IN HARNESS
Hughson got up and relinquished his seat to McRae.
“Sit down here,” he said. “I’ve been chinning with Matson until he’s
black in the face and he’ll be glad to get rid of me.”
He grinned at Joe’s laughing disclaimer and made his way up the car
while McRae slipped into the vacant seat.
“There goes one of the finest men that ever stepped in shoe leather,” he
remarked, as his eye followed Hughson’s tall form up the aisle.
“Isn’t he a prince?” said Joe, eagerly. “You don’t know whether to
admire him most as man or player.”
“He’s just about a hundred per cent. in both,” agreed McRae. “He’s been
the mainstay of my team for the last ten years. There isn’t enough money
in the league to buy him from the Giants. He’s the only man on the team
who doesn’t have to go through the regular schedule in the training
camp. I let him come along just as he likes, for I know he’ll be fit
as a fiddle when the season opens. I don’t mind telling you that I
consulted him as to getting you from St. Louis, and it was largely on
his advice that I put through the deal.”
“Even his opponents like and respect him,” said Joe. “In swinging round
the circuit last year I never heard any one say a word against him. They
all agree that he’s a credit to the game.”
“Well, now, how about yourself?” asked McRae, as his keen eye swept over
Joe’s athletic form. “You look as though you had been taking care of
yourself this winter. Some of my players are hog fat when they report in
the spring, but I should judge that you wouldn’t have to lose more than
five pounds or so to get down to your best playing weight.”
“Just about that, I guess,” replied Joe. “I’m weighing about one hundred
and seventy now, and I always feel most fit when I tip the scales at one
hundred and sixty-five.”
“Been doing anything outside the rings and dumb-bells?” McRae inquired.
“I’ve done just enough pitching to keep my arm supple,” answered Joe.
“We have a good gymnasium in our town and there have always been enough
of the boys around to catch me when I felt like doing a little twirling.”
“How about that bonus clause in the contract?” asked the manager, with a
twinkle in his eye. “Are you going to do us out of that extra thousand?”
“Am I going to get a chance to pitch thirty games?” laughed Joe.
McRae grinned.
“I can see that you’ve been figuring on it,” he rejoined. “It’s too
early in the season to make any promises. A good deal will depend upon
how my veterans come along. But I don’t mind telling you that I’m
going to figure you as one of my first-string pitchers and give you
your regular turn in the box. The rest will depend on you. I play no
favorites. I’m out to win from the first crack of the bat, and it’s the
man who wins his games that makes a hit with me. Whether you’ve been ten
years in the league or one doesn’t cut any ice.
“I don’t need to ask you whether you drink or not,” he added. “I found
out all about that before I put through the deal. Besides, I can tell
from looking at you that you’re no booze fighter. I won’t stand for
dissipation on my team. I’m pretty lucky this year as far as that goes.
A couple of the boys are a little wobbly in the matter of the wet goods,
but I think I can make them walk the chalk line until the playing season
is over. If they don’t, I’ll trade or sell them. But the rest of the men
don’t give me any trouble in that way.”
“You won’t have to worry about me on that score,” Joe assured him. “If I
fall down, it will only be because I haven’t it in me to win, it won’t
be because I’ve been wrestling with the demon Rum.”
“That’s good,” laughed McRae. “Stick to that and I’ll bet you win your
bonus. I’m going to send over one of my rookies to talk to you. I think
he has the stuff in him to make a good pitcher and I want you to help
and encourage him all you can. He played last year on the Princeton team
and made such a good showing that one of our scouts recommended that we
give him a trial. But he’s only an amateur and of course he’s got an
awful lot to learn. Boost him along all you can.
“By the way,” said McRae, as he rose to leave, “I want to congratulate
you on the job you did with that crazy man. It was a nifty bit of work.”
“That thing keeps chasing me everywhere,” laughed Joe. “I can’t get away
from it.”
“It’ll make good advertising,” laughed McRae. “There’ll be a big crowd
out when you pitch your first game to see the man who can throw a
snowball as well as he can a baseball. But what tickled me when I read
about it was the quick thinking it showed. That’s what I want on my
team. I want a player to be quick in the head as well as in the feet. I
haven’t any use for ivory domes.”
It was the first time that Joe had ever had a chance to have a real
talk with the famous manager. They had known each other, of course, by
sight, and had exchanged occasional nods when they met. And, as Joe had
whimsically told his folks, there had been an interchange of chaff in
the heat of battle. But now for the first time Joe had a chance to judge
of the man on whom his fate would so largely depend during the coming
season, and his impression had been a favorable one.
He was familiar with McRae’s record as a player before he had become a
manager. He was an intensely aggressive man. Aggressiveness stood out
all over him like “the quills on the fretful porcupine.” On the field
he was scrappy and fearless and fought like a tiger for every bit of
advantage that might help his team to win. He was a terror to umpires
and had probably been ordered off the field more times than any manager
in the league.
But though he carried his zeal too far at times, and had made many
enemies, he had many good qualities that offset his defects. He was
generous and fair to his men and protected them against public clamor,
when they had incurred the rage of the fickle fans. He kept Burkett,
after that ghastly error at second that had lost a championship. Twice
he had lost the World’s Series, owing to a muff by the center fielder
at the crucial point in the game. But he knew that the man had tried
to do his best and he had refused to release him. He was a hard man but
he tried to be a just one, and Joe felt sure that he would have every
chance to make good under his management.
A tall young fellow came down the car and paused beside the seat.
“Mr. Matson?” he asked.
Joe nodded pleasantly.
“My name is Barclay,” went on the newcomer. “Mr. McRae suggested that I
come over and have a talk with you.”
“Oh, yes,” said Joe, as he rose and grasped his hand. “You’re from
Princeton, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” said Barclay. “And you’re from Yale, I understand.”
“That’s right,” replied Joe. “How’s the tiger?”
“Fine,” returned Barclay. “How’s the bulldog?”
They laughed and sat down together. The ice was broken and they were
soon talking like old friends. The traditional rivalries of their two
colleges gave them an endless number of things to talk about. Joe
found him very congenial and intelligent, and Barclay on his part was
delighted to find himself on a friendly footing with a college man, who
had broken into the big league and “made good.” He had been feeling
rather shaky and forlorn, as is the usual custom of “rookies,” and Joe,
remembering his own experience, did his best to help him shake off that
feeling. So chummy did they become that Joe proposed that they room
together during their stay in the training camp. Barclay jumped eagerly
at the chance and on a word to the manager the matter was so arranged.
In due time the train rolled into Marlin Springs and the pilgrims
disembarked, glad to stretch their legs after the long journey. A big
crowd of citizens and officials of the town were on hand to give them a
boisterous greeting, and the village band struck up a triumphal march as
the band of athletes moved on to the hotel. They made a splendid picture
of physical manhood. After the long winter they were eager for the fray.
They were like so many greyhounds straining at the leash.
“Look pretty good, don’t they?” remarked McRae to Hughson. “But it isn’t
a circumstance to the way they’ll look when I get through with their
training and have them ready to take the field.”