THE JAY’S FRIENDS.
Now the manager of the St. Paul team got hold of the jay and offered
him all kinds of inducements to finish the season with St. Paul. But
the strange fellow shook his head and said:
“Thankee kindly, mister, but I’m playin’ ball fer my health. I’ve got
more’n seventeen dollars ready money on hand, an’ I don’t need no
more.”
“You must be crazy!” exclaimed the manager. “I’ll give you three
hundred dollars a month.”
“Go ’way! Object ain’t no money to me, as a friend of mine would say.”
“Why, confound you!” spluttered the manager; “I’ll make it a hundred
dollars a week and all expenses!”
“You’re wastin’ your breath, mister; a thousan’ dollars a week
wouldn’t hire me.”
The manager sat down, with a gesture of despair.
“You must be a millionaire in disguise!” he exclaimed, in deep
disgust.
“Mebbe I be,” grinned the jay.
In the first half of the ninth St. Paul made a desperate try to score
and got a man to third by a base on balls, a sacrifice, and a stolen
base, but Webber “put on steam” and retired the side with the runner
still on third.
Then Minneapolis came to bat, determined to get in and do something.
Stebson talked to his men.
“Bunt,” he said. “Get hit by the ball. Do anything to get on first.
It’s the only show. You can’t hit this fellow out, but there must be
a way to do something with him.”
So the first man up pretended to try to dodge one that came close to
him, but dodged into the ball.
It nearly knocked a rib out of him, and he fell in a heap.
“Take your base,” said the umpire.
“Bet four dollars he won’t jump inter another one this game!” said
the pitcher.
Trueman objected to giving the man his base, but the umpire stood by
his decision.
“Now, here’s where we start!” yelled the coacher, as a runner took
the place of the man who had been hit. “Get a lead! Get off that bag!
He can’t catch you in a month!”
In fact, the jay seemed utterly careless of the man on first, but
he suddenly snapped his foot toward the bag and threw at the same
instant.
The ball was in the baseman’s hands almost instantly, and he tagged
the runner as the latter tried to get back.
“Out!” cried the umpire.
“A-haw! a-haw! a-haw!” roared the pitcher, and like an echo came the
braying laugh from the bleachers.
“Balk! balk!” yelled the captain of the Minneapolis team. “How is
that for a balk, Mr. Umpire?”
“The man is out,” said the umpire.
“Now some other feller jump in front of the ball,” invited the jay,
as the uproar subsided.
But the next man lacked the courage to do so when the sphere came
whizzing across the plate, and he went down in short order, striking
out without touching the ball.
The third man up managed to pop up a little fly, which the jay took
easily.
“He’s playing the whole game alone!” exclaimed Charley Bates
disgustedly.
Hank Dowling slipped down from the bleachers and got near the bench
of the visitors. As the jay came in the gambler caught his eye and
gave him a sign. The jay came over, and the gambler grasped his hand,
exclaiming:
“How are you, old man? Didn’t know you at first! Why, you’re doing a
slick turn to-day!”
Then, under his breath, he added:
“A hundred dollars if you throw the game!”
“Hey?” exclaimed the jay, suddenly pulling his hand away.
“Two hundred!” breathed the gambler.
“Why, you gol-dern skunk!” roared the pitcher. “I’d good mind ter
soak ye! You can’t buy me fer two hundred thousan’ dollars!”
Then he loudly cried:
“Gents, this air critter has offered me two hundred dollars to give
ther game erway! What do ye think of that?”
“It’s a lie!” instantly declared Dowling. “I----”
Biff! the hard fist of the jay struck Dowling on the eye, and the man
went backward.
“Don’t like ter strike a critter like that,” said the strange
pitcher; “but it’s agin’ my principles to have him insult me by
tryin’ ter buy me and then call me a liar. If he’d jest called me a
liar I wouldn’t minded it much, comin’ from such a cheap dog, but
ther hull business went agin’ my grain.”
“Look out!” cried several voices, as Dowling rose, hissing an oath.
“He’s going to shoot!”
The man’s hand was at his hip, and he snatched out a revolver. Before
he could use the weapon, however, the pitcher had his wrist in a grip
of iron.
“You’re the blamedest skunk I ever seen!” grimly declared the jay.
