The Squirrel

"THERE ain't no use beating around the bush," said Manager Burgess to pitcher Wicks, otherwise "Wicksey" or "the Squirrel." Having thus pointed out the futility in skirting the edges of an unpleasant subject, the speaker proceeded to do the very thing which he had condemned as useless. It was in the manager's mind and heavy upon his conscience to tell the Squirrel that after nine years' faithful and continuous service he was out of a job, but as Burgess looked upon the appealing countenance of his veteran pitcher, he found it hard to put his message into words. It is just as difficult for a bush-league baseball manager to tell an unpleasant truth as it is for any one else. "You know the fix I'm in," temporised Burgess. "They look to me to get two hun dred cents out of every dollar I spend, and I can't carry any dead wood on the pay roll. Every man that draws salary has got to be able to work. Particularly the pitchers. Now this new kid, McSherry, looks middling good. He's got as much smoke as a steamboat, and if I can ever learn him to think, he'll be quite a heaver some day. You see, Wicksey, McSherry's coming and you're going. There's a whole lot of people in this town that think you're already gone." "Aw, say," said Squirrel Wicks, and there he stopped. Words always troubled Wicks. He did not know what to do with them, so for the most part he remained silent. Vaguely he realised that he had arrived at a serious crisis in his affairs, and he knew from the manager's manner that something unpleasant was in store. He sat on a bench in the dirty, unswept dress ing-room underneath the grand stand with its litter of cast-off garments, cigar butts, and playing cards, and for lack of something better to do, he scraped at a knot hole in the floor with the toe of his spiked shoe. That knot hole was an old friend; it had been there during the entire period of the Squirrel's service. "Aw, say!" he repeated helplessly. "Well, I'm saying it," continued Burgess. "You know yourself that you haven't been much use to the team so far this season. Last year you got away with it on your control, but since you've lost that, it's first-degree murder to ask you to work. I slipped you in there this afternoon just to see if you couldn't find the plate once in a while, and what did you do? Walked three men, hit two, and laid one right in the groove for Feeney! What kind of pitching is that?" "Aw, say!" This was still all that the Squirrel could manage under the circum stances, which were beginning to be acutely painful. "And, of course," said Burgess, "you can't expect to go on pitching forever. Even old Cy Young had to go back to the farm, you know. That bird had the greatest soup bone ever built onto a man, but he kept on pitching, and by and by he worked it out. You got just so many games up your sleeve, Wicksey, and when you've flung 'em all — bang!" Wicks did not look up. He continued to scrape the knot hole gently with his left toe. His little world was crashing to atoms about his ears, but he could not find words in which to express his misery. The Maroons were not much of a ball club by any standard you choose; the D. L. D. League was not much of a league — "Darn Little Dough" was what the players called it — and Bowlegs Burgess was not much of a manager, but poor as they were, these things were the best that Squirrel Wicks had ever known, and the news that he was to be separated from them after so many years came as a numbing shock, temporarily paralysing his limited powers of reflection. "It's tough, I know," said Burgess, with the blundering kindness of a dentist who attempts to soothe the jumping nerve with conversation when cocaine is needed. "It's tough, but it might be worse. You ain't married, and there's only yourself to look out for. Just the other day McCulley was saying that he wisht he could get a steady man in the bowling alley nights. You better drop in and see McCulley." There was an uncomfortable silence. Wicks sat motionless, save for the slight scraping motion of his left foot, now purely mechanical. He had ceased to study the knot hole, and was staring straight in front of him; but for the expression in his wavering blue eyes, Burgess might have thought that Wicks had neither heard nor understood. "Well, I got to be going!" said Burgess suddenly. He jumped to his feet with a great deal of unnecessary clatter, and moving over to the broken, fly-specked mirror — sole outward evidence that vanity still lived among the Maroons — proceeded to knot the scarf which had been hanging about his neck. This task completed to his satisfaction, he pierced the cheap, knitted fabric with a long, brass pin, at the end of which was an imitation pink pearl not much larger or more valuable than a gumdrop. Eeal pearls of any size or colour were not known in the D. L. D. League. Burgess consumed a great deal of time in the operation, for he hoped that the Squirrel would say something, and give a hint of what was passing behind those troubled eyes. Thus the conscientious dentist listens for the patient to groan in order that he may assure his victim that the pain is trifling and will pass. Kind ness is the compelling motive; well meant but useless. Some hurts of nerve and heart lie deeper than words. Burgess made a last at tempt with his hand on the doorknob. "There's nothing pers'nal in this, Wicksey," said