it was full of senders, which reminded him grimly of his dearly earned proficiency as a night-writer on fast mail-trains and slow frates. "'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 downtown, and, incidentally, died 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 see something of Finley. 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 around a block, and saw many fine brick residences and substantial frame-houses with fine-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 kin of his fellow-players. Say, fellers, will you get on to that? It's Chase away. Hello, Chase old sport. Come and 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 dropping your lid over that lame blinker? I don't want to have the willies tonight. Then an incident diverted their attack on Chase. Someone kicked a leg of Enoch Winner's chair, and being already tipped far back, it overbalanced and let Enoch sprawl in the gutter, whereupon the group howled with glee. Catten? Wassermasser! 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 that funny? He said. 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, wisest in owls, and he had a round lump on his right cheek. As this lump moved up and down, Chase, presently divine, 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 did, and said. 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. Mead 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 Eagle's 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 mentioned once by this group. They were extremely valuable, 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 Havel by name, a tall, thin fellow with a pale, sanctimonious face, strolled out of the 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 budding into his ear. Next he made sure of only one thing, that something was hitting the side of his face and head. Whatever it was he had no idea. It happened at regular intervals, and began to sting more and more. He took a side-long glance at Havel, but that young man's calm, serious face disarmed any suspicion. But when Havel 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 anything queer when Havel was sitting alongside of you, ask winners? I certainly did. What was it? Havel is a queer duck. He goes around with his mouth full of number ten shot, and he works one out on the end of his tongue and flips it off his front teeth. That's why the blame-fool can knock your eye out. I've seen him make old bald-headed men crazy by sitting behind them and then shooting shot onto their bald spots. And he never cracks a smile. He can look anybody in the eye, and they can't tell he's doing it. But they can feel it blamed well. He sure is a queer duck, and you look out for your one good eye. Thank you. I will. But I have two good eyes. I can see very well out of the twisted one. Chase went to his room and to bed. Sleep did not come. His mind was too full. Too much had happened. The bed was too soft. He dozed off to start suddenly 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 gate's lock. So with morning practice out of the question, he returned to Main Street and walked toward the hotel. He saw Castoria sitting in the lobby. Hello, Chase. Now, wouldn't this jar you, he said, in friendly tones, offering a copy of the friendly chronicle? Could this be the stalking monster that had roared at him yesterday and scared about the last bit of courage out of him? Cass laid a big freckled hand on the newspaper and pointed out a column. Back gave Morris his walking papers yesterday and Stan hoped his notice. This is a good move, as these players caused dissension in the club. Now we look for the brace. Findley has been laying down lately. Castoria's his work yesterday is an example. We would advise him not to play that dodge any more. The new shortstop, Chase away, 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 brothers. 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. Like a fellow sick, wouldn't it, said Cass, and discussed. 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 Cass, 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, Cass 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 player's manner toward him the day before. And it stunned him. He looked at them aghast. Every one of them, except Cass, had a scowl and a 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 that 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 and 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. Cass 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 slowball to left field through short. And you lay for them. Play deep, and get the ball away quick. You've got the arm for it. This was Cass's way of showing his friendship, and it surprised Chase as much as it pleased him. Mack came along then, and at once said, howdy, boys. Cass, 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, Cass. You're on, said Mack, rubbing his hands in delight. That's the way I want to hear you talk. We'll break our losing streak today. Then Mack pulled Chase aside, out of earshot of the other players, pouring from the dressing room, and said, Lad, are you going to take coaching? I'll try to do everything you tell me, replied Chase. Sure, that's good. Listen, I'm going to teach you the game. Don't ever lose your nerve again. Got that? Yes. When you're in the field with a runner on any base, make up your mind before the balls hit what to do with it if it should happen to come to you. Got that? Yes. Play deep at short, unless you're called in. Come in fast on slow-hit balls. Use an underhand snap throw to second, or first, when you haven't lots of times. Got