The Bone Doctor

CHRISTY MATHEWSON can afford to be modest, whether he feels like it or not, because it's a cinch that he'll get plenty of credit and public recognition anyway; but the party who makes me tired is the swelled-up bush pitcher who hasn't done anything yet and ain't sure that he can, but is proud of it just the same. It has been my experience that the bigger a man is, the less he thinks about his own importance and the less liable he is to get the swelled head. It's the little fellow who is likely to run away with the notion that he is there with a million, as we say. This goes for a lot of things besides baseball too. It ain't any trouble for me to be modest. I know my strong points and I know my weak ones, too, even if I don't admit 'em in the clubhouse after we lose a tight game. Some shortstops are better than I am and a lot more are worse. I never broke up any leagues with my hitting or stole the shoes off Jimmy Archer's feet, but the boss keeps on mailing me my contract every year — and he ought to know. I don't make any claim for myself, except that I'm always trying. I go after everything that comes down my side of the diamond, whether I think I can handle it or not. You'd be surprised to see how many of those tough chances I get away with, as the fellow said who tried to kiss every pretty girl he met. But about Jones: he got in bad with me from the jump. Big leagues know pretty much what is going on in the International, the American Association and the Coast League, because it is only a step from those organisations to the majors; but the bird with the Class D League reputation has no license to break into fast company wearing his tail in the air. A minor-league record is a poor thing to pull on real ball players. They have to be shown, and some times they don't believe it even then. The first time I got a look at Jones was down in Texas, where we do our spring train ing. I was sitting on a bench outside the hotel with old Murphy. Murph used to be the best catcher in the National League, but he's so fat now that all he can do is waddle, and he coaches the young pitchers. None of Murph's fat is above his shoulders, though, and he can get more out of a kid pitcher than anybody would think was there. Whenever the boss gets chased off the field for climbing an umpire's family tree Murph takes charge of the team, and he can think faster than any fat man I ever saw. The regulars had just got into town and we hadn't done any real work yet or seen any of the new stock. While we were sitting there, talking scandal and chewing over the winter's news, along came a big, good-looking chap dressed in a gambler's plaid that you could play checkers on, and carrying a cane. He was all diked up with a lot of cheap jewelry, and he looked like a cross between a small-time vaudeville actor and a hick hotel clerk. You could tell right away that he'd never sit up nights hating himself. "Hello, leaf lard!" says he to Murph, and passed on. "Who's the fresh party?" says I. "Oh, him?" says Murph, kind of laughing. "That's a recruit pitcher. He'll stiffen up our heaving staff quite a considerable." "Huh! Who says so?" "Why, he does. His name is Jones and he hails from some little town in Ohio. He tells me he was a curly wolf in the K. K. B. League last season." I said what I thought about Jones and the K. K. B. League; and I didn't put the soft pedal on, either. There are people who rub me the wrong way on sight and Jones is one of 'em. "Ye-es," says Murph; "he's all of that and then some. You stick here a minute, Jim, and I'll go get him. He'll hand you a-many a laugh." "Oh, yes," says Jones, nodding kind of care less when he was introduced. "Jim Garrett, hey? Garrett? Seems to me I've heard the name. Let's see; you're an outfielder, ain't you?" I've seen bushers licked for a lot less than that; and I would have gone back at Jones strong, only I couldn't think of anything to say. I'm not very handy with that quick repartee stuff. "Jones, here," says Murph, helping the play along, "had a pretty good season last year." "Oh, I don't know's I'd say good," says Jones, shooting his cuffs down over his fingers. "I worked in forty games and they beat me five times; but the team laid down behind me. Pitcher can't do it all, you know." "Of course not," says Murph, stepping on my toe. "With decent support," says Jones, "I should have gone through the season with a clean record." "Tough luck!" says I, meaning to be sarcastic. "Yeh," says Jones, not getting me at all. "Oh, I suppose I oughtn't to kick. It might have been worse. I got the season's strike-out record — eighteen men in nine innings — pitched one no-hit game, was lucked out of another by a scratch single, and put over nine shut-outs. With a regular team behind me I might have hung up something for 'em to shoot at for years to come." "Uh-huh," I says— "in the Class D Leagues." Even that didn't fetch him. "Oh, I don't know," says Jones. "Base ball's the same wherever you find it — the same situations; the same plays. There ain't such an awful difference between the major leagues and the minors. Little more speed — that's about all." "Yes," I says, "a little more speed, a little more brains, and a few other things like that." "They play brainy ball in the K. K. B.," says he. "They pull all that inside stuff that you read about in the magazines. When it comes down to hitting there's mighty little difference. I don't know but what we had more.300 batters last season than there was in the National." "But look what they was hitting against!" I thought that one would set him back on his heels, but it didn't. He went right along. "Batters are pretty much the same anywhere you find 'em," says he. "They either hit you or they don't. You let me get one of 'em in the hole and I don't care how good he is. He should worry, not me! A whole lot is in hav ing confidence." "Yes — confidence, control, a change of pace, and a few more trifles," says I. "I'm there with all that stuff— ain't I, Murph?" asks Jones. "Well," says the old