I O U

BELIEVE me or not, it wasn't the seventy-five fish that hurt. I have often been touched for that much money without bleeding internally, and if I have luck I expect to be touched for a lot more. I have had enough bees put on me to stock an apiary; one stinging more or less is nothing whatever in my young life, but I liked Dudley W. Fowler — liked him a whole lot; and it was finding out that Dudley wasn't real folks that hurt me. He was welcome to the money, but I hated to change my opinion of him. Did you ever feel that way about a fellow? Then, again, I owed Dudley something; the town of Brownsville owed him something; and, though his method of collecting wasn't exactly what it should have been, we were disposed to let him get away with it, until — but that's the story. Brownsville has always been baseball crazy. We have never had a league of our own to cheer for; so we have adopted the whole bunch, majors and minors. Every time a World's Series comes along there is a riot outside the office of the Sentinel, with arguments and fist fights, and everything that they have in New York and Chicago. We read the sporting papers, and we feel as much interest in the big fellows as if we lived in their towns and saw their games. In the fall of 1912 we were pretty well stirred up over the approaching World's Series be tween the Eed Sox and the Giants. One after noon late in September, when we were figuring what McGraw ought to do to win, Archie McNutt came rolling in from Pleasanton. Pleasanton is the cool summer nest of the idle rich, north of here, in the mountains. It hasn't a daily paper or a Chamber of Com merce, but it has nine garages and two country clubs, and golf is about as far as Pleasanton goes in the sporting line. Archie McNutt is one of their leading citizens, on the links and elsewhere, and he hasn't been entirely spoiled by the money his father left him. He listened to our conversation for a while, humped down behind the wheel of a long, narrow roadster, and then he said he didn't see how we could milk so much excitement off the end of a telegraph wire. "I would rather," says he, "watch two scrub teams battling on a sand-lot for a keg of beer than read the returns on the hottest World's Series ever staged.... Why don't you organise a team of your own and have something to get excited about?" "Oh, we got plenty of players," says Harley Freeman, "but they ain't any teams to play with, 'less we go outside the county." "Is that so?" says Archie. "I'll get up a team and go against you." "You forget we ain't got any golf clubs," says Old Man Sherwood. Archie overlooked the sarcasm. "Tell you what let's do," says he: "Let's have a little World's Series of our own, the first team winning four games to claim the championship of the county. Donate the gate receipts to charity." "Hold on! "says I. "If Pleasant on wins you can do anything you like with the gate receipts. If we win the boys can split up the dough. They ain't squeamish about their amateur standings." "Any way you like," says Archie. "All I want is two weeks' time to get my men in shape." They voted me the manager of the Browns ville team, with authority to go ahead and get one together. Jack Jamieson helped me a lot. He was in the American Association for two years before he decided to quit baseball and go into business. He was still a cracking good man behind the bat, though not so fast on his feet as he used to be. Jack looked over the volunteers for the different positions and picked the best of the talent that offered. We had outfielders galore, and infielders all over the place, but we seemed to be up against it for first-class pitching. Plenty of the Brownsville boys thought they could pitch, when all they had was a roundhouse curve or a fast straight ball. Jack tried out all the candidates before he made a report. 1 'I guess we'll have to take Charlie Nobles," says he. "He's got more than any of the others, which ain't saying a whole lot; but he may be able to put it over on a team of re formed golf players." The first game of the championship series was played on our home grounds and was a painful surprise to Brownsville. Archie McNutt pulled a lot of rah-rah boys on us; including a young pitcher that would have been trying out with Detroit if his dad hadn't owned an automobile factory. This pitcher's name was Sassman; he was wrynecked and knock-kneed and left-handed, and he pitched baseball as hard as if he depended on it for his daily bread. We only got two runs off him, while the Pleasanton boys were walloping Charlie Nobles all over Recreation Park. The final score was eleven to two, which made us feel pretty sick. That night Jack came over to my place — the De Luxe Billiard and Pool Parlours — and we held a council of war in the private office. "Nothing to it!" says he. "Nobles ain't good enough for these college athletes. All he's got is a groover, and they laid for it and murdered it. If we don't pick up a real pitcher somewhere they'll take four straight from us." Well, that wasn't any news to me; but where were