Excess Baggage

I NEVER even knew that Chick Dorsey had a sister-in-law until just before we left for the last Western trip. "Chief," he says, "my wife's sister has wished herself on to me for a while and I can't do a thing about it. She has got some sort of a bug about seeing America first, whatever that means, and she thinks that travelling with a ball club would help. How about it? Can she make the Western trip with us?" "Why, sure!" That was what I said. Any manager would have done the same. An ounce of prevention is worth a ton of argument in the clubhouse afterward. A stitch in time sews up the game. Look before you leap and then use the hook slide. Those are proverbs and supposed to be full of wisdom. A post-mortem is full of wisdom too; but the patient is always dead by that time. It's my bet that proverbs were invented by some charley-horsed old infielder who couldn't play the game any more himself, but sat round back of third base telling the boys what they should have done. Any fool can do that if he waits long enough for the returns to come in. Proverbs may be all right; but what I claim is that there ain't ever any real news in 'em — at least nothing that you didn't know before or couldn't have guessed if you had only taken time to study the proposition. I answered right off the bat. 1 'Why, sure!" — just like that. I'm not trying to alibi myself before we start, but it ought to be understood that I draw my pay check for managing a ball club. I dare any body to find a line in my contract that says I have to be a fortuneteller on the side! And here's another point: All the women that ever travelled with the club before Chick's sister-in-law came along were married and sort of partial to their husbands — not that I'm prejudiced against women. I like 'em fine and always did — especially when they're married to some one else and reconciled to it. I never took a chance in the Big Lottery myself, but marriage as an institution for other folks is all right. I'm a strong booster for it. Speaking as the skipper of a ball club, I'd rather have married players than single ones, provided they've got over the googoo stage and don't hold hands in public. I like to have the boys take their wives with 'em on the road, be cause having the womenfolks along saves me a lot of sleep that otherwise I wouldn't get. You may not know it, but when a team is travelling the manager has to be a sort of a cross between a night watchman and a house detective. Ballplayers are mostly young and full of life and devilment; and if the manager doesn't watch 'em close they'll be doing their playing on a green table and their sleeping on the bases. I'm no fussy old hen, but I do like to know what time the boys turn in at night and how much table-stakes poker is being pulled off with blankets over the transoms and the kind of chips that don't make any noise. It was different when I broke into the Big League. In those days every club was a joy club and a keg of beer after the game was the usual thing. Sometimes we had one before. The pace is faster now; there's more competition and more new blood, and the man who won't take reasonable care of himself goes back to the minors. Getting back to the woman question — you can see that having them along divides up the detective work and helps to keep the men in line. I know some ballplayers who don't care a hoot for Ban Johnson or the National Com-mish; but they wouldn't presume to talk back to their wives. You bet matrimony is a good thing! I can see now that I should have done some thinking when Chick put the proposition up to me; but, even if I had, I don't know that it would have made any difference. She was Mrs. Dorsey's sister, and Chick's wife is a quiet little soul with spectacles and freckles. Her idea of a pleasant afternoon is to get a lapful of Chick's socks and darn 'em. You naturally expect sisters to have some sort of a family resemblance, don't you? There's one fine thing about marriage — the law ties a woman up so that she can only in fluence one man at a time. An unmarried woman ain't limited by the law or anything else. She scatters her hits all over the field and you never know where to play for her or whether to play for her at all. Somebody ought to turn that into a proverb. When we packed up for that last Western trip we were as full of brotherly love as a campmeeting. A ball club is like a big family, and if it's a happy family so much the better for everybody; because when a family starts to scrapping internally a common ordinary battle among strangers ain't to be compared with it for meanness. And for a real rough-and-tumble — slaughter-house rules and no holds barred — set a pair of brothers to mixing it. They don't seem to care what they do to each other — and that comes from being too well acquainted. Men who eat and work and travel in the same Pullman car for a few seasons usually wind up liking each other a whole lot or not at all. As a general proposition it isn't best to get too intimate with a man if you want to think well of him; but I've got a Golden Rule that I hammer into the recruits as fast as they join — and it works too: "You keep off the other fellow's corns and he'll leave yours alone!" Any chump can find a man's sore spots. Know ing that they're there and then keeping off of 'em — that's the true secret of friendship. Well, as I said, we packed up, happy as a lot of canary birds. We had good reason to be. For the first time in several seasons it looked like our year to win. We had only to hold our lead to split up that nice fat World's Series check. For two seasons we had finished in third place, behind the Blues and the Pink Sox. The other teams hadn't been able to trouble us much; but the Blue and the Pinks had a