he. "If you was able to take your turn in the box and win a game once in a while, you could stick on the pay roll till hell freezes over for all o' me, but it ain't my money. It's Joe Darnell's, and you know Joe; 'two for one always' is his motto. I like you first rate, Wicksey. We all like you first rate. You're a good feller and all that, but your arm is pitched out — see? Ausgespielt! I'll tell McCulley that you'll be around to see him; shall If" The Squirrel did not answer. He had re turned to an intimate scrutiny of the knot hole. After giving him a liberal interval in which to respond, Burgess slammed the dressing-room door, and went away, his rapid steps echoing hollowly under the deserted grand stand. The rays of the setting sun, filtering through the cracks, saw Wicks still upon the bench in front of his locker, a slouching figure in his dingy, stained uniform. When he could no longer see the knot hole, he scraped it with his toe. Not all the tragedies of the national game are played out before an audience. In addition to owning the Maroon franchise, n doubtful asset at best, Joe Darnell owned the Silver Star Saloon, and it was there that Bur gess sought his superior. Darnell was mopping the bar, but he paused long enough to ask a question. * ' Well! Did you tell him!" "Yes," said Burgess. "I told him — and I'd rather have been licked." "Uh-huh," said Darnell. "What did he say?" "That's the worst of it, "said Burgess. * ' He never opened his mouth — just sat there and looked at the floor." "He always was a nut, anyway," remarked Darnell. "Most left-handers are a little touched in the head. So long as he could pitch, I stood for him, but now— He left the sen tence unfinished, and continued to swab the mahogany. "Poor devil!" said Burgess. "If he'd put up any sort of a holler — asked for another chance — anything — it wouldn't have been so tough. He didn't act natural — like a man would act when he was getting a can tied to him. You know, Joe, it wouldn't surprise me at all if he went clean off his nut any time. He's the kind that'll sit around and sit around and chew on his trouble till some day — bang! and down comes the whole upper story. Yes, sir, that's just about what '11 happen to him." "Well," said Darnell, "there's one good thing; he won't ever be violent. He ain't the violent kind." "You can't never tell what a left-hander will do," said Burgess sagely. "Anyway, I'm sorry for Wicksey. I'm going over and ask McCulley to give him a job." "What doing?" asked Darnell, with slight interest. * ' You think any feller that's played baseball for you nine years — for the dough you pay — is going to be particular?" sneered Burgess. "Any old job would be a boost — after that." "Oh, I don't know!" said the owner of the Maroons. "Them that ain't satisfied can quit. There's no strings on 'em, my son." n The Squirrel's public record was an open book; his private record was blank. He drifted into Booneville from nowhere, found the Maroons at practise, and, climbing over the bleacher fence, asked for a job, in the manner of a harvest hand accosting a farmer. "What are you?" asked Burgess. "An out fielder?" "I've pitched — some," said the stranger. "Where at?" demanded Burgess. The abruptness of the question seemed to startle Wicks. "All around the bushes," said he at length. "I'm pretty good." "Oh, you are, are you?" said Burgess. "Show me something." Wicks was allowed to practise with the Maroons, and it did not take him long to demonstrate that it was as he had stated. He was pretty good; very good, in fact, for the D. L. D. League. "He's a nut of some kind," Burgess reported to Darnell, "but there's nothing the matter with his left wing. Got speed, control, nice curves, and he fields pretty well for such a big, gangling feller. Says he's never been in a real league before." "Ask him how much he wants if he makes good, "said the thrifty Darnell. "If he's a nut we ought to get him cheap." "I asked him already," said Burgess. "He says he don't care." "He's a nut all right," said Darnell. "Tell him we'll give him twelve a week to start with." Darnell was prepared to offer as much as fifteen in case the stranger protested, but Wicks accepted the pitiful stipend without comment. Thirty dollars a week was the top figure in that league, twenty was the average, for the D. L. D. was the very bottom of the baseball ladder — fit only to climb out of or fall into. Wicks made good and forgot to ask for more money; a second reason for questioning his sanity. The players found him a silent, colour less individual, who kept his mouth shut at all times, and attended strictly to his own business, having no business outside the pitcher's box. Attempts to draw confidences from him were useless; he met such advances with a nervous, deprecating grin. Past experience was a thing which he would discuss with nobody, and grad- ually the impression grew that Wicks had some thing to hide. It was Bogart Ledbetter, the town humourist, who fastened the name of Squirrel upon Wicks. Bogart, who owned a pool parlour, and maintained a private menagerie for the edification of his customers, discovered Wicks endeavour ing to establish friendly relations with a caged squirrel. "Don't get your fingers too close to that feller," said Bogart. "Why?" asked Wicks. "He's tame, ain't he?" "He's tame all right, but he's a squirrel, and