we going to get this twirler? I didn't know; Jack didn't know — and just then there was a knock at the door and in walked Dudley W. Fowler. He was a tall, slim, good-looking chap in those days, not more than twenty-three or twenty-four, with the nerve of a burglar and a smile that warmed you in spite of yourself. "Ah, gentlemen," says he, taking off his hat, "something tells me that I'm the man you're looking for." "What told you we would be looking for anybody?" asks Jack, short and snappy. "My friend," says Dudley, "it was the sama thing that told me you've been some catcher in your time. I never laid eyes on you before, this afternoon, but I know a real ball player when I see one. You loomed up in that company — believe me!" "Well?" says Jack. "What of it?" "If you had a pitcher to work with you," says Dudley, "you could beat these dudes from Pleasanton. A good curve ball would make suckers of 'em." "Well?" says Jack. "Oh, nothing," says Dudley, "only I've got a good curve ball — among other things. I hate to talk about myself, "says he, reaching into his inside pocket, "but you might glance over these newspaper clippings. Fowler, that's me — Dud ley W. Fowler. I could use a job in my business right now, and you could use a winning pitcher. How about it?" "Sit down," says Jack, "till I look these over." That was how Dudley W. Fowler came to Brownsville. n The newspaper clippings said that Dudley was considerable pitcher, and they didn't give him any the best of it at that. Jack took him out to the park the first thing in the morning to see what he had in stock, and by eleven o'clock the old boy was back again, all lathered up with good news and enthusiasm. ' * He's a wiz! "says Jack to me. ' * Got every thing a pitcher ought to have — a grand curve ball, a swell fast one with a hop on it, and control till you can't rest. Darned if I can figure how he's managed to keep out of the Big Leagues with all that stuff. I'm going to cover a bunch of that Pleasanton money they were shoving under our noses yesterday — that's how good I think he is!" The schedule called for two games a week-Tuesdays and Saturdays — alternating between the towns. The second game was played in Pleasanton, and the automobile crowd unbelted their idle bankrolls and bet us to a stand still, giving us odds of seven to five. That was because they saw poor old Nobles out there, pretending to warm up. I left Charlie on exhibition until Harley Freeman flashed me the signal that all our money was down; and then Nobles came back to the bench and Dudley went out to unlimber a few. A chill came over the aristocrats as they watched the stranger warm up. They seemed to feel that we had taken a mean advantage of them. Archie, who was playing second base for his team, tried to start an argument. "Of course," says he, "nothing was said about barring professionals, but we understood this was to be confined to the townspeople." "Yes," says I; "and, of course, it ain't any crime to spring a crack college battery on us, is it? This knock-kneed pitcher of yours turned down some Big League offers. Want some thing soft?" "But you had Nobles warming up." "Well, what of it? Since when has a man ager had to pitch a man just because he warms him up?" "It's sharp practice," says Archie. "But it's going to sharpen the competition a whole lot," says I. "This won't be any eleven-to-two slaughter — take it from me!" It wasn't. Young Mr. Sassman straightened out his wry neck and pitched all the ball he knew how, which was a lot, but the team behind him was about as much help as a sore thumb. They fielded well enough, but they couldn't do a thing with Dudley. His curve ball had them all guessing; and when they thought they had solved it he switched to his fast one and kept the ball high up and too close for comfort. Early in the game old Jack got hold of the pill with the bases full, and the three runs he drove home were the only ones scored in the contest. That night there was a celebration in Brownsville, with Dudley W. Fowler the guest of honour. Another youngster might have puffed up a bit under all the kind words and compliments, but he only grinned in a modest way and handed a lot of the credit to Jack Jamieson. He said a man couldn't help but pitch winning ball to such a catcher; and naturally this made a big hit with our folks, and didn't hurt Jack's feelings any, either. Late that night Dudley showed up at the pool room and went into the private office. When I opened the door he was sitting at the table with his head in his hands. "What's the matter?" says I. "Sick?" "No, "says he, looking up and sighing. "No. Just worried — that's all. Don't you care. It ain't any of your trouble." "What's on your mind, son!" "Nothing much," says he, and sighs again. "You better tell me about it. Maybe I can help you." "Thank you just the same. It's mighty fine of you, but — I'll get through somehow. I can ask my folks to wait a few days." "Ask 'em to wait for what?" He lit a cigarette and began to walk up and down the room. "Well, you see," says he, "it's like