"I'm serious, Nan. The lad's off, somehow. He's in magnificent
physical trim, but he can't keep his mind on the game. He has lost his
head. I've talked with him, reasoned with him, all to no good. He only
goes down deeper in the dumps. Something is terribly wrong with him,
and if he doesn't brace, I'll have to release----"
Miss Nan Brown suddenly lost a little of her rich bloom. "Oh! you
wouldn't--you couldn't release him!"
"I'll have to if he doesn't brace. It means a lot to me, Nan, for of
course I can't win the pennant this year without Whit being in shape.
But I believe I wouldn't mind the loss of that any more than to see him
fall down. The boy is a magnificent pitcher. If he can only be
brought around he'll go to the big league next year and develop into
one of the greatest pitchers the game has ever produced. But somehow
or other he has lost heart. He's quit. And I've done my best for him.
He's beyond me now. What a shame it is! For he's the making of such a
splendid man outside of baseball. Milly thinks the world of him.
Well, well; there are disappointments--we can't help them. There goes
the gong. I must leave you. Nan, I'll bet you a box of candy Whit
loses today. Is it a go?"
"It is," replied Nan, with fire in her eyes. "You go to Whit Hurtle and
tell him I said if he wins today's game I'll kiss him!"
I nearly broke my neck over benches and bats getting to Whit with that
message. He gulped once.
Then he tightened his belt and shut out Hartford with two scratch
singles. It was a great exhibition of pitching. I had no means to
tell whether or not the Rube got his reward that night, but I was so
happy that I hugged Milly within an inch of her life.
But it turned out that I had been a little premature in my elation. In
two days the Rube went down into the depths again, this time clear to
China, and Nan was sitting in the grand stand with Henderson. The Rube
lost his next game, pitching like a schoolboy scared out of his wits.
Henderson followed Nan like a shadow, so that I had no chance to talk
to her. The Rube lost his next game and then another. We were pushed
out of second place.
If we kept up that losing streak a little longer, our hopes for the
pennant were gone. I had begun to despair of the Rube. For some
occult reason he scarcely spoke to me. Nan flirted worse than ever.
It seemed to me she flaunted her conquest of Henderson in poor Whit's
face.
The Providence ball team came to town and promptly signed Henderson and
announced him for Saturday's game. Cairns won the first of the series
and Radbourne lost the second. It was Rube's turn to pitch the
Saturday game and I resolved to make one more effort to put the
love-sick swain in something like his old fettle. So I called upon Nan.
She was surprised to see me, but received me graciously. I fancied her
face was not quite so glowing as usual. I came bluntly out with my
mission. She tried to freeze me but I would not freeze. I was out to
win or lose and not to be lightly laughed aside or coldly denied. I
played to make her angry, knowing the real truth of her feelings would
show under stress.
For once in my life I became a knocker and said some unpleasant
things--albeit they were true--about Henderson. She championed
Henderson royally, and when, as a last card, I compared Whit's fine
record with Henderson's, not only as a ball player, but as a man,
particularly in his reverence for women, she flashed at me:
"What do you know about it? Mr. Henderson asked me to marry him. Can
a man do more to show his respect? Your friend never so much as hinted
such honorable intentions. What's more--he insulted me!" The blaze in
Nan's black eyes softened with a film of tears. She looked hurt. Her
pride had encountered a fall.
"Oh, no, Nan, Whit couldn't insult a lady," I protested.
"Couldn't he? That's all you know about him. You know I--I promised to
kiss him if he beat Hartford that day. So when he came I--I did. Then
the big savage began to rave and he grabbed me up in his arms. He
smothered me; almost crushed the life out of me. He frightened me
terribly. When I got away from him--the monster stood there and coolly
said I belonged to him. I ran out of the room and wouldn't see him any
more. At first I might have forgiven him if he had apologized--said he
was sorry, but never a word. Now I never will forgive him."
I had to make a strenuous effort to conceal my agitation. The Rube had
most carefully taken my fool advice in the matter of wooing a woman.
When I had got a hold upon myself, I turned to Nan white-hot with
eloquence. Now I was talking not wholly for myself or the pennant, but
for this boy and girl who were at odds in that strangest game of
life--love.
What I said I never knew, but Nan lost her resentment, and then her
scorn and indifference. Slowly she thawed and warmed to my reason,
praise, whatever it was, and when I stopped she was again the radiant
bewildering Nan of old.
"Take another message to Whit for me," she said, audaciously. "Tell
him I adore ball players, especially pitchers. Tell him I'm going to
the game today to choose the best one. If he loses the game----"
She left the sentence unfinished. In my state of mind I doubted not in
the least that she meant to marry the pitcher who won the game, and so
I told the Rube. He made one wild upheaval of his arms and shoulders,
like an erupting volcano, which proved to me that he believed it, too.