squirrels eat nuts," said the local funny man. It was humour of too subtle a brand for Wicks, and thereafter he became the Squirrel. He accepted the name as he had accepted the twelve dollars a week — without question or argument. "A little bit touched in the upper story, but harmless," was the popular verdict. "Base ball sense is the only kind of sense he's got, and it's all he needs. Gee, how he can hop that pill over the plate!" Other left-handers, better known to fame, might have been described in the same terms. Time passed on, and Squirrel Wicks became one of the veterans of the Maroon team. Almost any man who could play baseball a little and would play it for a little money had a chance to become a veteran in the D. L. D. League. Youngsters flashed for a season, and then went higher to their rewards, for they did not belong at the bottom of the ladder, but neither ambition nor envy touched Squirrel Wicks. He had found the spot where he be longed, and seemed satisfied with it. Scouts, beating the bushes in search of promising material, never looked twice at Wicks. "He's good enough for Booneville," said they, which meant that he was not good enough for anywhere else. Wicks had heard of cities where ball players wore real diamonds, and earned real money, but to him these cities were nothing but names — New York, Chicago, and Pittsburgh. He had also heard of the organisation known as the big league, but the words possessed no especial significance for him. "How'd you like to go up there some day!" Tacks Murphy once asked Wicks this question. Minor leaguers usually refer to the big league as "up there." "Wouldn't like it," said Wicks, who was in a rarely communicative mood. "You wouldn't! Why, say, do you know what some of them fellers get for playing six months?" "Huh-uh!" "Ten thousand dollars! And they live on the fat of the land — they don't ride in no cabooses, you bet." "That's too much money just for playing ball, "said the Squirrel mildly. "It wouldn't be too much for me if I could get it," said Tacks hungrily. "And think of all the fun a feller could have in a town like Chicago or Saint Looey." The Squirrel shook his head. 1 ' 1 don't like them big towns, "said he. "Too much going on." "I'll bet you never saw a big town!" scoffed Tacks. "I have so. The biggest town in loway." Later, having had time to think, Wicks added an illuminating sentence or two — the key to his queer character, had Tacks but known it. 1 'It ain't the money that I care about," said he. "Money is nothing, but I certainly do love to play ball. Seems as if the only real fun I get is when I'm in there pitching. I like to see 'em swing their heads off at the third one." Though Wicks had never explained his point of view to the manager, Bowlegs Burgess furnished the Squirrel with plenty of pleasure. Steady, consistent pitchers, eager to work in turn and out of turn, are as rare in the D. L. D. as any other league, and Burgess worked the uncomplaining Wicks like a horse. Under the circumstances, it was marvellous that his arm lasted as long as it did. It must have been an unusual arm to begin with, for it was later ascertained that the Squirrel had been pitching here, there, and everywhere for six years, when he drifted into Booneville. Six and nine are fifteen, and fifteen years in the pitcher's box will send most of the iron men to the scrap heap. The breakdown of a pitcher is seldom a sud den affair; the wearing out of one is a gradual process which never varies. First the Squirrel's speed deserted him, and he was no longer able to hop the third one across the corner of the plate. Dismayed at his failing power, Wicks fell back upon his control, of which he had been gifted with rather more than a left hander's share. Control carried him through three seasons, but when the curves began to go wide, and the ghost of the ''fast one" refused to break at all, even a half-wit like Wicks knew that the end was in sight. rn On the night of his dismissal, Wicks presented himself at McCulley's bowling alley. Utter dejection struck at every line of his tall, awkward figure. His shoulders sagged hopelessly, and he shuffled his feet in an apologetic manner as he stood in front of the cigar counter. Twice he opened his mouth to speak, but no words would come. "Hello, Squirrel!" said McCulley cheerfully. "Do you want that job?" Wicks gulped, and nodded his head. "All right. Take off your coat, and hop to it. Put up the ducks on number three." So the Squirrel became a pin sticker at a dollar and a quarter a night — a mighty fall for one who had been a baseball pitcher, but even a squirrel must eat. Tony, the nimble little Italian pin sticker, was paid a dollar and a half a night, and the three negroes received a dollar apiece. The extra twenty-five cents paid to Wicks may be credited to a trace of pity in the McCulley make-up. As a pin sticker, the Squirrel was not worth a bonus. "I could have got a kid for a dollar a night that \vould stick pins all around him," ex plained McCulley to his customers, "but it seemed to me it was kind of tough to can him off the team after all the years he's been here. He's a nut, I know, but he's quiet, and he 'tends to business. Don't bawl him out so much for being slow, boys. He's doing the best he can, and when he hoists those long legs of his out of the pit, you can bet that every pin is on the