this: My old man is in the hospital out in Denver, and he's got to have an operation. My sister wrote me about it last week, and I sent her all the dough I had — all I could spare, anyway— and I thought they could get along on that until I could pick up some more. It seems it wasn't enough. Now you've guaranteed me two hun dred dollars if we win this series, and you've told me I won't lose anything even if we get beat; but we won't know for two weeks how we come out— "Don't let that worry you for a minute!" says I, reaching into my pocket. "I won quite a little chunk on the game to-day, and you're welcome to any part of it." "Thank you just the same," says he, "but I'd rather not borrow. I have a kind of a dread of getting into debt. Maybe I can struggle through some other way — hock my watch, or something." "Rats!" says I, pulling out my roll. "How much?" "You're an awful good guy!" says Dudley. "Got a heart like an ox, and — well, if you insist, say seventy-five. It's a life-saver to me— that's what it is — and I'll slip it to you after the series is over." "Then or any other time is all the same to me. You're as welcome as the flowers in spring." And I wouldn't have said it if I hadn't meant it. He could have tacked a century onto that seventy-five just as well as not. "I'll give you my I 0 U," says he, fishing out an envelope and a pencil. "Oh, never mind that! Forget it!" "I don't want to forget it," says he, writing on the back of the envelope. "There! 'I 0 U seventy-five dollars. Dudley W. Fowler. September, 1912.' That's just the same as a promissory note, ain't it? "He signed his name with a lot of curlicues and flourishes, and handed the envelope to me. "Keep that as a record," says he, pouching the seventy-five fish like a hungry pelican. "Gee, you don't know what a load that takes off my mind! There's only one thing tougher than being broke, and that's having to let people know about it. The folks here have treated me so well that I'd kind of hate to have them find out that I — I "He stopped and looked at me. "I ain't going to tell anybody," says I. "This is a private matter — between us two." "You are a good guy!" says he, dropping his arm across my shoulders. "I guess I'm sensitive, because I've never had to do this before." "When you've borrowed as much money as I have," I says, "you won't think any more of it than you do of taking a drink of water.... What did you say ailed your old man?" To cut our own little World's Series to a composite box score, Dudley pitched four games for us and won them all. Archie McNutt said he'd rather lose with a team of gentlemen than import any muckers, and he had his wish. Sassman stuck to the bitter end and took his trimmings like a little man, and Dud ley became more and more of an idol in Browns ville. The last game was played on our grounds; and that night Old Man Sherwood gave the boys a banquet at the Palace Hotel and al lowed several of the fans to buy in at two dollars a plate. Old Man Sherwood runs the hotel; and, as he served the regular seventy-five-cent dinner to the banqueters, he didn't lose anything by letting the players in free. Jack Jamieson and I had a little confidential talk before we went over to the hotel. We had just finished figuring up the total gate receipts. They ran almost double what we had counted on. "Let's see: We promised Fowler two hun dred in case we wTon?" says Jack. "That was the agreement — yes." "And he won the series single-handed, you might say. What's the matter with showing our appreciation in the shape of a cash bonus? We've all won money on the side, betting on the games." The proposition sounded good to me on account of my liking Dudley so well; so we put three hundred dollars in an envelope and took it over to the hotel — the two hundred we owed the boy and another hundred as a bonus. Jack was for having Old Man Sherwood present the dough after making a speech, but I vetoed the suggestion. "Old Man Sherwood always gets balled up when he makes a speech," says I, "and rings in Gettysburg and the Battle of the Wilderness. Chances are he'd want to count the money out on the table before everybody, and make Dudley feel like a pauper. I'll pass him the envelope on the strict Q. T., and tell him there's a little something extra in it to show our appreciation." The banquet, outside of the food, was a great success; and everybody made speeches. Even Jack Jamieson said a few words, to the effect that he had seen 'em come and he had seen 'em go, and that he had caught some pretty fair pitchers in his day, but never one like little old Dud, who was there a million, be sides being the best of good fellers, and ought to be pitching for Mack or McGraw instead of wasting his time in the bushes. We finally got Dudley on his feet; but he couldn't say much, except that he had done his best, and that wherever he went or what ever happened to him he should always re member Brownsville and the best crowd,of real, true sports in the world — which, we took it, was us. When it was all over I took Dudley aside and slipped him