“It’s goin’ to be a pleasure to kick the liver out of ye!”
Then he gave the man’s wrist a wrench, forcing him to drop the
revolver, turned him round, and kicked him hard enough to lift him
clear of the ground.
But Dowling had a gang of friends close at hand, and they made a
scramble to get in. Within six seconds the jay was surrounded by
them, and his peril seemed great, for they were ready to do him up.
“Put him out of the game!” panted Dowling. “Smash him!”
Then through the crowd about the imperiled pitcher came Dick. He was
fierce as a young tiger in his charge, and he hurled himself straight
at a man who was on the verge of striking the pitcher with a set of
brass knuckles.
Had that blow fallen the jay would have pitched no more that day. As
it was, the boy gave the man a punch in the stomach that doubled him
up and caused him to fail in his dastardly attempt to “do up” the
pitcher.
Old Joe did not remain idle. For all of his years, he followed the
boy into the midst of the fray, and his arms seemed strong as iron
bars when he thrust the thugs aside. From his lips came a shrill,
piercing yell that was the war-whoop of a red man entering battle.
That was not all. From various points the crowd saw eight young men,
brown, beardless, clear-eyed athletes, who leaped to take part in
the struggle. One of them was the tall, stuttering fellow who had
“haw-hawed” so much over the work of the pitcher, and now he roared:
“Gug-gug-give it to um! Knock the pup-pup-packin’ out of um!”
They seemed to be friends of the jay at the start, and this they
quickly showed was the case, for they sailed into the thugs and
knocked them right and left.
It was a lively fight, but it did not last long. Those young athletes
made short work of the ruffians, quickly putting them to flight.
Two officers hastened to take part, but not an arrest did they make,
for in the surge of the crowd the attacking roughs got away.
“A-haw! a-haw! a-haw!” laughed the jay pitcher. “Why, this is a
reg’ler hot old time! Ain’t seen so much excitement sence I pitched
for Slabtown agin’ Bugville. Thankee very kindly, gents, fer the
nifty way in which ye walked right up an’ took my part. Now, we’ll
continner the game, without further interruptions, I hope.”
Hank Dowling had slipped away, but he took care not to return to his
former seat. In the rear of the crowd he was joined by Bates, who
said:
“I tried to get in, but I wasn’t quick enough, Hank. The chap has
some friends.”
“Devil take him!” grated Dowling. “He nearly twisted my arm off! Why,
he has the strength of Sandow!”
“And he came out of it without a scratch!”
“Yes. He’s a fool, but----”
“He’s a mystery. I don’t believe he’s the fool he looks.”
“But he wouldn’t throw the game for two hundred! What does he care
about the game? What difference does it make to him who wins? I say
he’s a fool!”
“Money doesn’t seem to cut any ice with him.”
“No; and I reckon he’ll pull this game out for St. Paul. I’ll lose my
dough to-day; but I’ll get even with that duffer if it costs me twice
as much!”
St. Paul tried hard to get another run in the first of the ninth, but
the effort was useless. Minneapolis was fighting for its very life,
and no runner reached third.
Then the visitors again took the field. Now the manager sent the
first batter up with instructions to get his base on balls, anyhow,
informing him that he would be fined if he struck at a pitched ball.
The first three pitched were called balls by the umpire, and it began
to look as if the judgment of the manager was good.
Then the jay put one straight over for a strike. Another followed.
The batter gripped his “slugger” and seemed ready to hit.
“Don’t you do it!” cautioned the manager, in a low tone. “Let it go.”
The batter obeyed, and a swift one went straight over.
The trick had not worked, for the first man was out.
“Bunt,” said the manager to the next man, “toward third.”
The jay was grinning and the crowd shouting. The pitcher gave the
batter a straight one, thinking the same trick might be again
attempted. The batter bunted as directed, and the ball rolled toward
third.
The jay sprang for it, but the catcher rushed in and bothered him.
Had the catcher let the ball alone, it seemed that the jay might have
stopped the runner at first. Getting the ball, the catcher started to
throw, but the pitcher caught his arm and held it.
“No good!” he said. “Let that critter go. Better do that than ter
make a bad throw.”
The catcher was angry, but Trueman declared his judgment right.
“Now,” said the jay, in a low tone to the catcher, “look out fer a
bunt toward fust. It’s ther play.”