spot. How does he like his new job? The Lord knows. He hasn't opened his mouth to me." Wicks opened his mouth to no one. Night after night he sweated in the padded pits, bending his back over the splintery tenpins and dodging the flying "ducks" when small-ball games were in order. It was not a merry life, but between the hours of six and twelve it was a busy one, which is the next best thing. At the end of the third week, Wicks moved his few possessions from the boarding house to the bowling alley, and thereafter he slept in the storeroom with Tony, the three negroes, the worn-out pins, and the superannuated pool tables. McCulley had provided half a dozen cots for his hired men, which enabled him to pay them a lower wage by saving them the item of room rent. When one earns a dollar and a quarter a night, room rent becomes an item worthy of serious consideration. Under Wicks' cot, and guarded carefully, was a battered old pasteboard suitcase, which, when new, had almost resembled alligator skin. The three negroes, noting the Squirrel's furtive manner, made up their minds that the suitcase contained something of value. They discussed the matter among themselves. "Whut you reckon the ol' Squi'l got in that box?" asked Ephraim Ballou. "Las' night I wakes up, an' there he sets on the aidge of his bed. Kind of scairt me at first because I couldn't make out whut he's up to, but bimeby the light gets better, an' I sees that he's got that box open in his lap, an' is kind of feelih' round inside it with his hands. He set there the longes' while, never makin' a sound. Look to me like he was kind of pettin' something. Whut you reckon he got in there?" "'Tain't no dough, else he wouldn't be yere," said Zeke Johnson. "And you-all hears me say it, I ain' gwine messin' round with no junk whut belong to a lunatic. No indeedy! S'posin' he'd ketch you monkeyin' with that box? They ain' no telling whut he'd do." "If he ketches me," said Ephraim, "but I don't 'low to let him do that." "You look out, Eph," said the third negro. "Them half -wise, half- nutty people is terrible foxy!" The time came when Ephraim got a chance to satisfy his curiosity, and the result was a complete surprise. He relates his experience as follows: "The Squi'l he goes out to git a bite to eat, an' I bulges in an' drags out that suitcase. He ain't even got it locked, maybe, because the lock's busted. I opens her up, and whut you think I found? Nothin' but that ratty oP Maroon uniform of his, some baseball shoes, an' a glove full o' holes. Thass every single thing they was. You don't reckon he thinks he's gwine to pitch some mo'!" "Pore ol' devil!" said Zeke Johnson. "'Pears like he jus' nachelly hates to let go. Fightehs is jus' the same way. They alwuz thinks they's one mo' battle in 'em. Look at Gawge Dixon an' the Old Marster! Could any body tell them they was through? Even afteh they was licked, they didn't believe it. The Squi'l's the same way, an' bein' sort o' loony makes it worse." Wicks did not relinquish his interest in base ball. When the Maroons were playing at home, they were always sure of one deeply interested spectator who came in through the deadhead gate and took up a lonely position at the far end of the right-field bleachers. Elbows on his knees, and chin in his hands, he followed every move of the game from beginning to end, a silent, impassive figure in whom was neither praise nor blame. His old teammates often waved their hands at him, or shouted rough greetings; he responded with the slightest nod. He had never been in the clubhouse since the night he packed his suitcase. The motionless figure on the bleachers often betrayed Burgess into prophecy. "You mark my words," the manager would say, "Wicks is going violently bug one of these days. Take a born nut like he is, and give him a grievance to brood over, and if he stays with it long enough, look out for him. I hope the old boy ain't got anything against me." If the Squirrel had nothing against Burgess he was hopelessly in the minority in Booneville, for the Maroons were having a bad season, and, as is always the case, the manager came in for the lion's share of the blame. Poor Bowlegs was doing the best he could with the material provided, for Joe Darnell absolutely refused to throw good money after bad, as he expressed it. "The club is all right," insisted the owner stubbornly, "the trouble is in the handling." "I'd like to see you or anybody else handle that bunch of sand letters! "responded Burgess with bitterness. "Connie Mack himself can't take swill and make champagne. If you'd only loosen up and let me spend a little money I could stiffen up that infield, get a hitting out field, and a real pitcher or two. Then we could make some sort of a race out of it. I know where I can get a whale of a pitcher, and all he wants is twenty-five a week and his board." "Yes," said Darnell, "and I could get Ty Cobb and Walter Johnson if there wasn't any thing to it but spending money. You must think I'm in this business for my health!" "It's about all you'll get out of it unless you come through," said the harassed manager. "The crowds are getting smaller and smaller, we don't draw flies on the road, we '11 be in last place in another week, and that's where we'll finish. The only way to make money out of baseball is to put money into it, and you won't let go of a cent!" ' * You bet I