the envelope. "Here's what we agreed to give you," says I, "and a little present from the boys, on the side." Now an ordinary roughneck ball player would have counted his dough then and there, to see how much that little present amounted to; but Dudley handled all money matters with delicacy and taste. He stuffed the envelope into his pocket without even looking at it, and kind of choked up. "I'll bet you told 'em to do it," says he, putting his arm across my shoulders. "You are a good guy! You knew how much I needed it, didn't you?" 4 'Yes; but Jamieson didn't," says I, "and he was the one who suggested it." Now if you'll believe me — and what's the use of your reading this little piece unless you do? — I never once thought of that I 0 U in my pocket; and if I had thought of it I wouldn't have fished it out for the world. It might have hurt his feelings — given him the idea that I was Johnny-on-the-spot — like a bill collector on Saturday night — on hand when I knew he had the coin, and taking no chances. I wouldn't choose him to think I was that kind of a man. About noon the next day Old Man Sherwood came toddling into my place, all excited and breathless. "He's gone!" says he. "Gone? Who's gone?" says I. "Why, young Fowler — Dudley." "No!" "Yes, I tell you: yes! I didn't disturb him for breakfast, knowin' he was up late last night; but at eleven o'clock I give him a bell or two. He didn't answer — and good reason why! He wasn't there. Bed hadn't been slept in nor nothin'! The station agent saw him hop onto the through Western Express at three this mornin'" "And you're worried about his bill?" says I. "Hell, no!" says Old Man Sherwood. "I was goin' to make him a complimentary guest anyway, 'count of winnin' some money on his pitchin'. Been a long time since I took such a shine to a youngster. Dog-gone it, I liked him, Bill, and I'm sorry he didn't say good bye—that's all." "You've got nothing on me," says I. "He likely had his reasons for ducking out in a hurry. He'll write, or telegraph or some thing; see if he doesn't." I got my letter the next day, mailed from the train. Dudley said he was sorry he had to leave in such a hurry, on account of start ing West to see how his father was making it; and as for that little business matter he would take care of it as soon as convenient. The letter was signed: "Yours affectionately." Well, that was all right. Seventy-five one way or the other wouldn't make or break me; the boy was welcome to it as long as he needed it. Jack Jamieson got a note from him too; and so did Harley Freeman, and Old Man Sherwood, and some of the others. Evidently Dudley didn't find it convenient to take care of the little business matter, be cause he didn't write again. I supposed it was on account of his not being able to do much pitching in the wintertime, and let it go at that. The weeks slipped into months and gradually we forgot him — out of sight, out of mind, like the saying goes. Whenever I opened up my pocketbook the I 0 U would remind me of him, and I'd wonder where he was and how he was making it. I had confidence in Dudley, and I didn't count that seventy-five as gone entirely. I expected to hear from him some day — when it was convenient. We all got news of him the next spring-news that tore up the town of Brownsville like a forty-two-centimetre shell. We found it in the weekly sporting papers — a paragraph say ing that the Orphans had picked up a promising recruit pitcher in the person of one Dudley W. Fowler, a semiprofessional star of the first magnitude. That was all it said, but it was enough to set us running round in circles and throwing our hats in the air. We were just as proud of Dudley as if he had been born and raised in Brownsville, and it tickled us to think that, after all these years, we were going to have a real Big League representative — some one in whom we could feel a personal interest. We wouldn't have to take a back seat any more when the cigar drummers told us how well they knew Ty Cobb and Christy Mathewson. We could lay back and wait for an opening in the conversation, and then spring it, sort of casual-like: "Speaking of pitchers, when Dud Fowler was on our team" Before we saw that paragraph in the paper we had never been able to crank up much interest in the Orphans, the general opinion being that they were just in there to round out an eight-club circuit and didn't amount to much, anyhow; but it was remarkable how sentiment changed overnight. We hadn't been able to see the Orphans as a pennant possibility, but now we couldn't see anything else; we knew that all they needed to put them in the running was one more good right-hander like Dudley. We forgot all about the Giants and the Cubs and the Pirates, and became Orphan fans through and through — we might have been a suburb of their home town, the way we carried on. We subscribed to a lot of newspapers, so we could get full reports from their training camp, and not a word about Fowler escaped us. They were mostly good words too — they usually are before the season opens — and when the