trifle too much class for us — luck, we called it at the time; but it was really class. This season the Blue pitching staff was in a bad way with sore arms, and the Pink infield was shot as full of holes as a Swiss cheese, in addition to the team being shy a first-string catcher. A ball club is like a machine — it will run at top speed for just about so long and then the parts wear out and have to be replaced. The Pinks and the Blues were veteran outfits, overdue for a slump. They began to slip in June, we caught them in July, and by the end of August we had what looked like a safe lead. The boys had even been pricing runabouts. They didn't even knock wood when they did it, either, which shows how sure they felt of that World's Series money. We left for the West on a night train. I stayed at the gate until most of the boys got aboard, and when I hoisted myself into the Pullman there was a poker party in one cor- ner, a crap game going in the smoking compartment, and the married men were playing bridge with their wives. It had all the ear marks of a pleasant evening. I looked in at the smoking compartment to make sure that the boys weren't rolling the bones too high. You can set a limit on a poker game, but craps is liable to get away from you. Fatty Cutts, the catcher, was wedged into the corner seat, where he could see out. "Hello," says he. "As I live, here comes Chick and Mrs. Chick — and a chicken." "Whadd'ye mean — a chicken?" asks Billy Eunkle, climbing all over the bunch to get a peek outside. "You're no judge of poultry, you big, fat dub! That ain't no chicken — that's a bird!" "A bird of paradise!" says Artie MacVicar, the right fielder, with his nose flattened against the glass. "And what's more she's going to fly with us. The porter is helping her into this car." "No such luck!" says Billy Eunkle. Well, you know, until then Chick's sister-in-law had completely slipped my mind. I hadn't given her a thought. "That's Mrs. Dorsey's sister," I says. "She's going to make the Western trip with the club." Fatty Cutts got up and threw his cigar away. "Let me out of here!" he said. "The air is frightful!" "Anybody who wants my seat can have it," says Artie MacVicar, pulling down his sleeves so that his diamond cuff buttons would show. "This game is only fit for stable hands any way, "says Billy Runkle, and out he went after the other two. "That's right!" growls Sam Horgan, who was down on the floor with the dice. "Quit while you're ahead, you cheap skates! Any more ladykillers in the party?... All right! Get your dough down. I'm coming out again." Naturally I wanted to see the cause of all this excitement. The first thing I noticed was that the poker game had struck a snag. The hands were lying dead on the table; two or three of the boys were looking down the aisle and the others had their heads together. "Say, chief, for Heaven's sake who is she?" Four of 'em asked me the same question. "She — who!" I wanted to hear what they'd say. "Why, the queen with Chick and his wife," says Ben Maddox, the first baseman. "Haven't you seen her?" I shook my head. I'd only seen the top of her hat. "Well," says Ben, "slip down to the other end of the car and give your eyes a treatment. The idea of a beautiful doll like that being seen with a lop-eared, sawed-off married man like Chick Dorsey!" "Easy! Easy!" I says. "That ain't no doll; that's Chick's sister-in-law." Ben pushed his stack across to Wheatley0 who was banking. "Here, Sliver," he says, "cash me in!" "And me!" says George Steck. "I'll cash myself in first," says Sliver. This is the place where I ought to hunt up a dictionary and smoke out words enough to tell you what that girl looked like. I ought to, but I won't. It couldn't be done — not even by the man who invented language. I can only give you a few specifications to work on: She was tall, with yellow hair and blue eyes — the sort of a blonde that can make a man forget that he's always been partial to small brunettes. As for the rest of it, write your own ticket; you can't go too far. Eemember what she did to the poker and crap games — some of 'em losers at that! Irma Lacey — that was her name. Chick introduced her to everybody as fast as he could get round to it, and before the train was out of the railroad yards there was a mass meet ing at her end of the car. Fatty Cutts — he al ways did have the nerve of a burglar — was planted in the seat beside her and a derrick wouldn't have budged him. Artie Mac Vicar was sitting opposite, with Mrs. Dorsey, talking a blue streak. Maddox, Steck and Eunkle were hanging over from the section behind. Ed Kilmer, Butch Willard and Mike Green had the section in front. Sliver Wheatley had the aisle completely blocked with his long legs and the others were as close as they could get. It was Miss Lacey this and Miss Lacey that all over the place, and she was right there with the smile and the quick comeback for every thing. And her laugh! That girl could wrinkle up her nose and shut her eyes and make a noise that would convince any man that he was a born comedian. She sprang it once on Fatty Cutts and he immediately started to tell her all his stale old minstrel jokes that we've listened to for years. He'd have fed her the entire monologue if we hadn't choked him off. "Do you know," says she, "I'm ashamed to confess it in such company, but really I don't understand the first thing about baseball! Shocking, isn't it! But I think I can learn. You'll all be patient and teach me, won't you?'