When I got to the bench that afternoon I was tired. There was a big
crowd to see the game; the weather was perfect; Milly sat up in the box
and waved her score card at me; Raddy and Spears declared we had the
game; the Rube stalked to and fro like an implacable Indian chief--but
I was not happy in mind. Calamity breathed in the very air.
The game began. McCall beat out a bunt; Ashwell sacrificed and
Stringer laced one of his beautiful triples against the fence. Then he
scored on a high fly. Two runs! Worcester trotted out into the field.
The Rube was white with determination; he had the speed of a bullet and
perfect control of his jump ball and drop. But Providence hit and had
the luck. Ashwell fumbled, Gregg threw wild. Providence tied the
score.
The game progressed, growing more and more of a nightmare to me. It
was not Worcester's day. The umpire could not see straight; the boys
grumbled and fought among themselves; Spears roasted the umpire and was
sent to the bench; Bogart tripped, hurting his sore ankle, and had to
be taken out. Henderson's slow, easy ball baffled my players, and when
he used speed they lined it straight at a Providence fielder.
In the sixth, after a desperate rally, we crowded the bases with only
one out. Then Mullaney's hard rap to left, seemingly good for three
bases, was pulled down by Stone with one hand. It was a wonderful
catch and he doubled up a runner at second. Again in the seventh we
had a chance to score, only to fail on another double play, this time
by the infield.
When the Providence players were at bat their luck not only held good
but trebled and quadrupled. The little Texas-league hits dropped
safely just out of reach of the infielders. My boys had an off day in
fielding. What horror that of all days in a season this should be the
one for them to make errors!
But they were game, and the Rube was the gamest of all. He did not
seem to know what hard luck was, or discouragement, or poor support. He
kept everlastingly hammering the ball at those lucky Providence
hitters. What speed he had! The ball streaked in, and somebody would
shut his eyes and make a safety. But the Rube pitched, on, tireless,
irresistibly, hopeful, not forgetting to call a word of cheer to his
fielders.
It was one of those strange games that could not be bettered by any
labor or daring or skill. I saw it was lost from the second inning, yet
so deeply was I concerned, so tantalizingly did the plays reel
themselves off, that I groveled there on the bench unable to abide by
my baseball sense.
The ninth inning proved beyond a shadow of doubt how baseball fate, in
common with other fates, loved to balance the chances, to lift up one,
then the other, to lend a deceitful hope only to dash it away.
Providence had almost three times enough to win. The team let up in
that inning or grew over-confident or careless, and before we knew what
had happened some scratch hits, and bases on balls, and errors, gave us
three runs and left two runners on bases. The disgusted bleachers came
out of their gloom and began to whistle and thump. The Rube hit
safely, sending another run over the plate. McCall worked his old
trick, beating out a slow bunt.
Bases full, three runs to tie! With Ashwell up and one out, the noise
in the bleachers mounted to a high-pitched, shrill, continuous sound.
I got up and yelled with all my might and could not hear my voice.
Ashwell was a dangerous man in a pinch. The game was not lost yet. A
hit, anything to get Ash to first--and then Stringer!
Ash laughed at Henderson, taunted him, shook his bat at him and dared
him to put one over. Henderson did not stand under fire. The ball he
pitched had no steam. Ash cracked it--square on the line into the
shortstop's hands. The bleachers ceased yelling.
Then Stringer strode grimly to the plate. It was a hundred to one, in
that instance, that he would lose the ball. The bleachers let out one
deafening roar, then hushed. I would rather have had Stringer at the
bat than any other player in the world, and I thought of the Rube and
Nan and Milly--and hope would not die.
Stringer swung mightily on the first pitch and struck the ball with a
sharp, solid bing! It shot toward center, low, level, exceedingly
swift, and like a dark streak went straight into the fielder's hands.
A rod to right or left would have made it a home run. The crowd
strangled a victorious yell. I came out of my trance, for the game was
over and lost. It was the Rube's Waterloo.
I hurried him into the dressing room and kept close to him. He looked
like a man who had lost the one thing worth while in his life. I
turned a deaf ear to my players, to everybody, and hustled the Rube out
and to the hotel. I wanted to be near him that night.
To my amaze we met Milly and Nan as we entered the lobby. Milly wore a
sweet, sympathetic smile. Nan shone more radiant than ever. I simply
stared. It was Milly who got us all through the corridor into the
parlor. I heard Nan talking.
"Whit, you pitched a bad game but--" there was the old teasing, arch,
coquettishness--"but you are the best pitcher!"
"Nan!"
"Yes!"