report ers spoke of him as a comer and praised his curve ball, we were as delighted as if they had said something complimentary about us. I wrote Dudley a letter — a long one, telling him all the news of the gang, and how glad we were that he had made the grade and got in where he belonged; but he never answered it. It was mailed about the time the Orphans broke up their training camp and started North; so I figured it might not have been forwarded properly. When the season opened we could hardly wait for Dudley to pitch his first game. Seeing that there was so much interest, the editor of the Sentinel arranged to get a telegraphic bulletin on the Orphan games, inning by inning, with the batteries; and the first time Dudley's name went up on the board the whole town closed up to watch the returns. ' * Hey! Come on over to the Sentinel office. He's goin' to pitch!" That was the word which rallied the Browns ville fans to a man. The Orphans were play ing at the Polo Grounds, and Dudley was up against big Jeff Tesreau and the Giants; but that didn't make any difference to us. We stood there in the street and rooted for him while the ciphers kept going up, and when the Orphans scored three runs in the seventh inning I'll bet they could have heard us in Pleasanton. The Giants got to Dudley for a run in the eighth, but that was all; and there was a hot time in Brownsville that night — believe me! We sent Dudley a telegram congratulating him and telling him to keep up the good work; and the Sentinel ordered a full account of the game from one of the New York papers and smeared it all over the front page under the heading: "Local Boy Makes Good!" That was the beginning of Dudley's winning streak. He went right down the line, taking his regular turn in the box, and all teams looked alike to him. The wise Eastern critics said he was another Alexander, and the greatest discovery of the season; and every time he added a victory to his string there was a riot in Brownsville. You couldn't have told us that Dudley wasn't the greatest right-hander that ever lived — not without taking desperate chances. It was after he won his ninth game that we began to talk about getting up a party to go over to Chicago and watch him hang it on the Cubs. I don't know who proposed it in the first place — the idea seemed to hit us all about the same time. We dug up the National League schedule and did some figuring on dates and things, and then Jack Jamieson took the floor. "If he pitches in his regular turn they'll stick him in Monday to open the series," says he. "We could leave here Sunday night and get into Chicago in time for the game, visit round with Dudley afterward, and get back here Wednesday or Thursday. All in favour The motion carried, with a whoop and a yell. The loudest whooper in the lot was Old Man Sherwood. He said the Palace Hotel could run itself while he was gone. There were nine of us in all — Jamieson, Harley, Freeman, Old Man Sherwood, Dutch Coffman, Frank Sperlock, Eddie McManus, Joe Parker, Marty Leach and me. Some of the boys had to pretend they had important business in Chicago in order to square it with their wives; but the whole town knew better than that, and quite a mob turned up at the depot to see us off. Every man, woman and child wanted to send a message to Dudley, telling him they were pulling for him to get into the World's Series and win it. We carried enough good wishes to make us all hump-shouldered. When we got to Chicago there was just time to send our grips to a hotel Old Man Sherwood recommended as swell, but reasonable, and pile into a couple of taxicabs. Joe Parker, who won all the money in the poker game coming over, thought a street car was plenty good enough; but the rest of us felt we might as well do the thing right while we were at it. "We don't want Dudley to be ashamed of his friends," says Old Man Sherwood, "and we can Dutch-treat the ride, so't nobody will be hurt." "No use in throwing money away," says Joe. "However, I'm with the gang. Let 7er roll!" We reached the park just in time to see the beginning of the game, and there was such a crowd that we couldn't get anywhere near the visitors' bench. This was an awful disappoint ment, because we'd planned to be where Dudley could chat with us when he wasn't working. Instead of that we had to sit where we couldn't even see the players on the bench. The next disappointment came when the Orphans took the field behind a pitcher that we had never seen before — a big left-hander. "Dudley's skipped his turn," says Jamieson; "but they'll surely pitch him to-morrow. We'll just have to wait — that's all." Well, we made the best of it, and rooted our heads off for the Orphans. There were only nine of us, but what we lacked in numbers we tried to make up in noise and enthusiasm. The Chicago fans who sat near us got sore and bawled us out — especially when the Cubs began to score their runs; but we didn't quit. We yelled just as loud when we were four runs be hind as we did when the score was tied. When the game was over Jamieson fought