boy, cautiouslike, "you're certainly there with the confidence!" "That's half the battle. Lots of ball teams may be able to lick me, but you bet none of 'em are going to scare me. Well, I'll see you [172] i THE BONE DOCTOR later. I got a date to play Kelly pool with the newspaper boys. I'm giving 'em some good stuff. Glad I met you, Garrett. So long!" He went inside the hotel, whistling. "What do you think of him, Jim?" asks Murph. I guess I was explicit enough. I may have overlooked a little language here and there, but I don't believe I did. Murph grinned. "The joke of it is," says he, "that this bird has really got something in him besides conceit. He's got an arm there like braided rawhide and he's the makings of a swell pitcher." "Don't swell him up no more than he is now," says I, "or he'll bust on your hands." "Well," says Murph, "we've got to get him over that. We've got to cure him. I'm hoping that the regulars will be able to take him down a peg or two." "Leave it to us," I says. "I'm going to pass the word to the gang." ii It wasn't any time at all before everybody at the camp had Jonesy's number. Some people are puffed up in a quiet sort of way and take it out in thinking about how good they are. The soft pedal was left out of Jones's make-up entirely. He made more noise about himself than a minstrel band. The boys wrere pretty rough with him in a conversational way, and some of the cracks they made at Jones would have knocked the paint off a cigar-store Indian; but, bless you, the fellow had a rind like a rhinoceros! Shooting at him with anything less than a sixteen-inch gun was simply wasting ammunition. He was armour-plated with conceit from end to end. Jones had chances to make himself popular with the gang, but he booted every one of 'em.v He wasn't satisfied with doing a good thing and leaving it there for folks to look at and admire; he had to turn the spotlight on it and start a ballyhoo. He wouldn't wait for people to give him credit — he took it. For instance, one night we got to talking about fights and fighters, and Jones horned into the discussion. He was in every gab-fest that started, right up to the ears. Jones began three-cheering himself as a fighter. To hear him tell it, he was the White Hope of the dia mond — nothing less. Joe Duffy was sitting there, with his hat pulled down over his eyes, taking it all in. Joe is our prize scrapper. He's licked nearly all the fighters in the league. When he was a kid he started out to be the middleweight champion, but something delayed him. If his war record is ever compiled there will be a string of knock outs on it from here to Timbuktu, mostly cab drivers and all-night waiters. The ball players have got so they won't fight with Joe any more. He hits too hard. "Well," says Jones, "this big lumberjack came at me with his head down, roaring like a bull and swinging both hands. I can always take care of a slugger. I feinted a couple of times, straightened him up and then nailed him on the chin with a right cross. They thought he never was going to come to again." There was considerable silence after that and then Joe Duffy took the cigar out of his mouth. "Where do you bury your dead?" says he. It wasn't so much what he said as the way he said it. A man who couldn't understand English would have caught the insult in every word. Jones looked at Duffy and grinned. "The same place you bury yours, old top," says he. * ' Huh! "sneers Joe. "You're a great fighter —with your mouth." "Una — well," says Jones, "maybe I can fight some with my hands too. It's no trouble to show goods." He'd said enough. The preliminaries were arranged on the spot. Duffy had some five-ounce gloves in his trunk, and the word was quietly passed round for the gang to meet in the big bare sample room on the third floor of the hotel. Jones picked me and Murph to go in his corner and second him. He didn't seem the least bit worried while he was taking off his things and getting ready. "Can this fellow fight some?" he asks. Well, we told him about Duffy. "You want to look out for that right hand," says Murph. "Joe hits like the kick of a mule." "So do I," says Jones. Stackpole, the outfielder, volunteered to act as referee and the hotel clerk held the stop watch. "You won't need that," says Duffy when he saw the watch. "This won't last a full round." Jones was prancing round the room on his toes, shadow boxing a little. He heard what Duffy said. "You never can tell," says Jones. "Any of you gentlemen want to bet on Duffy?" "Cheese!" whispers Murph. "Don't be foolish!" "All the same," says Jones, "I've got two hundred beans down in the hotel safe. You can get aboard at even money as long as the bank roll lasts." "I'll take fifty of it," says Duffy. The two hundred lasted less than a minute. Everybody wanted a piece of it. I would have taken some myself — only, being in Jones' corner, it would have looked bad. "Time!" says Stackpole. "You can always take care of a slugger, can you?" says Joe. "Well, look out for your self!" He came in with a rush, timing a right swing for the jaw, and the fight would have been over but for one thing — Jones' jaw wasn't there. He jerked his head backward without moving his feet, which is a trick that mighty few boxers ever learn. Joe whirled round like a top and before he could set again Jones jabbed him all the way across the room with a straight left. Duffy snorted and rushed and Jones clinched and blocked. "Leggo and fight! "grunts Duffy. "Take your time," says Jones, ''and save your wind. You're going to need it." All through the first round Duffy rushed and swung his right, but he couldn't land it. Jones never stopped popping him with a straight left. "What do you think you're doing — sparring for points?" That was what Joe said when he went to his corner at the end of the first round. "Why don't you come on and fight?" Jones only laughed at him. "That's a neat left you've got there," says Murph to Jones; "but you can't any more than smear him up a little with it. Don't you ever use your right at all, son?" "I'm