A DESPERATE SITUATION.
Merry and his team had reached Minneapolis, and, having no game on
hand, decided to witness the contest between the home team and St.
Paul. The game proved an exciting one.
The visitors had a big crowd of fans with them, and they put up a
great fight for the game. Foley, the pitcher for St. Paul, had been
much harder hit than Webber, of the home team, but his support, up to
the sixth inning, had been masterly, and Minneapolis had been unable
to squeeze in more than one run. St. Paul had not scored.
In the first half of the sixth, with two men out and no one on the
bases, Foley went to the bat and hit the ball hard to short. The
short-stop fumbled and then made a swift throw to first, but Foley
was a good runner and he made a mad try for the bag.
Had Foley been an “old stager” he would not have tried the trick he
did; but he was a new man from some Eastern college. He flung himself
headlong at the bag.
Then suddenly there was great excitement in the grand stand and on
the bleachers, and loud cries were heard of:
“Foley is hurt!”
“Give him a runner!”
“Prince spiked him!”
“Shame! Shame!”
“That’s dirty ball-playing!”
Foley reached first safely, having his hand upon it when the baseman
caught the ball.
“Safe!” declared the umpire.
Then the angry baseman quickly spiked Foley’s hand. It was, in truth,
dirty ball-playing, and the visiting spectators had good cause to
become incensed.
Foley’s right hand was the one injured, and the injury was bad enough
to put him out of the game. Several players ran down to first from
the St. Paul bench.
“Lynch Prince!” yelled the spectators.
“Mob him!”
“Kick him!”
“Kill him!”
It seemed that the spectators would pour onto the diamond, but
several officers appeared and did their best to hold the crowd back.
Trueman, the captain of the visiting team, had reached the side of
the injured player.
“How bad has he hurt you, old man?” he anxiously asked.
For answer Foley held up his bleeding hand, which Trueman examined.
“The cur!” grated Trueman, giving Prince a black look. “He ought to
be shot!”
“Ah! ’twas an accident!” snapped Prince. “W’at’s ther matter wid yer?”
One of the St. Paul players made a lunge at Prince to strike him, but
two others grabbed him and held him back.
“Give this man a runner, Stebson,” said Trueman to the captain of the
home team.
“All right,” said Stebson, and he picked out a man, while Foley
walked back to the bench, accompanied by his friends.
The spectators continued to howl, but the game went on. A doctor was
handy, and he examined Foley’s injury.
“He’ll not pitch again for two weeks,” said the doctor.
“That knocks us out!” groaned Trueman bitterly. “Every other pitcher
we have is used up, and those fellows knew it. What a dastardly mean
way to win a game!”
“What can we do?” asked another player.
“We’ll have to put in anybody we can and let those duffers hit it
out, that’s all.”
The next batter lifted an infield fly to third and was out. The time
had come for the visiting team to take the field. Trueman asked the
umpire to call time until he could decide who should go in to pitch.
Two pitchers were on the bench, but one of them was sick and the
other had an arm that would not enable him to throw the ball up to
the plate. It did seem that it was “all off.”
“Where’s that jay who threw some for the batters to hit before the
game?” asked somebody. “You might try him.”
“Oh, he’d be a mark in a game!” declared a player. “He’s the greenest
thing that ever happened.”
“But he did have speed.”
“And some curves.”
“You must have somebody, Trueman.”
The captain of the visiting team looked round in despair. The
first person he saw, sitting not far away on the bleachers, was
a raw-looking countryman in a suit of clothes that were about
twenty years out of date. The countryman wore a narrow-brimmed,
low-crowned, rusty derby hat, a spike-tailed coat of grandfather’s
days, high-water trousers, which bagged at the knees and were a mile
too loose, a pair of long-legged boots with dried mud on them, and a
standing collar that was not much more than half an inch high. His
bright red necktie was tied in a huge bow, and his white shirt was
rather soiled. From beneath the derby hat flowed a mass of carroty
hair that was straight and coarse. His face did not look very clean,
and he wore a grin that was almost idiotic.
When Trueman’s eyes rested on this person the latter nodded and
winked, then rose, sprang over the rail, and slouched awkwardly
toward the bench of the visiting players.
“Gol-darn hard luck!” he said. “Can’t that feller pitch enny more?”
“Not this game.”
“Shucks! He’s a purty good man, cap’n. Who be you goin’ to put in his
place?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t a pitcher left.”
“Is that so? Why, ding it! this is my chance! I’ll go in fer ye.”
“You?”
“Yep. Jest you give me a try. I’ve bin wantin’ to pitch in fast
comp’ny fer a long time. I’ll jest nacherly s’prise them other chaps.”
“Did you ever pitch anywhere?”
“Did I? Cap’n, I pitched on the Mud Creek team a hull season an’
never lost a game.”
“Mud Creek! Well, this is somewhat different. I don’t believe I have
any use for you.”
“Now, see here, cap’n, don’t be foolish! You say you hain’t got nary
other pitcher?”
“Not one.”
“Well, you’ve got ter put in somebody.”
“Yes.”
“If you put in a man that ain’t a pitcher you’re bound to lose the
game.”
“Yes.”
“I’m a pitcher. Even if I lose the game for ye, you won’t be no wuss
off.”
Trueman said nothing.
“But I hain’t goin’ to do it,” persisted the jay. “If your fellers
will s’port me the way they have your other pitcher, I won’t let them
other chaps git a darn run!”
Trueman shook his head.
“The crowd would guy us,” he said.
“Let ’em guy an’ be hanged to ’em!” exclaimed the countryman. “Mebbe
we’ll be able to take some of the guyin’ aout of ’em before we’re
done. Look here, some of your fellers batted when I was tossin’ em’
up before the game. Ask them if I ain’t got some curves?”
“Curves don’t cut much ice if a man hasn’t a head and experience.”
“I’ll jest bet you a chaw of terbacker that you’ll say my head’s all
right before I’ve pitched long. You don’t want to use up any of your
other men pitchin’, so let me see what I can do. Come on, boss; you
won’t be sorry.”
“All right,” said Trueman suddenly; “I’ll do it.”