his way down the aisle, hoping to get a chance to speak with Dudley; but he missed him. "It's all right, though," says he when he came back to us. "It's all right. I found out what hotel they're stopping at, and we'll drop in there after dinner and spend the evening with Dudley — take him to a show, or some thing." "Maybe he'll take us to a show," says Joe Parker. "He ought to when we've come all this way just to see him." We had dinner and slicked ourselves up a bit, and then started out to find Dudley. The clerk behind the desk said that he was in the dining-room, and did we want to send in our cards? "Let's not do that," says Old Man Sher wood. "Let's sit down outside the dining-room and let him bump into us when he comes out. Surprise him— that's the stuff! Wait till he gets a flash at this bunch — he'll keel right over and yell!" "Good idea!" says Jamieson. "We'll sur prise him!" Well, we got some chairs and lined up just outside the door, where any one coming from the dining-room would almost have to walk over us. Then everybody lit a cigar and waited. Pretty soon a crowd of young fellows came out, laughing and chatting; and the chattiest one in the bunch was Dudley, the bell cow of the herd! He was just as slim and handsome as ever— maybe a little better dressed than when we had seen him last; but he was the same old "boy, and as much at home in a five-dollar-a-day hotel as if he'd been born in one. He had the same old tricks too; we could see that. He was tell ing a funny story to a short, black-haired fellow that we found out afterwards was Potts, the outfielder, and his arm was laid along Potts' shoulders in a way that I remembered. It was all I could do to keep from jumping up and grabbing him! We sat perfectly still and waited for him to see us and be surprised; but he sailed by the entire Brownsville delegation without knowing it was there — breezed along so close that we could have touched him, and went on out into the lobby, leaving us feeling like a lot of parlour ornaments. "He never saw us!" says Old Man Sher wood. "Is the boy blind, or what?" I couldn't wait any longer, and I was the first man to reach Dudley. He was standing by the street door, pulling on his gloves, and chatting with Potts. He looked at me when I came running up, with my hand out — just looked at me, that was all; and there wasn't any more light of welcome in his eye than you'll discover in the eye of a dried herring. That was what took all the tuck out of me — his perfectly blank, expressionless stare! It paralysed my tongue too. I couldn't think of a thing to say but "Hello there!" "Hello yourself!" says Dudley, giving me the up and down. "You've got the advantage of me, sir. "What's the name, please?" Well, sir, if he had hit me in the face it wouldn't have jarred me any more. While I was trying to get my wits to working and my mouth open, up came the rest of the boys. "Howdy, Dud!" says Jamieson. "How's the ole boy?" "Never better, thanks!" says Dudley, cool as an icicle. "But what's the idea of the mob scene? Haven't you got me mixed up with somebody else — or is this a joke?" "Joke!" says Jamieson. "Don't you know "Joke!" says Old Man Sherwood. "When we came all the way from Brownsville just to see you? Joke?" "Brownsville?" says Dudley, rubbing his chin. "Brownsville.... Oh, you must be mistaken. I never heard of the place in my life." That was a knockout for fair; it landed on every man in our party. "Never heard of it!" says Harley Freeman. "Say, didn't you pitch for our club last fall, and" Dudley shook his head. "Not me," says he. "Must have been some one that looked like me." "And you don't remember us?" About six of the boys spoke at once. ' * How can I remember you when I never saw you before!" says he. Then he turned to his new friend. "I don't know what this is all about, Pottsey; but if we want to catch the first act of that show we '11 have to be moving. These birds are playing hooky from their keeper; let's go be fore they get violent." Before anybody could lift a finger, he was through the doorway and out on the street, with Potts after him. We stood and looked at each other, with our mouths open. I suppose there was a funny side to it, but it didn't appeal to us just then. "Well, I'm damned!" says Old Man Sher wood. "Come on, boys! Let's be gettin' out of here. I got to have room to say what's in my mind!" We made our escape from the place somehow and stood on the street corner, blinking at the electric lights. Some of the boys began to rave and tell what they'd do to Dudley if they ever met him in a dark alley, but all the talk was knocked clean out of my system. I was sick — downright sick. I'd wasted a lot of friendly feelings on a rat, and it was a shock to find out how much rat he was. "Listen!" says Joe Parker when the con- versation calmed down a bit. "I bet I know what ailed him. I kept kind of in the back ground, but I think he got a flash at me when he came out of the dining-room. That's why he said he didn't know us." "A flash at you? Why, what's he got against you, Joe?" "Nothing," says