saving that as a surprise," says Jones. The second round was pretty much like the first. Joe was beginning to grunt when he missed his crazy haymakers, and Jones' straight left was plunging in and out like a piston, landing clean every time, but not doing much damage. "Ten seconds more!" says the hotel clerk. "Oh, well, if that's the case— - "says Jones; and he quit jabbing and began to feint. Duffy dropped his left shoulder and Jones cut loose with a right cross for the jaw, the first he'd used in the fight. It came so fast that Duffy never had a chance to duck and he hit the floor with a bump that cracked the plastering below. "Time!" says the clerk. I'll never forget the expression on Duffy's face as he sat in his chair and looked at Jones. He wasn't hurt so much as he was dazed. A knockdown was a novelty to him. "Keno!" says Jones to us. "I've got him loaded on my little wagon. No use in boxing with this bird any more. From now on I'll trade wallops with him." And that is what he did — only it wasn't really a trade, because Jones was landing and Duffy was missing. Before the third round was half over even the men who had bet on Duffy were yelling at Stackpole to stop the slaughter. Jones was simply tearing him to pieces with a right cross. "Be reasonable, old horse," says Jones to Duffy when Duffy was on the floor for the sixth time. "You're licked. Why don't you quit?" But Joe only cussed him and climbed up again. "I like your spirit," says Jones, "but your judgment is sort of mildewed. Well, of course, if you will have it — there!" The seventh time Duffy didn't get up. It was a clean knockout. He never so much as wiggled an ear until after he'd been carried to his corner and propped up in a chair. Jones went over and patted him on the back and complimented him on his gameness, but Duffy didn't know what it was all about. He was still groggy and couldn't do anything but mumble. It was the first time he'd ever been knocked out. He told me afterward that he had an idea that somebody sneaked up behind him and lammed him with a ball bat. You can imagine how surprised everybody was. We had expected to see some of the conceit knocked out of Jones; but instead of that he had made a monkey out of the toughest fighter in the league and put up a fight that would have been a credit to a cracking good professional. We all got round him and told him that he was a bear and a curly wolf with long claws. That was the time when modesty would have helped him a lot with the boys, but the chump puffed up like a pouter pigeon. He not only admitted that all we said was true, but he called our attention to a few good points about his fighting we had overlooked. "Kid McCoy used to slip a punch with his head," says he, "and Joe Gans could do it too. It sort of comes natural to me." Well, what can you do with a fool like that? We went away and left him, still talking loudly about himself. "He sure is a fighter," says Stackpole; "but the dickens of it is that he knows it better than we do." It was old Murph who sized up the situation to a whisper. "Paying Jones a compliment to his face," says he, "is just like carrying a poor little faded wild flower into a conservatory!" ni Well, it didn't take us long to find out that Jones wasn't going to be a temporary inconvenience, but a permanent pest. No matter what we thought of him personally, we had to admit that as a pitcher he was almost as good as he thought he was, and that meant he'd be with us for the season. Usually a bush pitcher who is trying to get a toehold on a big league pay roll is sort of scared and humble, and willing to take advice from anybody, from the bat boy up to the man ager. "How did I look in there to-day?" is what they always ask. Jones was different. He told us how good he looked in there; he called the manager by the first name; and he took it for granted that he'd be with us when the season opened. By the middle of March he was talking about the high old times he'd have at Coney Island when the club was playing in New York. "I wouldn't worry about Coney Island if I was you," says Pete Bogan, our star left hander. "Coney doesn't open until the summer and by that time you may be in Shreveport or Great Falls, or some other whistling station." "Think so?" says Jones. "At any rate, I haven't got to the point where I'm experiment- ing with a spitter. I'm still satisfied with what I've got." Well, that was one for Bogan right over the middle. Pete's speed isn't what it used to be and he had been trying to get control of a spitter to use in emergencies. On the way North, playing exhibition games every day, Jones laid it on thick. He was in his element, and Solomon in all his glory couldn't have carried his uniform roll for him. You can imagine how it is in the little towns. The sports and the loafers are always anxious to catch a glimpse of the real big leaguers, and they meet the train at the depot and hang round the hotel afterward. Jonesy was the boy who knew what they expected and he gave 'em a treat. He never failed to be the first man off the Pullman. He ordered porters round, shoved the yokels out of the way, and hung round hotel lobbies, with his thumbs in the armholes of his vest. To see him walk across a bush-league diamond and turn up his nose at the ram shackle grandstand you'd have thought he had never seen one before and was used to nothing but steel and concrete. Then the season opened and everything that had gone before wasn't a marker to the way Jones bloated up when he won his first game. To be perfectly fair it was a hard battle and Jones showed considerable class; but he raved about it as though nobody had ever licked a first-division club before. He patronised the veteran pitchers, he lorded it over the recruits, and lie talked back to the manager and called him Jerry. "I guess I didn't make suckers of those birds to-day! "says Jones under the shower bath. "I had 'em reaching into the next county for that slow hook and jumping back from my fast one. If you fellows had been alive behind me they wouldn't