* Well, you should have heard the chorus! About a dozen spoke for the job. "I am one of the best little teachers in the world," said Fatty Cutts. "If there is any thing you want to know, Miss Lacey— "Huh!" says Artie MacVicar. "Tell her about the time you thought there were three out and threw the ball away." "Yes, please do!" says the girl. Now if there is anything that will get a rise out of Fatty it's mention of that incident. I've seen Cutts climb into the grandstand after a fan for just yelling: "Oh, Fat! How many out?" Everybody makes at least one frightful bone play that he hates to have thrown up to him and this one was Cutts' prize bloomer. He looked at MacVicar a long time, and I could see his neck swelling and his wattles turning pink. "Oh, all right!" he says at last in a kind of a sneering tone. "I'm game! I'll tell it if little Arthur here will tell about the time he started in to chase the bush-league umpire off the field and found out afterward that he was the amateur middle-weight champion of Texas." "Oh, how interesting!" says Miss Lacey. "And did you chase the man, Mr. MacVicarf" Everybody laughed and Artie began to splutter like a man usually does when he has his own medicine handed back to him; for nobody takes a kidding harder than a kidder. There was the makings of a fine little fuss when Sliver Wheatley cut in. Sliver has a good head on his shoulders and sometimes he uses it. "It's a lovely evening, Miss Lacey," says he. "Suppose we go out on the observation platform for a while?" Miss Lacey said she would be delighted and there was a stampede for the tail end of the train. In half a minute the car was all but deserted, except for the married people and the crap shooters. Mrs. Dorsey went along with the bunch — as a chaperon, I guess. I drifted out that way myself along about ten o'clock — and what do you think they were doing? Singing, every last one of 'em! And Sweet Adeline at that! They were piled up round that girl three deep, with the overflow roosting on the guardrail. The barber-shop minors sort of disgusted me and I went back to the car. Bob Aiken's wife stopped me in the aisle. 1 'I see you're carrying some excess baggage this trip," says she. Somehow a woman seems to think that she can take the curse off a mean remark by smiling when she makes it. A man crosses his fingers, but a woman smiles. "Oh," I says, "I don't know as I would put the accent on the baggage." "Did I?" says she. "Well, maybe I should have said perishable freight." "Maybe so; but quite a looker!" I couldn't help shooting that one at her. She had a face that wouldn't get her much in a beauty show. "Ye-es" — like it hurt her to admit it — "but only in a stagy sort of way. You look out, chief! There's such a thing as a girl's being too popular." "That's right!" I says. "Better keep an eye on Bob! He's out there singing second tenor." * ' You keep an eye on your ball club!" And this time she forgot to smile. So did I — later. The next morning the men's dressing room was all cluttered up with conversation, clean shirts, safety razors and talcum powder. I never saw such a wholesale dolling-up in my life. Artie MacVicar had his clothes pressed over night and spent half an hour warming up his entire string of neckties before he found one that suited him. All the diamond stickpins were fished out of the pocketbooks — every big leaguer has got at least one of those things— and Sliver Wheatley put on both his rings. Maddox and Runkle nearly had a battle over which one of 'em should take Miss Lacey to breakfast. They might have saved a lot of breath because George Steck beat 'em to it. Fresh mushrooms on toast — that's what he bought for her; and they're my notion of nothing whatever in the way of breakfast food, but I suppose George felt it was up to him to show that he was no penny-pincher. She looked just as good in the daylight as she did the night before, which is a test that stops a lot of 'em. I met Dorsey and his wife coming out of the dining car. "Pretty easy for me!" says Chick with a wink. "I thought I was going to be set back a few bones for extra meals, but it seems I'm going to have cooperation — eh? What?" "Ain't you ashamed to talk that way!" says Mrs. Dorsey, giving him a slap on the arm. "Irma can't help it if she's attractive. You used to think that I" "And I do yet, old lady!" says Chick. I was glad he choked her off. If I was a married man I'd hate to have my wife rake up all the mushy things I said in my courting days. Women always do it, and I never saw a husband yet that could stand it without getting red. Well, after breakfast it was the same thing over again, only more so. If George thought he was buying a monopoly along with those mushrooms he had another think coming. They flocked round that girl's section like flies and some chump proposed a penny-ante poker game. She didn't know poker either — which made her ignorant of two of the most national pastimes there are — but that didn't make much difference. She had six or eight confidential advisers looking over her shoulder and telling her what to do after taking a peek at the other fellows' hands. It wasn't poker and it wasn't exactly petty larceny, but it had elements of both. She won seven dollars and forty cents — on a ten-cent limit, mind you — and she would have had more if the game hadn't broken up. "Better and better!" said Chick to me. "If they teach her many more games I'll make her pay her own transportation." I've read somewhere that the way of a man with a maid is queer. Maybe it is; but for the pure quill in queerness it ain't one-two-three with the way of a maid and a dozen men. I will say for Miss Irma that she didn't play any favourites. There were no handicap men; every fellow started at scratch and went as fast and as far as he could. They all looked alike to her — even grouchy old Sam Horgan, who wouldn't pay any attention to her for a day or two, but busted into the race like a stake horse when he did start. At first I had a notion that I could pick