that? Yes. When the ball is hit, or thrown to any baseman, run with it to back up the player. Got that? Yes. All right, so far so good. Now is to hitting. I like the way you stand up. You're a natural born hitter, so stand your own way. Don't budge an inch on the speediest pitcher as ever through 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 the base on balls. If there's a runner's on base, look for a sign from me on the bench. If you see my scorecard sticking out anywhere in sight, hit the first ball pitched. If you don't see it, wait. Turn around, easy like, and take a glance my way after every pitched ball. And when you get the sign, hit. We played the hit and 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, and you'll be ready. Hit and run. Got that? Yes, I think so. Well, don't get rattled even if you make a mistake. And never, never mind errors. Go after everything and dig it out of the dust if you can, but never mind errors. And 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 anything to make a bluff. But don't sass the umpire, see? I never will, declared Chase. The Finley team came on the ground showing the effects of the shake-up. They were an aggressive, stormy aggregation. Epithets, the farthest removed from complementary, 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 ask 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 medal. His blood was up. The faith Mac had shown in him should be justified. That he vowed with all intensity of feeling, of which he was capable. The gong sounded for the game to start, and Castorius 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 Cass was in citizen dress. In baseball harness he was 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 swiftness, and were out in force and loud enthusiasm. The bleachers idolized him. As the players went for their positions, Cass 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 Cass faced the first Kenton player, he said in low voice, look out for your cocoa. Then he doubled up like a contortionist, and undoubled to finish his motion with an easy graceful swing. With wonderful swiftness, the white ball traveled straight for the batter's head. Down he went, flat, jumped up with red face, and yelled at Cass. 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. Frade to stand up, hey! inquired Cass 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 time 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 Cass' 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 Cass worked differently from any pitcher he had ever seen. Instead of trying to strike out any batters, Cass made them hit the ball. He never threw the same kind of ball twice. He seemed to have a hundred different ways for the ball to go, but he always 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, Cass said to him, Say, kid, this guy'll be easy for you. Wait him out. 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. 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 Cass. The crowd roared. Winters the captain came running out and sent Cass 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. Mugs landing. Irish stew. Lace curtains. Rasputas. Oh, my. Balling at the top of his voice, spitting tobacco juice everywhere, with wild eyes and sweating face, winners hopped up and down the coaching line. When Benny put a little fly back of second, winners 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, Max screwed up his stubby cigar and gazed at his new find with enraptured eyes. I guess maybe that hit didn't bust our losing streak. Whatever Chase's triple had to do with it, the fact was that the fendly players suddenly recovered their batting form. For two weeks they had been hitting atrociously, as Max said, and now every player seemed to find hits in his bat. Thatcher tore off three singles, Cass got two and a double, and the others hit in proportion. Chase wrapped another against the right field fence, hitting a painted advertisement that gave a pair of shoes to every player performing that feat, and to the delirious joy of the bleachers and stands, at his last time up, he put a ball over the fence for a home run. It was a happy custom of the oilmen of fendly 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 Cass handed him seven more that had rolled in the dust. A suit of clothes goes with that hit, my boy, saying out, Cass. It was plainly a day for Chase and Cass. 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 baserunners deceived him, bewildered him, so instead of throwing the ball, he held it. These plays gave Kenton the two lonely runs chalked up to their credit against seventeen for fendly. Well, we'll give you those tallies, Cass said, swaggering off the field. He had more than kept his threat, for Kenton had 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 cheapskates 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 dumbfounded to hear every player speak to him in glowing terms. He thought they 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 Cass was doing a highland fling in the middle of the floor. Mack looked rather white and sick. This struck Chase as remarkable after the decisive victory, and he asked the nearest player what was wrong. Oh, nothing much. Mack only swallowed his cigar stub. It was true, as could plainly be seen from Mack's expression. When the noise subsided, he said, Sure I did. Was it any wonder? Seeing this dead bunch come back to life was enough to make me swallow my umbrella. Boys, hear a smile lighted up his smug face. Now we've got that hole plugged at short. The pen it is ours. We've got him skinned to a frazzle. CHAPTER VII OF THE SHORT STOP CHASE, YOU HUNG BELLS ON THEM, YESTEDY. 