have had but two scratch singles." We make it a rule never to quarrel with a winning pitcher, so we let Jones alone. It was a waste of breath to compliment him or to knock him either. There was only one opinion that counted with Jones, and that was his own. After he had won his third game Murph had a conference with a few of us, sitting round the hotel lobby in St. Louis. "Far be it from me to discourage talent," says Murph; "but something has got to be done or Mrs. Jones' little boy will explode one of these days. Yesterday he was giving me the low-down on what ails our catching staff, and he thinks we ought to ship all our veteran pitchers to the Old Soldiers' Home. And he says we could spare a couple of infielders too." I knew what Murph was driving at. In Jones' last game I went away over back of third base and got two fingers on a line drive that no short stop in the league could have handled. "It stands to reason," says Murph, "that this terrible swelling of the bean will be fatal unless we reduce it in some way. What is the sense of the gathering, boys I How shall we apply the treatment?" Well, we argued it, but we couldn't come to a conclusion of any sort. Talking to Jones wouldn't help matters in the least. We had tried that. Arthur Powers, the first-string catcher, suggested that it might be a good thing to heave in a few runs behind him the next time he pitched; but that was out of the question. We figured to have a burglar's chance to break into the first division that season and we couldn't toss any games away. Joe Duffy said that a licking might do him good, but nobody seemed anxious to take the contract. In the middle of the discussion along came Freddy Bullard, our club secretary, with a letter in his hand. "Ah, noble athletes!" says he. "Here's some good news for you. The Chamber of Commerce of Verbena, Ohio, invites us to come over there and play an exhibition game. That fills the open date a week from next Tuesday." Of course there was a general roar from all hands. We get enough baseball in the playing season without barn-storming round the country on our open dates. Asking a lot of big leaguers to play an exhibition game is like inviting street-car conductors to go for a trolley ride. "But listen!" says Freddy. "Verbena is Jones' home town." "That doesn't boost it any with me!" says Hit Shields, the pitcher. "Yes; but they say they'll close all the stores and declare it a holiday," says Bullard. "They [183] ' SCORE BY INNINGS want to see Jones pitch against their home team. They want to give us a banquet. I suppose they'll present Jones with a gold watch or a diamond ring. They'll guarantee us a thousand bucks! It ought to be worth while." "I'm agin' it!" says Bug Bellows, the first-baseman. "Jones can't hardly keep his hat on his head now. After these rubes hand him that Verbena's favourite-son stuff, there won't be any living with him!" "Eight you are!" says Joe Duffy. All of a sudden Murph began to laugh. He laughed until the tears ran down his face. "What's the matter with you?" says I. "Oh, nothing," says Murph. "I think I'll hunt up the boss and have a little chat with him, that's all." He went away, still laughing, and he was laughing when he came back. "Every little thing is all right, boys," says Murph. ' * The boss is going to spare me enough ball players to make a mess and we'll fill that Verbena date." "It strikes me," says Arthur Powers, the catcher, "that you've got an awful gall ribbing up exhibition games for this team! Don't we work hard enough to suit you?" "Calm yourself, my boy; calm yourself," says Murph. "If you'll promise to be good I'll let you go along and see the fun, but you won't do any work. The battery will be Jones and Murphy." "Why, you old tub of lard," says Powers, "you haven't caught a game since Hughey Jennings played short!" "Even so," says Murph, "I may be good enough for Verbena!" Just then Jones came strolling across the lobby, a cane under his arm, and pulling on his gloves like the villain in a melodrama. "Did you hear the news, Jonesy?" asks Murph. "We're going to play an exhibition game in your home town a week from Tuesday." "I've had a letter from the Chamber of Com merce," says Jones. "I suppose they won't be satisfied unless I pitch, eh?" Then he went out into the street, switching his cane. Old Murph looked after him with a grin. "An exhibition game," says he, "does not count in the season's averages." He rolled his eye round the circle, looking at every one of us while he let that remark sink in. "It's just possible," says Murph, "that our friend Jones has overlooked that point, eh?" "I don't know what you've got up your sleeve," says Joe Duffy, "but I'm going to Verbena, Ohio, if I have to pay my own car fare!" Jones pretended to be bored at the idea of visiting Verbena, but his stall didn't fool any body. We could all see that he was tickled to death at the chance of showing off before his old friends and neighbours. While we were in Chicago he touched Freddy Bullard for forty bucks and blew himself to a full-dress suit-hand-me-downs, of course — and one of those wrinkly, soft-boiled shirts that the head waiters are wearing this season. In Cincinnati he got up nerve enough to give the suit a work-out and wore it into the dining-room at the hotel. As he passed our table, all swelled up and not knowing whether to notice us or not, we began to snap our fingers and yell: "Garsong! Oh, garsong!" ''Waiter, where's that soup?" "A little service here, Emil!" Jones never turned his head, but his ears went pink and stayed pink for the rest of the evening. Mit Shields, who roomed with him on the road, said that Jones had been sitting up nights, writing a speech to deliver at the Verbena banquet. "Honest Injun, fellows," says Mit, "I emptied the wastebasket and it was full of pages beginning like this: 'Mr. Toastmaster, ladies and gentlemen: Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking ' And right there he broke every time!" We went over to Verbena on the morning accommodation train, about