“Give him that double twist,” advised the catcher.
“Ef you let it git past ye that chap down to fust’d git a sack ur
two. I don’t dast to try it.”
The judgment of the jay was correct, for the next hitter bunted
toward first. Being prepared, the catcher got the bunt, but the
runner on first had obtained a good start, and so it was impossible
to stop him. However, the batter was thrown out at first.
Two were out, and the heavy hitter of the home team came up.
“Drive in this run, Lermon,” directed the manager.
Lermon swung hard to put the ball out into the field or drop it
beyond the fence. He missed the first one and fouled the next.
Then he put up a weak fly that was gathered in by the pitcher, who
did not move from his tracks.
“Another inning!” shouted the crowd.
The jay was laughing, and he looked up toward a point on the
bleachers where had gathered the eight young men who hastened to his
aid in the encounter a short time before. They smiled at him, seeming
to enjoy the sport very much.
The first St. Paul batter drove an easy one to second and was thrown
out.
“Mister Manager,” said the jay, in a low tone, “if you’ll ’scuse me,
I’ll make a suggestion.”
“Go ahead,” said the manager.
“Why don’t you try the same trick t’other chaps did? Make the next
feller bunt to third.”
This suggestion was accepted, and the man succeeded in getting in a
good bunt that let him down to first on a close decision.
Then once more the jay came up. As the queer, awkward-looking chap
advanced to the plate Old Joe rose from the bench and uttered a cry
that sounded strange and weird and thrilling.
Instantly from the friends who had aided the jay in his encounter
came a strange cheer:
“Breka Co ax, Co ax, Co ax!
Breka Co ax, Co ax, Co ax!
O----up! O----up!
Parabalou----
Yale! Yale! Yale!
’Rah! ’Rah! ’Rah!
Yale!”
The jay smiled, and his face was transformed. The foolish expression
had vanished, and he seemed positively handsome. In his general
appearance a most astonishing change had taken place. All his awkward
slouchiness had vanished, and now he was straight and graceful,
despite the clothes he wore.
The crowd looked on amazed, realizing something was about to happen.
“Look at the jay!” gasped Trueman.
A hush fell on the spectators. Webber had seen the change in the
unknown pitcher, and it bewildered him.
“Play ball!” commanded the umpire, as the Minneapolis pitcher stood,
with the sphere in his hand.
Then Webber swung his arm and put one right over the heart of the
plate.
The mysterious batter did not wait for another one, but he picked
that one out and smashed it hard enough to make a dent in it.
The ball went out on a line clear of the reach of any infielder, and
the runner ahead of the jay tore up the dust as he scooted round the
bases. Over second he went, on to third, over third, and, while the
spectators rose up and howled, he came speeding home.
The ball had been recovered, but, in his effort to stop the run, the
fielder threw wild. The mysterious ball-player saw this, and he took
a chance by keeping on when he reached third base.
The pitcher got the ball on the line from home to third, whirled
and threw it to the waiting catcher. The runner saw the catcher was
slightly ahead of the base-line. In order to deceive the fellow he
ran straight at him.
The catcher received the ball and swung to put it onto the runner.
Like a flash the fellow dodged, ducked, and went under the catcher’s
arm, flinging himself across the plate.
The umpire’s gesture told the man was safe, but his voice was not
heard in the uproar that followed.
No wonder the St. Paul players went almost mad with joy! No
wonder they hugged the jay and lifted him aloft as Old Joe again
flaunted his red blanket in the air and uttered that ear-piercing,
heart-thrilling yell!
The wonderful stranger was lifted a second time on the shoulders of
the admiring players, while men on the bleachers stood up and waved
hats, hands, and canes in a tumultuous upheaval. In the grand stand
ladies fluttered their handkerchiefs and men shouted.
Not only was the St. Paul crowd thundering, but others had joined in,
having been won over by the remarkable work of the unknown.
It was some moments before the cheering subsided and the game could
continue. Then, as the crowd quieted down, the youthful friends of
the wonderful pitcher were heard singing. And this is the song they
sang:
“Here’s to good old Merry--drink it down!
Here’s to good old Merry--drink it down!
Here’s to good old Merry,
He’s a red hot huckleberry----
Drink it down! drink it down! down! down!”