the winner. She went to the theatre with Artie MacVicar. Artie is a smooth and willing worker, and he's loaded with the sort of talk that seems to make a hit with women. I thought he would have the inside track, but the next night she went to a bowling match with Billy Runkle. In between she had lunches with Sliver Wheatley and Ben Maddox. Fatty Cutts took her to the park the first day we played, but Butch Willard brought her back to the hotel; and she seemed just as happy with George Steck and Ed Kilmer as with the others. I gave it up. Her system was too complicated for me. If I had been making a book on it the price would have been ten, four and two — and take your pick. "Your sister," says I to Mrs. Dorsey, "has made a big hit with my ball club." "Oh, well," says she, "there's safety in numbers." "For the girl — yes," Mrs. Aiken puts in; "but how about the numbers?" It was wonderful how soon the symptoms of girlitis began to develop. In the first town we had four games with the Grays, a weak second-division outfit that had always been easy picking for us. While we were dressing for the opening game Sliver Wheatley came over and told me how good his arm felt; and then along came George Steck, with the same song and dance. Both of 'em wanted to work. I must have been pretty thick, because I didn't tumble at first; and then it hit me that they wanted to do a little grand- standing for the girl's benefit. That made me sore and I sent Pete McCorkle in to pitch — not because he was married and immune, but be cause it was his turn and he warmed up in good shape. It just happened that the Grays had on their batting clothes and in the seventh inning they slammed Pete all over the lot. We lost the game five to three. 1 'Aha!" says Sliver on the bench. ''You wouldn't let a good man work to-day, eh?" "Huh!" says George Steck. "If you'd been in there with your morning practice pitching they'd 'a' had forty runs off you by this time. A good man! Where do you get that stuff?" "Even so," Sliver comes back, "you never heard me beg to be taken out because I had a cramp!" That was one right where George lived, and there's no telling how far they would have gone with the argument if I hadn't shut 'em up. I don't like to hear men beefing at each other on the bench. It's a bad sign. A couple of nights afterward I got a real eye-opener. I was eating a sandwich with Ben Maddox in one of the wall compartments of the grill room at the hotel. Billy Runkle was in the next one — he couldn't see us of course— and he was telling Miss Lacey the story of his life, and not giving himself any the worst of it. "You know, Miss Irma — you won't mind if I call you that? The other sounds so formal! — I don't have to play baseball for a living. No, indeed! My father has a big business in Day- ton and he wants me to come home and run it for him. I play baseball for the love of the sport and not because the money cuts any figure. My father Ben Maddox looked at me and we both grinned. Billy's old man owns a candy store about the size of a drygoods box and the only time he sees Billy is in the winter when his money runs out. "This is going to be good," whispers Ben to me. "Don't crab it! Let's see how far he'll go." Well, according to Billy, he was the little bottle of liquid glue that was holding our ball club together. Without him we wouldn't amount to much. Second base was the most important position on the team; and, though he didn't like to talk about himself, good second basemen were scarce. All the other ones in the league were running for Sweeney. He raved along, hurrahing for himself every little while, with the girl saying: "Yes, I understand." And in between he did some reverse-English boosting for the other boys. Fatty Cutts, Sliver Wheatley, Artie MacVicar and Ed Kilmer — they all got theirs, and got it good. He even told her about Spud Pomeroy's divorce, and how George Steck owed everybody in the world and had to borrow money to last him over the winters. "And there's Ben Maddox," says he — "Ben is all right. He's a fine fellow and my pal, and nobody will ever call him yellow wheri I'm round. Of course it's true that once in Chicago" He put the knife into Ben clear up to the hilt. It was done in a nice sort of way, but just the same I had to hold Ben in his seat. He wanted to climb over and start something. "Forget it!" I says. "Every knock is a boost!" Then I heard something that made me sit up and take notice. "Who, the chief?... Yes, he ain't so bad; but he can't think fast enough to run a modern ball club! He's too old for the job.... He doesn't look it? Why, say, if he'd wash the shoeblacking out of his moustache and eye brows he'd look a million! Old? That poor wreck was playing baseball when Cap Anson was in short pants!" Now I ask you: Was there any excuse for that? I could understand why Billy was swing ing the mallet on the other fellows, but why take a crack at me? I hadn't been making eyes at the girl. Shoeblacking! "Easy, chief!" says Ben. "Every knock is a boost!" "It is if it ain't too personal, but there's a limit to everything." "Never mind," says Ben. "I'll get hunk with Billy, see if I don't!" He did, the very next day, but it was the ball club that suffered. In the fourth inning Runkle led off at bat and got a single. Ben, who fol lowed him in the batting order, gave Billy the sign for the hit-and-run — that is, he signalled Billy to be moving with the pitcher's arm be cause he intended to take a wallop at the next ball. In a case of the hit-and-run the man on first doesn't take as long a lead as he does when he tries to steal. He depends upon the batter hitting the ball somewhere. If he misses the runner is almost certain to be thrown out at second. I was coaching off third and I saw