fifteen of us. The boss passed it up and that left Murph in charge. The last ten miles Jones couldn't sit still in his seat. He was all over the car — looking out the windows, asking the conductor whether the train was on time, and generally behaving himself like a kid on a holiday. There was an awful mob at the depot, which was decorated with flags and bunting, and we tumbled down into the hands of the Reception Committee — a flock of rubes wearing white satin badges with gold letters on 'em — Jones Day. The crowd began to yell: "Where is he? Where's Jones? Fetch him out!" Well, that was Jonesy's cue. He didn't have any idea of getting off with the crowd; he was going to wait until there wasn't anybody in the spotlight but him. Jones let 'em yell for a while and then he hopped down on the platform, his hat in his hand, bowing first to one side and then to the other. An actor couldn't have done it any better. The brass band busted loose, the crowd cheered, and the women waved their handkerchiefs. Jones handed his suitcase to a member of the Reception Committee and away we went for the carriages. It was only three blocks to the hotel, but those Verbena folks did the job up in style. First went the brass band, whanging away for dear life; and behind it was an open-faced hack drawn by four black horses, with pink ribbons in their tails. In the hack, leaning back like the lord of all creation, was Jonesy, smoking a cigar with the president of the Verbena Chamber of Commerce and pretending not to notice the common people on the sidewalks. The rest of us piled into the hacks any old way. Just before the procession started, a lanky, freckle-faced young fellow eased himself into the carriage with Murph, Joe Duffy and me. "My name's Cassidy," says he, "Mike Cassidy. I'm the manager, first baseman and team captain of the Verbena Stars. I guess I know who you are from the pictures in the Guide. Murphy and Garrett and Joe Duffy, eh? Oh, I keep posted on the big leaguers, you bet!" "What kind of a ball club have you got?" asks Murph after shaking hands with Cassidy. "It ain't so rotten," says Cassidy. "The boys may not have all the fine points, but they're fence-busters from away back. We'll give you a battle! Don't worry!" "You're giving Jones a grand blowout," says I. "Huh!" says Cassidy. "I'm the man that taught him all he knows. You ought to seen how raw he was when I first got hold of him! He used to telegraph his fast ball with his foot, and he couldn't hold a runner on the bag to save his life! It took me the best part of one whole season; but I stayed with him morning, noon and night until I made a pitcher out of him. Jones! Huh!" "You did a good job," says Murph. "I don't know whether I did or not," says Cassidy. "Look at him up there in the front hack, pulling the conquering-hero stuff on old man Sherwood, that never knew Jones was on earth when he used to live here!" "Well," says Murph, "a fine reception like this is liable to swell anybody." And he winked at the rest of us. "It oughtn't to make a man forget his old friends," says Cassidy. "And who's he got to thank for this whole business? Nobody but me! Who was it looked up the schedule and found that open date? Me! Who tipped it to the Chamber of Commerce to invite the club over to Verbena? Me! I'm responsible for the entire shooting match; and now what gets my goat is that Jonesy don't hardly know me any more. When he was climbing into the hack I busted through the crowd to shake hands, and what does he do but nod his head at me kind of careless and go right on chinning with that old mummy of a banker! Never even said 'Hello, Mike!' On the level, he passed me up like a white chip, in front of all the crowd too!" "You don't say!" "If I had been trying to borrow money from him he couldn't have slipped it to me any stronger. I suppose he thinks that because I run a poolroom I ain't good enough for him. I always knew Jones was a swelled-up pup, but I didn't think he'd have the nerve to pull that high-and-mighty stuff on me!" "He ought to be ashamed," says Murph; "and I'm ashamed of him. By the way, Cas sidy, you'll have lunch with me, won't you!" "I'd be proud to," says Cassidy. "All right. Bring along some of those fence-busters of yours. I'd like to meet 'em." Well, it made me sick to see the way Jones acted round the hotel! He didn't have a minute to spare for any one but the bigbugs of the town; and when the local ball players began to drift in he gave 'em the fishy handshake and the frozen eye. They got together and held an indignation meeting over in a corner, and what they said about Jones was surely plenty. 1 'And we're the suckers," says Cassidy, 1 1 that went round town collecting money to buy him a gold watch! Old Sherwood is going to present it to him to-night at the banquet. I chipped in two bucks. Say, what do you think of that guy anyway? Ain't he a fright?" We dressed at the hotel; and, just before we left to go to the park, Murph got the bunch to gether and gave us a little talk. Jones wasn't there. He had a party of doctors and lawyers and bankers up in his room, telling 'em all about the Great White Way and life in the big league. I heard him through the transom and he was surely laying it on thick. "Now, boys," says Murph, "the time to jab a hole in a balloon is when it's so swelled up that a little more air will bust it. It's the only chance to save the balloon. Do you get me?" "We got you two weeks ago, in St. Louis," says Bug Bellows; "but what I want to know is, how we're going to throw this game without the crowd getting wise! If we make a flock of errors everybody will be on in a minute. And suppose these farmers can't hit Jones! How are they going to get their runs?" Murph shook his head kind of sorrowful. "Bug," says he, "you are a grand ball player from the neck down! Your arms and legs are all right. What do you suppose I persuaded the boss to let us play this date for? I'm going to be in there catching, ain't I! Well!" "Huh! WThat's that got to do with it? "says Bug. "It's the pitching that