won't! "said Darnell. ' * And I'm going to throw up this franchise if the crowds don't pick up. I've got a family, I have, and I don't propose to sink a lot of good dough in a bum ball team." This was the condition of affairs when Martin Bowling, the postmaster of Booneville, discovered in the mail a letter addressed to Elmer Wicks. It spent a week in the W box of the general delivery before Dowling had an inspiration. "Mary," said he to his clerk, "what's Squirrel Wicks' first name?" "I never heard him called anything but Squirrel," said Mary. "Well, I wish you'd ring up McCulley at the bowling alley, and ask him if the Squirrel's first name is Elmer. If it is, there's a letter here for him." 1 ' Humph! "sniffed Mary. "Who'd write to that simpleton!" But she telephoned, and half an hour later1 the Squirrel, shabby, unshaven, and apologetic, appeared at the general-delivery window. ' * Wicks, ma 'am, "said he, blushing. * ' Elmer Wicks." "And I shouldn't be surprised," said Mary, later, "if it was the only letter he ever got in his life. Addressed with a typewriter, it was, and from Waterloo, Iowa. There wasn't any name on the come-back; only a post-office box. No, it wasn't from a girl; it was in a business envelope." The next morning the Squirrel's cot in the storeroom was empty, and his pasteboard suit case was missing. The disappearance of a prominent citizen is never more than a nine days' wonder; the Squirrel was forgotten in three. The league season in Booneville limped on to a disastrous finish. In last place since the end of July, the club had not been able to pay expenses, and Joe Darnell, loudly proclaiming his willingness to sell the franchise, was greeted with ironical mirth. "Sell it!" said Bogart Ledbetter. "You'll have to pay somebody to take the darned thing off your hands! You don't think anybody is going to be fool enough to buy a dead horse, do you?" "I'll sell it or throw it up," said Darnell savagely. "I'm not sucker enough to hold the bag. The folks in this town make me sick! Here I've given 'em league baseball all these years, and the first time the team has a streak of bad luck, what do they do? Quit me cold. A fine lot of sports, they are! But they won't hook me, Bogey. I'll get rid of this old franchise some way!" 1 ' Put it in a basket with a bottle of milk, and leave it on somebody's doorstep overnight," suggested Ledbetter. "That's the way they do with foundlings. If you quit, Joe, what's go ing to become of Burgess, and all the boys on the club? They're such rotten ball players that they can't get a job anywhere else. This is the worst team in the worst league in the whole world. Where do they go from here?" "Let 'em go to work!" snapped Darnell. "It'll do 'em good!" "Fine!" said Ledbetter. "As ball players, they're a swell lot of farm hands. Your pitchers ought to be pitching hay, and they would be, but they haven't got control enough to heave alfalfa through a barn door. Your infielders would make good short-order cooks, the way they scramble the eggs, and spill the beans. As for Burgess, he ought to make a fair mule driver, the experience he's had. Yes, let 'em go back to work, by all means." "They won't work me!" said Darnell. The Booneville season was to close on a Sun day, the Maroons playing a home engagement with the Piketown Reds. It was a six-club league, and the Reds were safely intrenched in fifth place. The outlook was a dreary one, and the final harvest of quarters and halves prom ised to be small. On Saturday morning, Bowlegs Burgess was on his way to the Silver Star Saloon for a last conference with Joe Darnell. The manager of the Maroons wore his hat tilted down over his eyes, and his hands deep in his trousers pockets, and, as he walked, he muttered under his breath. This habit is common with managers of tail-end teams, and the reason is not hard to find. Human misery seeks an outlet in words, the manager has much to explain, and, as nobody will listen to the unfortunate whose team is in last place, he talks to himself, certain of a sympathetic listener. 1 1 It's all off," said Burgess. "If I didn't have a wife and two kids, it wouldn't be so tough, but— A familiar figure approached, coming from the direction of the railroad station. Burgess spied it, and a startled exclamation burst from him: "Wiclcseyl" It was indeed the Squirrel, but he had under gone a transformation. He was dressed in a cheap black suit, which draped his angular form in straight, ungraceful lines. He wore a black satin tie of the sort which fastens with an elastic band, and on his head was perched a black derby hat of an almost forgotten shape such as may be encountered on the rural free delivery routes. He resembled a cross between an undertaker and a scarecrow, and, as he drew near, his heavy, black shoes squeaked dolorously. "Well, you old rascal!" said Burgess. "Where have you been all this time?" "Up in loway," said Wicks, solemnly shak ing hands. "The devil you have!" said Burgess. "Where did you get all the clothes? You look like a dude." "I — bought 'em," said Wicks, and, taking out a large handkerchief, he proceeded to mop his face with great vigour. "Must have a job somewhere?" suggested Burgess. Wicks shook his head. "No," said he. "I ain't been working." "Come back to stay a while?" "Dunno. I might." Extracting information from the Squirrel was like drawing the cork