the sign given — two taps on the heel of the left shoe with the end of the bat. Billy started down all right and the ball — a fast one — cut the plate in two. Ben never even took his bat from round his neck and, of course, Billy was thrown out by such a wide margin that it made him look foolish. "He crossed me, chief!" says Billy as he went by on his way to the bench. "The big lobster gimme the sign as plain as the nose on your face and then stood still on a groover. What do you think of that, eh?" I thought a lot more than I said — then and afterward. Ben slammed the next ball for a triple and the run he tossed away cost us the game because it went to extra innings, and the Grays pulled out — five to four. I jumped all over Ben, but he denied everything — said he hadn't given any sign — that he was only knock ing the dirt out of his spikes — but he didn't ex plain why he hadn't taken a smash at the ball when he saw Billy moving. It looked mighty bad to me, for it was just the sort of thing a man would do if he wanted to make the other fellow look cheap. That was only the beginning of the real trouble. Ben was responsible. He gave things a fine running start by spilling the news that Billy Eunkle had set everybody on the club in bad with Miss Lacey. At first they thought they'd give Billy a session of the Kangaroo Court, which is a little worse than simple assault and not quite so bad as murder in the second degree. Then they decided that kan-garooing Billy wouldn't do them any good with the girl; and the third idea they got was to fight fire with fire. All the hammers came out at once and the anvil chorus was a dying whisper beside the knocking that came off in the next few days. It was strictly a case of self-defence. Nobody knew what the girl had been told about him personally, but everybody felt sure that it was something bad; and as each fellow got his chance with the girl he tried to paint the other fellows so black that he would look white by comparison. You'll need a long pencil to figure out how many private fights that sort of thing will start. I tried it once, but gave it up, not being strong on multiplication. The boys weren't battling for a pennant any more; they were fighting for that tall, willowy blonde, and the ball games were only a sideshow for the main attraction. Everybody was looking sidewise at every- body else, and even some of the married men had chips on their shoulders. If they got chances to show each other up on the diamond they did it, and we lost games that should have been locked up in the grip before they started. There was jawing in the clubhouse, crabbing on the bench and beefing on the field. Kound the hotel it was like a bear garden — and every bear with the earache. And, as if that wasn't enough to turn my hair grey, the Pink Sox took a brace and came tearing after us, hand over fist. The hammer campaign eliminated some of the entries and simplified matters a little. Fatty Cutts was the first to go. Then Irma quit speaking to Artie MacVicar and got so she couldn't see George Steck with the naked eye. Sliver "Wheatley was the next to have his cue set out of the game; and then Ed Kilmer and Butch Willard passed away side by side. They didn't know who to blame for getting 'em in bad, so they blamed everybody. It was a lovely little mess. By-and-by it narrowed down to a hammer-throwing contest among the infielders. She was still on speaking terms with Ben Maddox, Billy Runkle and Sam Horgan — all the base men. There was only one left in the infield that wasn't girl-struck — Chick Dorsey. It's a good thing he was her brother-in-law or he'd 'a' been mixed up too. I hoped the losers would be satisfied to let it go at that; but no, sir! Nix! Being dropped out of the running seemed to make them sorer than ever. When we got to St. Louis I was a desperate man. We were just half a game in front of the Pinks and the ball club was all shot to small pieces. Something had to be done; so I took Chick Dorsey off in a corner and talked to him like a Dutch uncle. "Far be it from me," I says, "to hurt any body's feelings; but you've got eyes. You know what's the matter with this ball club as well as I do. Your sister-in-law has— "Now wait!" says Chick. "Is it Irma's fault if these roughnecks take a shine to her? Can a pretty girl help it if fellows get stuck on her? And I'll swear she hasn't encouraged a single one of 'em, chief." "I ain't claiming she has," says I; "but she's too good a listener to suit me. She's encouraged a lot of knocking, that's what she's done — and it's got to stop. She's put this ball club on the bum!" "Even if that was so," says Chick — "and I don't for a minute admit it — what can you do about it?" "Do?" I says. "Why, ship her home and give these lunatics a chance to forget her!" "By golly, I never thought of that!" Chick says. "It might be done." "There's ain't any might about it. It's got to be done if we want any part of that World's Series dough. With her out of the way these fools will get back on their feet again. Keep her with the club another week and they'll be murdering each other." "I'll speak to my wife about it," says Chick in a mild tone. "Speak to nobody!" says I. "Buy her a ticket on to-night's train. 