Parker, taking out his pocketbook; "I've got something against him. A little matter of fifty bones. I guess he thought I'd come to collect it.... Here's his I 0 U. Want to see it?" "Fifty dollars!" says Eddie McManus. "Huh! You're only a piker! I got one of them things in my pocket that calls for a hundred!" "Oh, well," says Jamieson; "since we're all going to tell secrets, he got into me for a hun dred and fifty." "My soul!" says Old Man Sherwood, be ginning to laugh. "And me thinking I was the only fool in the bunch!... Did he give you that hard luck story 'bout his father bein' in the hospital at Syracuse?" "It was Denver when he sung the song to me," says I. "Appendicitis, wasn't it?" asks Dutch Coffman. "I paid for one of them operations my self. He put his arm round my neck and told me I was a good guy. I fell. Two hundred fish it cost me. Oh, what a bunch of suckers!" I guess we should have stayed on that corner all night, comparing notes, if a policeman hadn't invited us to move on and not block the traffic. We went back to our hotel and held a council of war. Every man who had an I 0 U dug it up and spread it on the table. There were eight of 'em — he had somehow managed to overlook Frank Sperlock — eight of 'em, all dated and signed with curlicues and flourishes — Dudley W. Fowler. In all, they footed up to nine hundred and twenty-five dollars. Seven of us had kept quiet on account of liking the boy and believing that he would make good some day. Joe Parker said that was his notion, too, but I'll always believe he kept his mouth shut because he thought he was the only one stung and didn't want to own up to it. Dudley had what some women have got — the faculty of making each victim believe himself the only friend that really counted. Speaking for myself I just happened to have that I 0 U in my pocketbook; I wasn't on a collecting tour. Of course if he had offered to come across I wouldn't have stopped him, but I never would have broached the subject. I can't answer for the others. "Now, then," says Jamieson, scooping the I 0 U's all up in a pile, "the question before the house is this: What are we going to do with this jack pot? What's the sense of the meet ing?" Joe Parker was for taking the evidence back to Dudley's hotel and raising a row. "Maybe his boss will do something about it," says Joe. 4 'And we'd look like a lot of cheap sports," says Dutch Coffman. "Joe, you're in this plot on a short ante; so keep quiet. Personally I've kissed my two hundred good-bye already. It was only part of the dough I won on his games last fall; so I'm nothing out by knowing him. "We're all in the same boat, and it's no use to squeal; but darned if I don't hate to let Dudley get away with the raw deal he handed us to night! I'd like to go back at him somehow. Any suggestion for the good of the order?" Well, there were plenty of 'em, but mostly leaning toward personal violence. That wouldn't do. We gabbed for an hour or more, and finally Jamieson said if we'd leave it to him he'd find a way to make Dudley regret his loss of memory. "With the permission of the gang," says he, "I'll take possession of these 10 U's. Under stand me — you won't recover a nickel of 'em. You'll have to be satisfied with getting Dud ley's angora.... No; I won't answer any questions, but we'd better reserve a front box at the ball park to-morrow." "Seeing that we're turning the assets over to you," says Parker, always looking for some thing soft, "you might buy a drink." "I'll do that little thing," says Jamieson "and I'll also give you a toast: Friend Dudley —here's hoping they pitch him to-morrow!" Our hope came true. The box we rented for the occasion was over close to the Chicago bench, but this wasn't the reason we didn't cheer when the umpire announced that Fowler would pitch for the Orphans. We were a little bit worried about Jamieson. He had left the hotel immediately after breakfast and we hadn't seen him since. The Chicago fans didn't cheer the announcement, because they were nervous about this new phenomenon and his unbroken string of victories. We overheard some talk in the box next to us. "Who? Fowler? Say, if this kid has got a goat John McGraw couldn't locate it! You know what that means.... Yep — cool as a cucumber?... Another Alexander, sure!... Impossible to rattle him." I half suspected that something might hap pen before the game started; but I was wrong and there was no sign of Jamieson. Dudley opened up on the Cubs with a lovely assortment of curves, and for two innings he had them eating out of his hand; they didn't get anything that looked like a hit. "He'll make it ten straight! You listen to me!" says the man in the next box. "How about that control, hey? Steady as clockwork! Oh, he's a sweet pitcher!" Dudley came to bat in the third inning and there was a faint ripple of applause in the stands — White Sox rooters, maybe, or visitors, like ourselves. Just as he stepped up to the pan and knocked the dirt off his spikes an attendant in uniform ducked round the corner of the Chicago bench and