from a bottle with out a corkscrew. The men stood facing each other for some seconds, and then Wicks picked up his ancient suitcase, and fell into step beside Burgess. "I wasn't going no place in particular, "said he, "so I'll walk along with you. How's things?" "Rotten!" said Burgess. "I guess you've got here in time to see the finish of a league team in this town." "What do you mean?" "Well, things have been going from bad to worse all season, and now Joe wants to sell out or throw up the franchise and quit. I've been trying to get some of the sports to chip in and buy the club from Darnell, but they can't see it." Burgess had found his sympathetic listener at last, and floodgates were opened. "You know me, Wicksey. I'm no John Mc-Graw, but I can win ball games if I've got any thing to win 'em with. A winning ball club in this town would be a good investment, but I can't get anybody to touch it because Joe let the team go all to seed — wouldn't spend a nickel on it. I told him how it would be. I wanted to go out and grab a few live ones; I wanted to pay better salaries, and get the money back out of increased attendance, but Joe couldn't see it that way. He was all for picking up kids and tramp ball players that he could get for nothing. I tell you, Wicksey, you can't draw money less you've got a winning club, and you can't have a winning club without players — good players — and they won't work for nothing. Joe has let the property deteriorate, and now when he wants to sell, they all give him the laugh. I don't know what we're going to do. Joe hasn't paid us for the last three weeks — he says he's waiting to see how he comes out at the end of the season. That's the bunk. He's going to try to beat us out of three weeks' dough. Joe Darnell has had this club for twelve years, and the first season he loses money, he wants to throw up his hands and quit. Lord! I wish I could get hold of a man with some sporting blood and a bank roll! If I could find somebody to buy that ball club, and spend a little money strengthening it, I'd build him up a pennant winner, sure!" "I'll buy it," said the Squirrel. Burgess halted in his tracks. "Huh? You'll what?" "I'll buy the ball club," repeated Wicks calmly. Burgess stared hard into the Squirrel's placid countenance, in which was no sign of emotion of any sort; he strove to hold the wavering blue eyes, but they slipped beyond him. A sudden suspicion flashed into the manager's brain. He laid his hand on Wicks' arm with the cautious gesture of one establish ing relations with a dangerous horse, and when he spoke his voice was soothing in the extreme. "Why — why, of course, you'll buy the ball club!" said he. "Sure you will! Ain't it funny I never thought of you before! You'd be the very man. Buy the whole darn league if you want to!" "I could do that, too," said the Squirrel, "but it would be syndicate baseball. I think I'd rather own just one club." "Of course! Of course!" said Burgess hastily. "You're right about that, Wicksey. And when you get ready to buy, I'll manage the club for you." "I'd rather have you for a manager than anybody else," said Wicks. "Now you're shouting, old boy! Yes, indeed, and I'd manage it right for you!" Burgess' eyes were darting up and down both sides of the street, as if seeking for something, but he continued to babble reassuringly, as fast as his tongue could wag: "We always got along first rate, didn't we, Wicksey? Always the best of friends! And that time I let you out — that was all Darnell's fault. I wanted to keep you. Sure I did. Ask anybody. Don't you remember, I told you that, so far as I was concerned, you could stay till hell froze over if you never won a game? Don't you remember that?" "No, I don't remember that," said Wicks. "Sure you do! Sure you do! "Burgess was still clawing at the Squirrel's arm. "Nine years you pitched for me, and we never had a cross word! Gimme another pitcher like you, and this club wouldn't be in last place to-day! Not on your life! I've always said that. I told Joe Darnell so. 'You chump,' I says, 'you went and canned the only pitcher I had. You wouldn't lemme keep Wicksey, and now you'll see where we finish.' That's what I told him. You can ask anybody if I didn't." "I can pitch yet," said Wicks, with immense conviction. "I'll bet you can!" cried Burgess, slapping him on the back. "Remember how you used to shoot that third strike over? None of 'em could touch that fast ball, could they? Yes, and it would have made a sucker out of Ty Cobb, or the German!" Light flickered behind the wavering blue eyes. "I can shoot the third one over just as good as I ever could," said the Squirrel. "I ain't had any real fun since I quit pitching. Seems like I never did have any real fun except when I was in there working. There's a lot of games left in me yet." "You're good for ten years more, "said Bur gess recklessly. "And you're going to pitch again, that's what you're going to do! Leave it to me, and I'll fix it all up. You can pitch as often as you want to." "When I buy this club," said Wicks, with terrible distinctness, "I'd like to see anybody stop me from pitching. Come on; let's go up to Joe's place, and buy it now." "Whatever you say, "agreed Burgess. "I'm the best friend you've got. You know that, don't you, Wickseyf" Burgess left the Squirrel standing in front of the bar in the Silver Star Saloon, and