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 the most original and amusing. It was given by Mitty Meru, the diminutive hunchback who had constituted himself mascot of the team. Chase had heard of the boy, and had seen him the day before, but not to take any particular notice. Let me carry your bat. Chase looked down upon the sad and strange little figure. Mitty Meru did not 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 and 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 Wheeling is all we want went on Mitty Meru. Will skin the cold diggers all right, all right? And will be out in front trailing a merry ha-ha for Columbus. They're leading now, and of all the swelled bunches I ever seen. Put it to us for three straight when they was here last, but we got a bad start. Then I got sick and couldn't report, and somehow the team couldn't win without me. Yesterday was my first day for, I don't know how long, since Columbus trimmed us. What was the matter with you, asked Chase? Ah, nothing. Just didn't feel good, replied the boy. But I got out yesterday to see what you'd done to Kenton. Say, Chase, you take 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 Mitty Meru 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, Mack came out. He wore a troubled look. Howdy, Mitty. 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. Mitty Meru reached the dressing-room first, and turning to Chase said, Something doin' all right, all right. This soon manifest, for as Chase crossed the threshold, a chorus of yells met him. Here he is. Now say it to his face. Salver. Jolier. You mushy soft-soaper. Then terms of appropri'em 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 dress. Mitty Meru 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. Meads, fleshed-faced and thick speech showed that he too had been drinking. Even Havel made a sneering remark in Chase's direction. Chase made note of the fact that Thatcher, Cass, and Spear, one of the pitchers, were not present. You're a molly, yelled Mead. Been makin' up to the reporters, haven't you? Isn't it all right for yourself, huh? Playin' for the newspapers? Well, you'll last about a week with Finley. What do you mean, Chase demanded? Go on, shouted the first baseman. As if you hadn't seen the Chronicle. I haven't, said Chase. Flash it on him, cried Mead. Someone threw the newspaper at Chase, and upon opening it to the baseball page he discovered his name in large letters. And he read the account of yesterday's game, which, accepting to mention Cass' fine pitching, made it seem that Chase had played the whole game by himself. It was extravagant praise. Chase felt himself grow 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, he said to Mead. And I don't know how it came to be there. You've been savin' the reporter, jolly in him. No I haven't. You're a liar. A hot flame leapt to life inside Chase. He had never been called that name. Quickly he sprang up, filling the blood in his face. Then as he looked at Mead, he remembered the fellow's condition, and what he owed to Mack and others far away, with the quieting effect that he sat down without a word. A moment later, Benny swaggered up to him, and shook his fist in his face. I'm a-going to take a bing at your one skylight and shut it for ye. Chase easily evaded the blow, and rose 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. Midi Maru plucked at Chase's trousers and whispered, You ought have handed him 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 Findley's victory. But three times during the game, to his consternation, Mack 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 to the bench, Mack severely reprimanded him for not getting his man. You've got to move faster than that, said the little manager, Testily. You're slow as an ice-wagon. And after the game, Mack 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 pizazz today. Now, next time you hit up a fly ball, don't look where it's going, but run. Keep on runnin'. Fielder's muff flies occasionally, and some day, runnin' one out will win a game. And when you make a base hit, don't keep on runnin' out to the foul flag, just because it's a single. Always turn to second base, and take advantage of any little chance to get there. If you make any more dumb plays like that, they'll cost you five each. Got that? This was mystified, and in no happy frame of mind when he left the grounds. Evidently, what the crowd thought was good-playing was quite removed from the manager's consideration of such. Hold on, Chase, called Mitty-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, Cass told me to tell you to come by his room at the hotel after supper. I wonder what he wants. What did he say? No, but it's to put you wise, all right, all right. Cass is a good feller. Me and him has been friends. I heard him say to Mac not to roast you the way he did. And I want to put you wise to something myself. Mac's stuck on you. He can't keep a smile off his face when you walk up to the plate. And when you cut loose to peg one across, he just stutters. Oh, he's stuck on you all right, all right. Boys, will you look at that wing? He keeps sayin'. And when you come in, he says you're rotten to your face. Don't mind Mac's roasts. All of which bewildered Chase only the more. Midi 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 might have been. He found himself returning Midi Maru's regard. Good-bye, said Midi Maru at a cross-street. I go down here. See you to-morrow. After supper, Chase went to the hotel, and seeing that