started for the plate. He was carrying a package under his arm — something big and flat and square, done up in paper and tied with a red ribbon. The attendant handed the package to the umpire, pointed at Dudley, and ran back toward the stand. All at once the Chicago infielders flocked to the plate, the rest of the Cub players boiled up out of the pit, and the Orphans left their bench and gathered round close. ''Hello!" says the man in the next box. "They're going to present Fowler with some thing.... Must have friends here to-day. Old-home-town stuff — what? Ball players are just like kids, ain't they? See 'em all trying to horn in on it!" The umpire took off his mask and cap and make a little speech before he handed the package to Dudley, who didn't seem to know what to do with it. A few people began to cheer. "Open it! Open it!" One man yelled that, away up in the back of the stand; and right there I stopped breathing, for I knew the voice. It was Jamieson's. The crowd took it up: "Open it! Open it!" Dudley hesitated for a second; then he stripped off the paper and held the thing up in front of him. From where I sat it looked like a picture in a frame — but I knew it wasn't any lithograph that was under the glass. The other players crowded in close, with their heads [1641 I O U together; there was a puzzled silence that lasted maybe a couple of seconds, but seemed longer— and then a whoop went up from the Chicago boys. They threw their caps in the air, and hugged one another, and laid down on the grass and rolled every which way, like lunatics. Even the sour old umpire had to smile. Dudley couldn't see the joke at all. He slammed his present on the ground and would have jumped on it if one of the Cubs hadn't snatched it just in time and ran with it to the grand stand, with Dudley after him. The Chicago player tossed it up into the crowd, where Dudley couldn't follow it; and then the fun began. About this time Jamieson dropped into the box, sweating a little, but otherwise calm and cool. "I guess I'm a poor stage manager!" says he. "For pity's sake!" says Dutch Coffman. "What is it? What did they hand to Dudley?" "A Brownsville souvenir, under glass," says Jamieson. "Eight little I 0 U's in a frame, with the motto 'Should auld acquaintance be forgot? ' I tipped some of the ladson the Chicago Club that Dudley's present would be worth seeing, but I wasn't counting on letting the whole crowd in on the joke. They're get ting it, though." Yes; they were getting it. The Brownsville souvenir was travelling from row to row creating a riot as it went. I never saw people laugh so hard in my life. They nearly went into convulsions. It must have been five minutes before the game was resumed, and Dudley had to stand there at the plate and wait. He took three wild swings at three bad ones and ran for shelter; but there wasn't any such thing as getting away from the advertising that the Brownsville souvenir was giving him. It was priming the crowd for his next appearance in the pitcher's box. I don't really need to tell you the rest. You can guess that when Dudley walked out into the middle of the diamond a red-neck fan, with a voice like a foghorn, stood up and made a megaphone of his hands and asked him why he didn't pay his debts. You can guess that when Dudley began his graceful wind-up about a thousand people were struck with the same idea all at once, and started a sort of chant, taking the time of it from his motions — so: "I!... Oh!... You!" That was what found his goat any set it bleating and running in circles. You've seen a player change step to fool the fans when they were whistling the Rogues' March at him? Well, Dudley tried to hurry his wind-up to throw the chanters out of time, and succeeded in throwing away his control, instead. They I 0 U'd him into such a state of mind that he couldn't have thrown a basbeall over a freight car, broadside on. He filled the bases, walked in one run, and then stuck a groover where Zimmerman could find it — and away went the old ball game. The manager yanked him out of the box; and as he started for the bench, with his chin on his chest, about fifteen thousand people stood up and gave it to him all together: "I!... Oh!... You! Oh, you! Oh, you! Oh-h-h, you!" 1 1 That's his finish! "says the man in the next box. "Yes; you can kiss him good-bye right now. They've found out where he stables his goat, and this I 0 U stuff will be all over the league in no time. He '11 never hear the last of it.... Lord, what a dog's trick! I wonder who pulled it on him?" If the man bothers to read this yarn he will at least find out that there was provocation. He won't need to read it to find out that he was right about one thing: The fans and the players on the other clubs simply I 0 U'd Dud ley out of the Big League — I 0 U'd him out of baseball. It was coming to him, of course; but there are times when I feel ashamed of the part I had in it — times when I wish Jamieson hadn't been so hard on the boy. Dudley was no good, and all that; but — well, I'm just soft enough to be sorry.