'Here's your hat! What's your hurry?' Tell her any old lie that comes handy, but get her away from this ball club!" "I'll do it if you say so," says Chick; "but I still think it ain't her fault." "Nothing was ever a woman's fault," I says, "and never will be. You ought to know that. Go get that ticket!" This was early in the morning. At noon Miss Irma came sailing down to lunch, and by the look she gave me I saw that Chick hadn't been able to think of a good convenient lie and had passed the buck to the man higher up. Pretty soon Mrs. Aiken came buzzing along all excited and so full of talk that she couldn't take time to draw a full breath. "Isn't it too bad?" she says to me. "We're going to lose our excess baggage! Miss Lacey is starting home to-night." "You don't say so!" I looked her square in the eye too. "What's the matter? Sickness at home, or something?" "That's what I can't find out. It will be an awful blow to some of the boys, won't it?" "Worse than that!" I says. "I don't know how we're going to struggle along without her. Awful nice little girl!" "Humph!" Mrs. Aiken snorted and went away. Well, of course, it was all over the hotel in no time. Give a woman a piece of news and trust her to peddle it. After Mrs. Aiken had scattered it pretty well she went into the dining-room and sat down with the Dorseys and Miss Lacey — looking for information, I '11 bet. About the same time Ben Maddox came fly ing in from the billiard parlour, looked all over the place and then sat down in the passageway, as close to the dining-room door as he could get. Then along came Billy Runkle, with a wild look in his eye. He calmed down as soon as he spotted Ben, and, after trying two or three chairs without finding one that suited him, he camped across the way from Maddox. Sam Horgan clattered in from the street, sweat ing a little. Where he got the news I don't know, but he looked as if he had been running. It was as good as a play to watch those three rascals pretending to read newspapers and trying to act as if they had just happened to pick out the same place to sit down. A blind man could have seen that each one of 'em thought he was the only fellow who knew that the girl was going away and didn't want to tip it off to the others. When she came out they made a rush for her. "No, thank you!" I heard her say. "I'm not going to the game this afternoon. I think I'll stay here at the hotel." They followed her to the elevator, all talking at once and of course saying nothing about her going away. "Will you take dinner with me, Miss Irma?" "How about a little auto ride after the game?" "Are you going to be here all the after noon?" She waited until the elevator door was half shut. "Maybe!" That was every word she said. It answered all three questions without saying yes or no to anybody and it left all three of 'em in a position to do some guessing. That's what I call generalship. If you fix it so that a man can draw his own conclusions from what a woman says he'll usually pick the cards he needs to fill a strong hand. "There'll be quite a race back to the hotel after the game." It was Mrs. Aiken again, still looking for information. "Race for what?" says I. "Why, to check the excess baggage!" says she. "Look here, chief! You needn't pretend to be so innocent." I didn't say a word. I didn't dare to. I was expecting some telegrams; so I waited at the hotel until all the boys had started for the park. As I was standing at the desk in came a big whale of a man — a square-shouldered, light-haired young fellow, with a couple of suitcases marked: A. J. 0., S. F. About nine bellhops made a run at him. He looked like money. "Can you tell me," says he to the clerk, ''whether Miss Irma Lacey is in her room?... She is? Put me on the 'phone, please.... Hello!... Yes, this is Al; I'm down stairs... just got in!... You'll be right down? Fine!" He turned round and snapped his fingers. "Boy!" he says. "Call me a taxi!" I read the riot act in the clubhouse before the game. "Here we are," I says, "just hanging in the lead by an eyelash, when by rights we ought to have this pennant cinched to a f are-ye-well! You haven't been beaten by better clubs or out-lucked either. The games you lost were thrown away because you've been too busy fighting among yourselves. You've been using this ball club as a clearing house for your troubles; and there's going to be an end to that foolishness — right here and now! You dig in and play base ball from now on and forget that there's any thing, or anybody, on earth but just the folks that we've got to beat to get into the World's Series. There ain't going to be any girl in the grandstand to-day!" Well, it worked like a charm. At the end of the fifth inning we had 'em licked to the tune of four to nothing. Old Sliver was putting a lot of stuff on every ball and working as hard as if he was pitching in a World's Series. The St. Louis batters were chopping at his fast one after Fatty Cutts had it folded in his mitt, and missing his slow curves by six inches. Ben Maddox had made a couple of healthy-looking hits; Sam Horgan was cavorting round the difficult corner like a two-year-old; and Billy Runkle was playing second like a wild man. In the sixth inning Maddox got his third long hit — a double — and he had to slide to second in order to make it. It was an easy hook slide. I was where I could see and I'll swear that Ben didn't hit anything but the dirt; but instead of getting up he rolled round and groaned so loud I could hear him away over back of third base. I ran out to him. "Hurt, Ben?" I says. "I think I've sprained my ankle," he says, gritting his teeth and sucking in his breath. "Get a couple of the boys to help me off the field." Billy Runkle had come over with the others to have a look at Maddox. "Get up, you big tramp!" says Billy. "You ain't hurt any more than I am. Get up and quit stalling!" Ben pretended he didn't hear him. "I can feel it swelling," says he. "I don't believe I can walk. Maybe I'd better be carried." Ben gave a dying-gladiator look, rolled over twice, sat up and took his ankle in both hands — his right ankle, as I noticed. "Let it alone!" says he, groaning louder than ever. "I've had enough sprains to know what one feels like. What I need is hot water and liniment. Golly, but