these yaps have got to hit — not the catching! We can keep from making runs without much trouble, but how are we going to force 'em on these farmers?" Old Murph can be sarcastic when he tries. "Mister Bellows," says he, "I don't think we'll make many errors to-day. I've got a little plan of my own — an arrangement between myself and me — that ought to do the work. I feel as though I'd like to try it. It ought to help these Verbena fence-busters quite a considerable. It's just possible that it may make Mrs. Jones' little boy look like an awful bad pitcher. I designed it with that notion in view. I '11 try it out; the rest of you go ahead and play ball. If it doesn't get results I'll confer with the rest of you strategists and we'll switch the system. "I would give you all the details, Bug, only I left my brace, bit and cold chisel at home. Nothing softer than steel will ever drive an idea into reinforced concrete. We will now adjourn to the ball yard, and while I try my little bone-shrinking experiment I want the rest of you to play the game. Understand?" "Well," says Bug, "I don't see how you are going to pull it single-handed." For that matter, neither did I. Maybe a few bedridden people missed that ball game, but the rest of Verbena and the surrounding country was on hand. Talk about your big-league baseball fans! If you want to meet the real red-hot article pick a town of about three thousand inhabitants, where every body knows everybody else, and a baseball game is a personal matter. When it comes to rooting for the home boys the small-town fans can trim a big-league crowd to a hoarse whisper. In this case, of course, there wasn't any feel ing of rivalry — not at first. The Verbena Stars were going out of their class. The crowd hoped they would make some sort of a showing and not be disgraced, but the real attraction was Jones. The home folks wanted to see him in action, now that he was a big leaguer and, as they figured it, a national celebrity. Of course Jones had to make another grand stand entry, so there couldn't be any question about whom they were applauding. It wasn't possible for him to come in with the rest of us. We were all on the field before he came in sight, and marching beside him was a tall, long haired man in a shiny frock coat and a slouch hat. I never saw him before in my life, but I recognised him right away — would have recognised him anywhere. He was the local orator, the official bazoo of the village. Every little town has to have a man like that to read the Declaration of Independence on the Fourth of July and do odd jobs of talking in between, which is about all the man is good for, as a rule. Usually these silver tongues get started wrong when they are kids and are named the Boy Orator of the Something-or-other, and it ruins 'em for life. This long-haired, limber-jawed specimen was called the Boy Orator of the Scioto, and he was Verbena's best bet in the windjamming stakes. To hand him all that is coming to him, I must say that when he got the eight parts of speech against the ropes he gave 'em an awful belting. There wras considerable cheering when Jones appeared, and the Boy Orator of the Scioto marched him out to the home plate and stopped. Of course we all gathered round in a half circle, the way ball players do when anything is com ing off. The silver-tongue waited for the cheering to die out — you never saw one of 'em that really wanted it to stop — and then he passed his slouch hat to the bat boy, laid his right hand on Jones' shoulder, hoisted his left hand in the air, as though he was going to make a catch, and let fly with both barrels. A stranger listening to that address would have got the idea that Jones was Mathewson, Ty Cobb, Theodore Roosevelt and Napoleon Bonaparte all rolled into one. In between flowery references to Jones — yes, he called him [1931 SCORE BY INNINGS Verbena's favourite son — he gave us the his tory of baseball from the Garden of Eden down to date; and every little while he would slap Jones on the back and the cheering would bust loose again. The tough part of it was that the rest of us had to stand there and listen until the Boy Orator ran out of language, which he did about half an hour after he ran out of ideas. Jones took nine bows — I counted 'em — and we went back to practice, thankful that it was over. The Verbena Stars were a rawboned, husky lot, and what they lacked in style they made up in main strength and awkwardness — fair fielders, but tremendous hitters. When they swung at a ball and landed they nailed a fence ticket on it. When the game began I was still wondering what Murph had up his sleeve. Of course we all understood that some way or other Jones had to be trimmed for the good of his soul; but it bothered me to figure out how we were going to double-cross him without playing a rotten fielding game, and that would give him the best pitcher's alibi in the world — poor support. You can't say a whole lot to a losing pitcher when he starts telling you about the errors you made behind him. He's got the box score on his side and a box score is a powerful argument. We went first to bat and the Verbena pitcher was good enough to make a goose egg look natural. He was a big, flat-footed, left-handed farmer's boy, with a neck about a foot long; but I've seen worse than him in the big league. He pitched more with his arm than his head; but he mixed 'em up pretty well, didn't tip his fast one, and had sense enough to keep it inside and across the letters. He fanned me in the first inning — fanned me on the level too. I went after the third one just to see what I could do with it, and the break fooled me. When we went out one-two-three I thought the crowd would go crazy! They expected a slaughter from the start and the goose egg set 'em to rooting for the home team as well as cheering for Jones. Up to that time they had regarded the game as a walk-over for us; now they could see that we were just ordinary human beings. Well, Jones strutted into the box, cheered to the echo; and every move was a