hurried into the back room, where he found Joe Darnell moodily contemplating a pile of unpaid bills. "Telephone for a cop!" whispered Burgess. "Squirrel Wicks is out there, plumb crazy! Clean off his nut! I told you it would come some day!" "Wicks!" ejaculated Darnell. "That loon back again? Why, he wouldn't hurt a fly!" "He's raving, I tell you!" urged Burgess. "I've had a terrible time stalling him along! Hurry up! Get the cop!" "Pshaw! He ain't violent, is he? What does he want?" "He says he wants to buy the ball club." "Good night!" gasped Darnell, reaching for the telephone. "I'll tell the chief to send over a man on the run. You go out and keep him pacified — stall with him — agree to everything. I'll be there in a minute with a 'sap' in my pocket. We'll string him along until the bull comes. Hello! Hello! Police station, quick!" A moment later the proprietor of the Silver Star Saloon strolled out of the back room, eight inches of rubber hose stuffed with duckshot in his hip pocket. He smiled across the bar at Wicks, who was leaning his elbows upon the mahogany in a well-remembered pose. "Well, Squirrel!" said Darnell pleasantly, "it looks like old times to see you back. How've you been? Have a drink?" "I'm pretty well, I thank you," said Wicks, "and I don't drink. You know that." There was an awkward pause. "Burgess tells me," said Darnell, "that you want to buy the ball club." "I was thinking of it," said Wicks. "I don't know anybody I'd rather sell it to than you," said Darnell, winking at Burgess. "Yes," said Wicks, "lots of people wouldn't want to buy a ball club. I do." "Sure you do!" prompted Burgess. "And Joe wants to sell it to you. Don't you, Joe?" "He's the one fellow around this country that I would pick out," said Darnell. "You see, Squirrel, I'm a little particular about who I sell this club to. There's some people" "How much?" asked Wicks suddenly. His direct method was rather disconcerting to Darnell. "Well, you see," said the owner of the franchise, beaming upon Wicks, "I've got two prices. One price would be for a fellow I liked, and that would be a low price. The other price would be for a fellow I didn't like, and that would be pretty high. Now, I like you fine, Squirrel, and I always did. You can have that ball club for a song and sing it yourself. Words and music. I'm an easy man to do business with if I like a fellow. You could have that ball club for a lot less money — cash, you understand — than anybody I know. That's because I'm a friend of yours." He thrust his thumbs into the armholes of his vest, and rocked back and forth upon the balls of his feet. "That's how strong I am for you, Squirrel!" "How much?" repeated Wicks, striking the bar with the flat of his hand. Darnell glanced anxiously toward the door. "Cash?" he asked. "Cash," answered Wicks. "Eight here on the bar." Darnell's eyes left the door, and his right hand crept back to his hip pocket. It was at this point that Burgess began to realise that he was on the same side of the bar with Wicks; Darnell could afford to smile; he was protected by breastwork of brass and mahogany. "Well," Joe began slowly, "seeing that it's you, and that you're a friend of mine, I'd say three thousand dollars right here on the bar. That's dirt cheap for a real ball club, Squirrel, and if you wanted time — I — I — sa-a-y! What the "Darnell paused, with his mouth open, and not without cause. At the words "three thousand dollars," Wicks had plunged his hand into the inner pocket of his coat. The hand reappeared in an instant, grasping a roll of currency about the circumference of a strong man's arm. "Wha-what is this?" gasped Darnell. "A frame-up? Whose money is this?" "Mine," said Wicks. "All mine. One hundred — two hundred — three hundred — four hun— "Everything is off!" squalled Darnell, his piggish eyes upon the roll of bills. "I don't want to sell! I've changed my mind. It was all a joke!" "It's no joke," said Wicks. "Burgess is a witness." The manager of the Maroons recovered his staggered faculties with a whoop of delight. 1 ' You bet I'm a witness! "he shouted. "You made him a price, Joe, and he accepted it! You've sold a ball club!" Wicks continued counting calmly until a great ragged pile of currency lay upon the bar. Then he put the roll, slightly but not appreciably reduced by the transaction, back into his pocket, and pushed the ragged pile toward Darnell. "Three thousand dollars on the bar," said he. "There it is." Darnell gazed at the money with bulging eyes. Then he picked up one of the gold certificates, and held it to the light. "By golly, it looks good! "said he. "Where did you get it?" "From a lawyer," explained Wicks. "My father got mad at me for wanting to be a ball player, and I ran away from home. When he died, there was nobody to leave this to but me, and— I got it. That's all." "Suf-fer-ing mackerel!" breathed Burgess. "How much was it, Wlcksey?" "One hundred and thirty-two thousand dollars — in cash," said the Squirrel. Joe Darnell gave up a groan, which came from the soles of his shoes. "And I could have grabbed him for ten thou sand as easy as not," said he. "If you wanted more money you should have asked for it," said Wicks. "Three thousand — on the bar — was what you said." "I won't sell!" howled Darnell, with a sud den burst of fury. "I won't! I won't!" "All right, Joe. You won't." Bowlegs Burgess