THE SLUMP
The trouble began with Hartley.
On the last Western trip he seemed to lose what little shred of
self-control he had left, and began to drink heavily.
His comrades tried to shield him, as Joe and Jim had done on an earlier
occasion, but all to no purpose. In his sober moods he was penitent and
promised solemnly never to offend again. But his moral fibre had been
weakened by self-indulgence, and with every debauch he became the less
able to resist temptation.
McRae had pleaded with him and threatened him. He had fully resolved to
release him when the season was over, but he hoped to keep him going
fairly well till the end of the present year. When Hartley was “good,”
he was almost unhittable, and in a close finish he might come in handy.
But of late he had been losing almost every game that he pitched. Twice
in one week Joe had gone in when Hartley had been batted from the mound
and by superhuman exertions had just nosed out a victory.
Hartley resented this bitterly. He seemed to think that Joe was trying
to “show him up.” He glared at our hero whenever they came near each
other, growled at him in the clubhouse after the game, and on two
occasions of late had tried to trip him.
Joe attributed this to his mental state, and where he would have
resented, with his fists if need be, such conduct on the part of
another, he passed it over pityingly in the case of Hartley.
“Bugs seems to have it in for me,” he remarked to Jim one day, when
they were dressing after the game. “You’d think that after I’d tried to
shield him as I did in St. Louis, he’d be grateful, instead of trying to
harm me in any way he could.”
“It’s just an illustration of the old motto: ‘Do a man a favor and he’ll
never forgive you,’” returned Jim. “The trouble with Bugs is that he
isn’t right in the upper story. His nickname fits him right enough.”
Finally, McRae, wrought to exasperation by the loss of a game that ought
to have been won easily, gave Hartley his ten days’ notice of release.
And this time, although Hartley begged hard for another chance, the
manager was adamant.
“It’s no use, Hartley,” he declared. “You’ve told me the same thing
fifty times and you’ve fallen down every time. Here’s where you and I
part company.”
Hartley saw that this time McRae was really through with him. He began
at once to pull wires to land a berth in some other club. But in the
meantime, his unreasonable hate of Joe developed until he could think of
little else.
Joe himself, although he had every reason to be glad at Hartley’s
departure from the club, was sincerely sorry for the plight in which the
latter found himself, and took early occasion to tell him so.
“I hope you’ll land something else right away, Hartley,” he said,
heartily. “There ought to be some years of big league pitching in you
yet, and some of the other clubs will soon be after you, when they know
they can get you.”
“You shut up!” snarled Hartley. “I’m not asking any sympathy from you or
anybody else. I was pitching in the big league when you were a busher
and I’ll be pitching in it yet when you’re fired back to the minors.
You’ve been trying to do me ever since you’ve been on the club. You’ve
put on extra steam whenever you’ve followed me in a game, just to show
that you could win where I was losing. I’ve been on to you, all right.”
“If you were any one else, I’d ram those words down your throat!”
exclaimed Joe, angered at finding his friendly advances met in such
fashion. “But you have troubles enough just now without my adding to
them. You’re your own worst enemy, Hartley, and it’s time you got wise
to it.”
He turned on his heel and left him and did not see the man until noon
the next day. Then Hartley approached him as he sat at the hotel table.
Joe was slated to pitch that day, and as he did not like to eat a heavy
meal immediately before the game, he had come down for a light lunch
earlier than the rest of the team.
Hartley came up to him with a pleasant smile.
“I’m sorry I spoke to you the way I did yesterday, Matson,” he said.
“But I was feeling sore and wanted to take it out on somebody. I hope
there’s no hard feelings.”
“Not in the least,” said Joe, whose nature was too large to cherish
a grudge. “Any man is liable to say what he doesn’t mean when things
aren’t going just right. Just forget all about it.”
He pointed to a chair opposite.
“Sit down and have a cup of coffee with me,” he invited. “I was just
going to order one for myself to finish up with.”
Hartley accepted the invitation and Joe signaled the waiter and gave the
order. They chatted on various topics until the coffee was placed before
them. Hartley motioned the waiter to put the cups down near him.
“I’ve got the sugar and cream right here,” he said, lightly. “How many
lumps of sugar, Matson?”
“Two will do,” answered Joe, “and just a drop of cream.”
Hartley dropped two cubes in Joe’s cup and at the same time slipped in a
tiny white tablet that he had extracted from his vest pocket.
“There you are,” he said, as he passed the cup over.
He swallowed the contents of his own cup with a gulp.
“Well, I’ll have to be going,” he remarked after a moment. “I understand
you’re going to pitch against the Phillies this afternoon. Hope you trim
them, all right.”
“Thanks,” responded Joe. “I’ll do my best, but they have a big batting
streak on just now and all pitchers look alike to them. But if our boys
back me up with the stick, I’ll try to hold them down.”
After Hartley had gone, Joe glanced at his watch. He saw that it was
later than he thought and swallowed his coffee hastily. He noticed that
it had rather a bitter taste, but the matter passed from his mind the
next moment.