it hurts! Whee-ee!" Well, what could I do? I had to give him the benefit of the doubt, of course. He went off the field, with one arm round the neck of the negro rubber, Doctor Bones; and by the way he limped he might have had anything from a sprain to a compound fracture. "Say, chief," says Sam Horgan, "wouldn't it be a good thing to have Ben stay in the club house until after the game? You want to see how bad he's hurt, don't you?" 1 1 Huh! "says Billy Eunkle. « ' He thinks he's got a date — outside of that he's all right. Don't let him put one over on you, chief. Make him wait in the clubhouse." I could see their point of view. They figured that Ben had stolen a march on 'em and was going to beat 'em to the hotel. I didn't know whether he had or not, but I made up my mind that I'd have a good look at that sprained ankle. Eunkle and Horgan hung round me and crabbed and peeved until I had to remind 'em of that fine. They were still growling when they went on the field for the seventh inning. I had to put Eddie Reeves at first base in Ben's place. I hated to do it because Eddie is weak on a low ball and a bad throw bothers him. Caley, the St. Louis shortstop, beat out a bunt and started to steal on the first ball pitched to the next batter. Caley is a streak of fire on the bases, but Fatty Cutts made a perfect peg to second and from where I sat it looked as if Billy Runkle got the ball on Caley as he slid. Tom McGinn, the umpire, didn't think so. He squatted and spread both hands. The next thing I knew, Billy was jumping up and down in front of McGinn and calling him pet names. "Why, you blind burglar!" yells Billy. "You poor old petty-larceny crook! I had him a mile — a mile! The ball was here waiting for him and he slid into it! Safe! You're crazy!" McGinn backed away, shaking his head, with Billy after him. Tom is a little man, but peppery — an umpire who won't stand for anything in the way of rough stuff on the diamond. Every ballplayer in the league knows that to lay the weight of a finger on Tom McGinn is just the same as wishing himself out of the game — with a fine and maybe a suspension on top of it. I smelled it coming and started on the run for Billy, but I was too late. He walked up to McGinn and grabbed him by the collar. He didn't do it like a man acting on a sudden im pulse either. It was cold and deliberate, and done in such a manner that McGinn couldn't overlook it — and right there was where the light flashed on me. I could have cussed myself for not seeing it before and warning Tom. Billy wasn't kicking on account of the decision at second base; he was kicking to get himself chased off the field. Ben had a little head-start on him, but Billy had found a way to give him a race and he was using Tom McGinn to help him do it. Sam Horgan must have tumbled to it about the same time I did. He couldn't see Billy and Ben both on their way and him left out in the cold; so he came tearing over and grabbed Mac too. "A little home umpiring, eh?" roars Sam. ''Robber!" Between 'em they shook that little man like a woman shakes a blanket. They jounced him up and down until his teeth rattled; they spun him round like a dancing bear. I made a dive for Horgan to drag him away, but my hand slipped and struck McGinn in the face. "You too!" he gasps. "To the clubhouse — all three of you!" That was what they were waiting for. The words were no sooner out of McGinn's mouth than they let go of him, picked up their gloves and away they went, neck and neck in a sprint for the clubhouse gate. Tom stared after 'em with his mouth open; and no wonder! Now everybody knows that when a ballplayer is ordered off the field it takes him a long time to get started. First he has to talk with the umpire about it. "Who, me? What for?" When he finally gets it through his head that he is the party the ump is after, he chucks away his glove — and has to walk over and pick it up. Then he heads for the bench, turning round every two steps to tell the umpire something that has just occurred to him. On the bench he has to pick out his sweater — usually tries on two or three before he finds the right one. After that he must have a drink of water and borrow a chew of tobacco and attend to a few other little matters. At last he marches off the field, slow and dignified, like a pallbearer at a funeral. Hurry? He wouldn't hurry for a farm. You know what the old Irishwoman said: "I'll go — but the likes of ye can't put me out!" That's it exactly. It's tradition for the ballplayer to use up every second of the time the rules give him. It's a kiddish trick and there's no sense in it; but they were doing it when I broke into the league and they'll be doing it so long as base ball lasts. "Holy cats!" says McGinn. "First time I ever saw that! Look at those birds fly! Did they want to get out of the game?" "They did," says I, "and you gave 'em their wish!" Hopping mad as he was, Tom had to smile. "Mac," I says, "be reasonable! I was only trying to pull Horgan off and my hand slipped. It did— honest!" "All right!" says McGinn. "It was an accident if you say so. Why didn't you tip me off? I wouldn't have let 'em out of the game. Get back on the bench." You can imagine the fix that left us in — three substitutes playing the infield, one shortstop with a brainstorm, and the whole team a mile in the air! I put Lannon at second and Ed Kilmer at third — and prayed for luck. Up came the St. Louis batters and began to bunt — the very best way to go after a nervous infield. Kilmer heaved one over Reeves' head into right field; Lannon booted away an easy chance; Sliver Wheatley got rattled and lost control — and in no time at all they had two runs home, the bases were loaded and nobody was out. I benched Wheatley and sent