suddenly thrust himself into prominence. He scooped the pile of currency from the bar, and placed it in Wicks' hands. "What are you butting in for?" snarled Darnell. "Keep out of this!" "I'm butting in because I'm Wicksey's man ager," said Burgess quietly. Then to Wicks, who was showing signs of impatience: "It's all right, old boy! let me deal with this stiff." Burgess moved down toward the end of the bar, and Darnell followed him, whispering excitedly: "What's the matter with you, Burgess? Get onto yourself! Here's the softest thing that ever lit in this town! I can get the whole bundle away from him, and I '11 give you a split of it! Take a tumble, and help me push it along!" Burgess smiled a nasty smile. "Taking candy from babies is the best thing you do, ain't it?" he sneered. "You ain't go ing to rob this poor nut because I won't stand for it, see? He's offered you three thousand dollars in regular money for a ball club that ain't worth three thousand cents. You've been trying to sell out for fifteen hundred, and every sensible man in town has been giving you the laugh. Now, here's something that you can write in your little brown hat; it's three thou sand dollars or nothing. Take it or leave it!" "But won't you listen to reason?" pleaded Darnell. Burgess turned on his heel, and walked away. "Come on, Wicksey," said he. "We'll go and buy the Piketown club." 1 ' Hold on a minute! "said Darnell. "What's the hurry?" A policeman dodged in at the door, and looked around the room. "What's coming off here?" asked the officer. Darnell looked at the money in the Squirrel's hands, and then he looked at the obstinate angle of Burgess' chin. "All right," he grunted. "You've bought a ball club, Wicks. Gimme the money!" Officer Shea stuffed the handcuffs back into his pocket, and looked foolish. "I — I thought there was some trouble here," he stammered. "The chief said" "No trouble at all," said Burgess. "Shea, meet Mr. Wicks here. He's just bought the baseball club." "Yes, and I'm going to pitch to-morrow," said Wicks. News of any sort wears wings in a small town. Before nightfall it was truly amazing how many of the citizens of Booneville had placed themselves on record as believing that Sq — Elmer Wicks had never been anything but — er — eccentric. On the closing Sunday afternoon, the Maroon park held the banner crowd of the season, and when Owner Wicks, in his faded and patched uniform, stood forth to warm up with his sorry pitching staff, the cheers rattled the shingles on the grand-stand roof. Bowlegs Burgess, who had the germ of diplomacy concealed somewhere upon his person, held an intimate conference with Lawrence McGuigan, chief of the Piketown Reds. "Now, here's the way she stands," said Burgess. "The Squirrel is just as much of a nut as he ever was, but he's got money now, and people with money have to be humoured. All these rich guys have their hobbies. John D. plays golf; Andy Carnegie gives away libraries. Wicksey's hobby is wanting to see 'em swing their heads off at that third strike. What do you say?" Lawrence McGuigan needed no brick house to fall upon him. He grinned from ear to ear. "What's the closing game of the season — between friends?" said he. "It wouldn't sur prise me a bit if the Squirrel got the season's strike-out record this afternoon." "Fine!" said Burgess. "But don't burlesque it too strong. Sometimes I think this guy ain't all crazy at that, and remember he always did have baseball sense. Make it look as good as you can, Larry, and the Lord bless you for an understanding mick!" That game is still a joyous memory in Booneville. For nine innings the Squirrel hurled the ball in the general direction of the plate, and no less than eighteen of Piketown's noble athletes fanned the air with giant swings. No third strike was called that afternoon. The final score was eleven to nothing, in favour of the Maroons. The rays of the setting sun, filtering through the cracks in the dressing-room, gilded the new owner of the Booneville franchise, as he sat on the bench in front of his old locker, and thoughtfully explored a knot hole in the floor with the toe of his left shoe. Bowlegs Burgess, half in and half out of his other shirt, grinned across the litter at the familiar picture. "Does it seem like home to you I" he asked. "You bet!" said Wicks fervently. "Say, Burgess!" "Well?" "How — how did I look in there to-day? Pretty good?" "Great!" said Burgess enthusiastically. "You had everything, Wicksey! Speed and control, and a lot of stuff on the third one always. Nothing to it, you're some southpaw yet!" The Squirrel heaved a long sigh, and sought the knot hole again. "Well," said he, "I'm glad I looked all right, because I felt rotten. Seemed to me they swung at a lot of bad ones. I don't think I'll take a regular turn in the box next season. I'll just pitch on my birthday and the Fourth of July, eh?" "Whatever you say, Wicksey. You're the boss." "I don't want to pitch myself out," said the Squirrel gravely. "I want to last as long as I can." Squirrel Wicks is still the owner of the Booneville franchise in the D. L. D. League, and Bowlegs Burgess is his manager. Salaries have been raised, and the Maroons are on their way to a pennant. In spite of the fact that the owner has been beaten by overwhelming scores in his last three starts, Burgess insists that he is still "some southpaw."