picture. Pose! He posed all over the place. Everything had to be fancy. He couldn't even catch a ball with out slapping it into his glove, a trick he learned from Pete Bogan, who is something of a grand-stander himself. He laughed at the batters, joshed the umpire and kidded the crowd, and otherwise made a fool of himself. Along with everything else he had a sort of high and mighty air — superciliousness, I think they call it. I can't describe it any other way than to say that Jones looked at those Verbena batters as though he was just about to yawn and sort of blamed 'em for keeping him up. It's a trick that can be done with the nose and [1951 SCORE BY INNINGS one eyebrow, and it's more insulting than a slap in the face. Two of the Verbena Stars twinkled out in succession and then Mike Cassidy came up to the plate, lugging a thick black bat behind him. "Please, mister," says he to Jones, taking off his cap, "pitch to me, if you'll be so kind and condescending. I'll try not to show you up." The crowd couldn't hear what he said, but they laughed and that made Jones sore. He got the sign from Murph and then shook his head. You understand that the catcher signals the pitcher whether it shall be a fast ball or a curve. Murph called for the curve, but Jones shook his head. He was stuck on his fast one, anyway, and he wanted to use it to make Cas sidy look cheap. Well, Jones started to wind up and Cassidy was setting himself for his swing almost before the ball left Jones' hand. Cassidy didn't exactly tear the cover off that ball, but he did the next best thing — he hit the centre-field fence with a line drive; and if it had been three feet higher it would have been a home run. He took a triple on it, but didn't score, for Jones fanned the next man. "Murph," says Jones, when we got back to the bench, "it's been so long since you caught a game that you've forgot how to cover up your signs." "Gwan!" says Murph. "I was covering up battery signs before you was born." "That's just the point. It was so long ago that you've forgot how." "What makes you think so, son!" "I don't think. I know! Cassidy was set for that fast one before I let go of it. He knew it was coming and he hit it a mile." "Rats! These rubes ain't smart enough to steal battery signs." "Well, be more careful, will you!" "Sure!" says Murph. I'll have to explain about this sign-tipping business and why it's important. The main advantage that the pitcher has over the batter isn't in his speed or in the break he can put on the ball. It's in the fact that the batter doesn't know until the ball has left the pitcher's hand whether it's a fast one or a curve; and that leaves him mighty little time for thought and action. He's got to judge the speed of the ball and figure whether it will break or not before he dares to swing at all. Any time the batter knows in advance what sort of a ball the pitcher intends to throw him the advantage is on the other side. The best pitcher in the world can't beat a lot of men who know when to step in on a curve and— what's more important — when to dig their spikes in and set for the fast one. This is why we use coachers who have the knack of getting battery signals from the opposing catcher and flashing 'em to the hitters. A pitcher always knows by the way the batters act whether his signs are being tipped off or not; and when they are it's customary to switch to another code in the middle of an inning. Give me a coacher who can steal battery signs and I'll beat a good pitcher with a weak-hitting club. It's the biggest advantage a team can have. I didn't pay much attention to the argument between Murph and Jones. It sounded to me like the usual pitcher's alibi for Cassidy's long hit and I didn't take much stock in the theory that the rubes were getting the signs, but in the third inning I saw something that opened my eyes. We hadn't made any runs thus far and neither had the Stars. Jones had set 'em down one-two-three in the second inning and was pitching like a wild man. The Verbena catcher led off in the third with a fluke bounder of the sort that looks bad but is really as good as a better one. He reached first base on it and Jones gave me a bawl-out for letting it jump over my head. Then up came the flat-footed farmer-boy pitcher with the turkey neck and a bat like a telegraph pole: One strike. (Curve.) One ball. (Curve.) Two balls. (Curve.) At this point the catcher started to steal. Murph juggled the ball just long enough to make it close and then whizzed it down to me. The umpire called the runner safe, which he was. I saw to that. Jones crabbed some more, and the crowd began to stamp and yell to the pitcher to win his own game. Up to this time Turkey-neck hadn't offered at a ball, Murph gave the sign for the fast one, and that turkey-necked rube was winding up for his wallop before Jones ever let go of the ball! He hit it, too, with everything he had, freckles and all. I heard it buzz as it went over my head to centre field; and but for the fence it would have been going yet. The Verbena catcher went tearing home with the first run, and pretty soon Turkey-neck came lumbering in to second, where he stopped. He couldn't run any better than most pitchers. 