Bob Aiken in, but there was no stopping 'em; they had us on the run and they knew it. They scored seven times before we got 'em out and we dropped into second place in the percentage table with a crash that jarred the entire league. It was a savage bunch that headed for the clubhouse after the agony was over — final score, eleven to five! Everybody knew that Sam and Billy had kicked themselves out of the game on purpose and everybody knew why. There was a lot of loose talk about what ought to be done to 'em for it. In the general excitement I came near forgetting about Ben's ankle. Doctor Bones reminded me. "Good land, chief," says he, "I nevah did git no chance to doctah that man's ankle — none a-a-at all! He comes in yere, busts into his things like he's goin' to a fire an' beats it, sing-in': 'Every Day'll be Sunday By and By!' I reckon he ain't as bad hu't as he thought.... No, suh! Don't ast me nuthin "bout that ankle! He wouldn't lemme see it even. He says I ain't a reg'lah practishner nohow. Mist' Ho'gan an' Mist' Runkle they come boilin' in and seem quite peeved to fin' Mist' Maddox gone a 'ready. Mist' Runkle he sent me out to hire a taxi — a fast one — an' a man whut know how to drive! Look to me like they's some rasmustidiousness goin' on round yere, chief!" I made a beeline for the desk as soon as I got to the hotel. II Tough game to lose, chief!" says Shaun Ryan, the clerk. ''You bet it was!" says I. "Maddox been here?" Ryan grinned. You can't fool the Irish about some things. "All three of 'em got here about the same time," says he. "They were looking for a certain party, but she wasn't in. She went out about two and hasn't come back yet. They're sticking round, waiting. Maddox is in the bar, Runkle is in the grill and Horgan is in the writ ing-room. I'm to send word to all of 'em the minute she shows up." I went into the bar first. Ben was there and when he saw me he began to limp pitifully. "How's the ankle, Ben?" says I. "Pretty bad, chief," he says; "but I think it'll be better to-morrow." "I hope so," I says. "It's the first time I ever saw a man slide hard enough to bung up both ankles at once." "What d'ye mean — both ankles at once?" growls Ben. "Why," says I, "you limped with the right one at the ball park, but I see the left one is troubling you now." He tried to change step, but he couldn't get away with it. His face turned red as a beet and he began to splutter. "Never mind the alibi!" I says. "Save it for Sweeney — he's collecting 'em. I'm not a regular practitioner, Ben, but I know of a remedy that cures that sort of sprains you're troubled with. I'm going to plaster each one of your ankles with a fifty-dollar fine — one hun dred large iron men out of your next pay check! I'll teach you to play horse with my ball club!" I called on Sam in the writing-room and handed him the same dose. He couldn't think of a word to say. Billy Runkle did a little better. He said he thought we had a safe lead or he wouldn't have done it. He never even peeped about the hundred-dollar fine — just swallowed hard a couple of times and let it go at that. As I was telling him what I thought of a fellow who would throw down his ball club on account of a girl, in came a bellhop. "Mr. Ryan says Miss Lacey is here!" Billy bolted like a shot and I trailed along to see the fun. Shaun had allowed for distance and handicapped 'em nicely; all three of 'em arrived on the spot at the same time and then backed up, looking foolish — for there was the girl, hanging on the arm of the big light-haired chap. Both of 'em were smiling. "Introduce me to your friends, Irma," says he. * 'Certainly!" She stepped forward as cool as a cucumber — not a blush — not a tremour in her voice. "Gentlemen, let me present Mr. Olson of San Francisco. We were married this afternoon! Dear, this is Mr. Maddox — and Mr. Eunkle — and Mr. Horgan Generalship again, you see! She didn't even give 'em time to recover from the blow, for as each man's name was called he had to step up and make a bluff at saying something pleasant. "Pleased to meet you, I'm sure!" says Ben. "A— a little sudden, wasn't it?" "How d'ye do?" says Billy. "Wish you luck and — well, you know! Many happy re turns of the day." "Married!" says Sam. "Well, wouldn't that kill you!" "I'm sure I hope not!" says the big fellow, and everybody had a chance to laugh. That broke the tension. Well, you can imagine what a sensation it kicked up round the hotel; but the man who roared the loudest and the longest was Chick Dorsey. "Did I know about it!" says he. "I should say not! She put one over on me too. Had it all framed up with this Olson party and worked me for the carfare. So this is what she meant by seeing America first, eh? Well, I was right about one thing, chief: She never encouraged any of these fellows!" Of course Mrs. Aiken had to get busy im mediately. 1 ' Isn't it lovely and romantic!" she says. "Chief, don't you think the club ought to give her a wedding present?" "I don't know about the club," says I; "but I'm going to give her one — no, three!" I sent her duplicate receipts for the three fines, at one hundred dollars apiece; but I guess she didn't understand what they meant. Maybe her husband did. Later on I had a chance to send her a bill for excess baggage amounting to $86,497.23. That was the Pinks' share of the World's Series money, which would have been ours but for Mrs. Al. J. Olson. I've traded Bob Aiken to the Grays just to keep his wife from saying "I told you so!" We've got a happy family again; but if any body else on my ball club has a sister-in-law who wants to see America first she'll never look at it through the windows of our Pullman. From now on this outfit flies light — and I'll shoot the man who says Excess Baggage to me.