Cass was not among the players in the lobby, he found his room number, and with no little curiosity, mounted the stairs. Come in, said Cass, in answer to his knock. The big pitcher sat in his shirt sleeves, blowing rings of smoke out the open window. Hello, Chase, was waitin' for you. Have a cigar. Don't smoke? Throw yourself round comfortable, but say, lock the door first. I don't want anybody buttonin'. Chase found considerable relief and pleasure in the friendly manner of Finley'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 Cass 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 fellas takin' care of mothers and fathers and orphans, too. People who pay to see the game and keep us fellas goin' don't know just how much good they're doin'. Well, Chase, it takes more than speed, a good eye, and a good arm, and a head to make success. How so? It's learnin' how to get along with managers and players. I've been in the game for 10 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 sayin' 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 Finley 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, look out. When a professional puts on his uniform, he puts on his armor. And it's got to be bulletproof and spikeproof. 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. Winners 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 guy. But I mentioned 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 anyone 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 of this, chewing the rag becomes no more to you than putting on your uniform. It's a part of the game. It keeps the life and the ginger in you. All right, if I must, I must, replied Chase, and as he spoke, the set of his jaw boated ill for someone. Good. I knew you had the right stuff in you. Now, one more thing. 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're afraid of him, either. I'm much obliged to you, Cass. What you've told me explains a lot. I suppose every business has something about it, a fella don't like. I'll do the best I can, and hope I'll make good, as Midi Maru says. There's a kid with nerve, exclaimed Cass 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 caught into the team at once. Someone found out that he run off from a poor house, or home for incurable boys, or bad boys, or something. There was a fella here from Columbus looking for Midi, but he never found him. He has no home, and I don't know where he lives. I'll bet it's in some 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 Castorius 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 Mandel, 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 Mack 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 neck-tie, 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 saved my money? Con found 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. The 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 ballpark, he met Mitty Marou and related last night's adventure, asked him if he could use a pen-cushion or two. Not on your life, cried Mitty Marou. 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 that bunch, all right, all right? Don't you ever go to church? I went to Sunday school last fall. Miss Marjorie, she was in the school. She got me to come. She's a peach, sweeter in a basket of red monkeys. She was all right, all right. But I couldn't stand for the preacher and some of the others, so I quit. And every time I see Miss Marjorie, I dodge or hit it up out of sight. What was wrong with the preacher? He's a youngan. I think preachers ought to be old. He fusses with the women folks too hard. He speaks soft and prays to beat the band. And everybody thinks he's an angel. But oh, I ain't a knocker. Wait for me after the game. Sure. And Chase, are you going to stand for the things Mead 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 anyone. 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 it paint 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 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 over the field like a flash. He was everywhere. He anticipated every hit near him. He 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 carromed off Winter's leg, and though far back of third base, he 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 infield hit. He got a clean single to right, and for the third time in three days he sent out a liner that by fast running he stretched into a three-bagger. Findley 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 for 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 and get the batter going 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 woodenhead, saphead, spongehead, deadhead. Then Mack came in and delivered himself. Put the ball in your pocket. Put the ball in your pocket, didn't you? Counting your money, wasn't you? Thinking about the girls you was with last night, hey? That play cost you five. See? Got that? You're fined. Did you notice when you get the ball and some runners hitting up the dust? Throw it. Got that? Throw the ball. Don't keep it. Throw it. When the players' shouts 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 do you want? I say. Didn't I accept nine chances today? Mack looked dumbfounded. This young lamb of his had suddenly roused into a lion. Sure, you needn't holler about it. I was only telling you. Then he strawed out amid a silence that showed the surprise of his players. Winners recovered first, and turned round, red-faced, and began to bob and shake with laughter. What did he want for fifteen cents? Canary birds? Ha, ha, ha! In another moment the other players were roaring with him.