1 'That was some hit, boy," says I; "but how did you know the fast one was coming?" Turkey-neck looked at me and pulled up his pants. Then he winked. "A little bird told me," says he. Jones and Murph had their heads together in the middle of the diamond and I strolled up to see what it was about. "They're tipping the signs, I tell you!" says Jones. "You don't half cover 'em up!" "We'll switch, then," says Murph. "Give 'em yourself after this; but, for heaven's sake, don't cross me! I ain't got but two good fingers on all my hands." Well, they changed the code, Murph making a bluff at giving signs, but really taking 'em from Jones. The next hitter crawled up on top of the plate and flattened a curve ball; and the man following him set for the fast one and nearly knocked a leg off Bug Bellows with a drive down the first-base line. A blind man could see that they were getting the signs and Jones stopped the game again while he told his troubles to Murph. The crowd jumped the floor out of the grandstand and asked him why he didn't get a tele phone. "Three runs! Three runs!" they yelled. Then, when it was finally fixed up and a third set of signals was in operation, along came Cassidy to the bat. The switch in the signal code didn't bother him a bit. He let the curves go by, but he nailed the first fast ball for a double, scoring another run. Cassidy arrived at second base feet first and grinning. "You'd better gag your catcher," says he, "or we'll run ourselves to death!" Well, of course I knew Murph was mixed up in it somewhere, but I never thought he would use a method so simple and direct as that one. The old rascal had been squatting there in the very shade of the bats and telling those fellows what to wait for and what to take a slam at! No wonder he wanted to make the Verbena trip! No wonder he insisted on catching the game! No wonder he had been so chummy with the Verbena players at lunch! The rest of the game was a joke to everybody but Jones. He nearly went into hysterics on the bench after the third inning; and in the fourth, with the bases full and two runs home, he swallowed the little lump which was all that was left of his pride and begged Murph to take him out of the box — yes, begged! "This is Jones Day," says Murph; "and it looks like they're going to make it one that you'll remember. The big show is not yet half over." "But what's the use?" wiiined Jonesy. "They've got the signs again!" "Stay in and take it, my son!" says Murph. "It's bitter medicine, but it's good for what ails you. I wouldn't look round for an alibi if I was you. Stay and take it!" And the crowd! You know what baseball fans are like. They're with you and for you just so long as you're winning, but the minute you hit the toboggan it's thumbs down and the sole of the foot for yours; and the more fuss they've made over you as a winner, the harder they hand it to you when you lose. In the sixth inning, when the Stars had enough runs corded up to win a whole World's Series, the fans began to go after Jones, booing and hooting and yelling: "Take him out! Give us a regular pitcher! He's rotten! Take him out! Phew!" Just to make it more binding, the Boy Orator of the Scioto was standing on a chair shaking the wire netting and making more noise than anybody else, which goes to show you how far a public idol can fall in an hour and twenty minutes. It was the last straw. The hostile demonstration against him upset Jones to such an extent that he couldn't have found the plate with a lantern; and after two bases on balls and one of the wildest of wild pitches ever seen in this world Murph sent him to the bench— and did it in such a way that the crowd hooted louder that ever. As a bone doctor Murph was certainly an allopath; no stingy little doses for him! Oh, but it was a beautiful sight to see Jonesy leaving the diamond with his chest caved in against his backbone and his lower lip hanging like a red undershirt on a line! Everything about him seemed to have shrunk. He was a foot shorter; his shoulders sagged; his spikes dragged in the dirt; and if it hadn't been for his ears his cap would have fallen down over his eyes. He was the most pitiable-looking wreck I ever saw, and there wasn't pride enough left in him to stock a flea — a favourite son without a relation left in town! Pete Bogan went in and struck out the next three men — it wouldn't do to let those farmers get too chesty; and when Jones saw that he slid off the bench and sort of faded out of sight, just evaporated, and nobody knew when or which way he went. We gave the Stars a battle in the last three innings and the final score was eighteen to thir teen in favour of Verbena. They didn't make any runs after Jones was taken out. We rather thought the crowd would draw some conclusions from that. When we left the park the open-faced hack with the four black horses was still waiting for Jones; but as he didn't show up and nobody knew where he was, and even the driver didn't seem to care, Cassidy, Murph and me rode back to the hotel in it. We agreed that it was too good a joke to tell to common people. We found Jones later, locked in his room, with the transom down; and it took Murph and seven members of the Reception Committee to persuade him that he really ought to attend the banquet in his honour. He appeared at last, a little pale round the gills, but perfectly tame. A child could have handled him without any trouble. He didn't wear the full-dress suit and he acted as though he wanted to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. There was a lot of speech-making, of course — mostly collar-and-elbow stuff in glorification of the home team. The Boy Orator of the Scioto had to scratch his entry; he was so hoarse he could barely croak — and that helped some. I didn't really feel sorry for Jones until old Sherwood got up to present the gold watch. He sympathised with Jones and slobbered over him considerable, and told him not to be down hearted about his licking. He said it ought to be a comfort to Jones to remember that he came from a town where real ball players were developed; and that if he persevered— And so on. Anybody can pour vinegar on a raw spot, but it takes a well-meaning fool to rub it in. Poor Jones had to respond. He swallowed hard and began to mumble something about every pitcher having a bad day once in a while. "Yeh," says Mike Cassidy, who was pretty well illuminated by this time; "we know this was going to be yours, so we named it after you!" Everybody roared, and Jones turned red and sat down without thanking 'em for the watch, which they noticed and commented on after ward. We can't tell yet, of course; but we think that Doc Murph's bone-shrinking treatment will be a success. There is a wonderful improvement in Jonesy. He has a relapse now and then; but if he gets going too strong somebody is sure to ask him the time of day. That stops him.