Nine Assists and Two Errors

THOSE dry historians, the keepers of the official box score, say it cannot be done. They will tell you that it is not baseball; and that the sacred rules of the same, as ratified by the National Commission, may not be trifled with to such an extent as to charge two errors against a middle-aged man who sits on the bench, chews plug tobacco and takes no active part in the game. They may also call attention to the physical impossibility of credit ing nine men with an assist apiece upon the person of a single player — and no put-out registered. Away with these figure-mongers! They are more to be pitied than censured; and if they are lacking in imagination, delicate sentiment and the true spirit of romance, they owe it to long association with the box score. Figures are honest things, but dust dry and painfully prosaic. This is the story of Shamus Kehoe and the Sentimental Harps; Shamus made the errors and the Harps made the assists; and, for fear the scorekeepers may miss something, each point will be ticked off for their especial benefit. Shamus Kehoe, known wherever baseballs fly as Shameless Kehoe, the bench manager of the brilliant ball team called the Harps, was the last sturdy bulwark against what he was pleased to term "the foreign ilimint in baseball." By foreigners Shamus meant all Germans, Scandinavians, Italians, native New England-ers and college men. Kehoe \vas a relic of the lively days when umpires went into hiding after every game, sleeping in their boots to make sure of a flying start. When his playing days were over and he found himself a bench manager, with a permanent charley-horse in his left leg, and power to act as he saw fit, he spoke his mind to Mannie Freiberger, the young owner of the club. "It's a winnin' ball team ye want, I take it!" said Kehoe. "I do that!" said Freiberger. "On paper the team looks all right; but— "Ye've said enough!" interrupted the new manager sternly. "All right on paper, is it? Listen — Schwartz! Olson! Lagomarsino! Rosenbaum! Schneider! "Whitcomb! Tallia-ferro! Steinmitz! That's a fine bunch av bir-rds to be chasin' pennants with! There ain't a natural ballplayer in the lot!" "I don't see how you figure that out," pro tested the owner. "Those men are all good players — every one of them." "Pinocle? Yes. Baseball? No!" Thus in four words did Shamus Kehoe fore shadow his future policy as manager. He stepped out into the baseball mart and traded the Schneiders and the Lagomarsinos and the Steinmitzes with a lavish hand, gathering about him a collection of names that smote pleasantly upon his ear. A camel might pass through the eye of a needle with less difficulty than a foreigner would experience in planting his name upon Shameless Kehoe's payroll. Other managers, lacking in sentiment and proper feeling, threw down the bars to tow-headed Norwegians with batting averages, stolid but talented Teutons, and perfumed col lege boys; but Shamus Kehoe, believing with heart and soul that all the great players of his tory were Irish, stood firm against the invading horde, preserving upon his payroll the ancient traditions of the national pastime. The first question he asked about a recruit was often the last: "What is the name av him?" It needed three years to assemble a new ball club — a more difficult feat than most people imagine. Big-league performers are scarce at best and Kehoe's choice was restricted; but at last he looked upon a finished work and told Mannie Freiberger that the time had come to enlarge the grandstand and bleachers. For instance, there was the Harp outfield: Aloysius Gilligan in left; John Tyrone Gallegher in centre, and Wolfe Tone Finnigan in right. No one will ever know how much time, money and thought were spent in collecting that precious trio. Gilligan came first — Shamus gave two Germans and a Swede for him, and would have thrown in an Italian if necessary. Then Gallegher was discovered upon the sand-lots of Boston. Lastly, and the crowning stroke of fortune, Wolfe Tone Finnigan dropped, a gift from Heaven, off the back end of an ice-wagon in Chicago. Finnigan was a small, wizen-faced young man, who was never known to miss a fly ball or an early morning mass; and in some quarters it was believed that he had once entertained hopes of becoming a Christian Brother. The infield was no less a notable achieve ment — with Tad Costigan at first; Mixed-ale Mulligan at second; little Malachy Dugan at short, and Francis X. Shea at third — all nat ural ballplayers, as their names would indicate. The best team is no stronger than its catch ing staff. Dan'l O'C. O'Malley; Bartholomew Burke, better known as Barking Bart, and Windy Jawnny O'Brien — these were the first, second and third string catchers. The pitchers were also handpicked, with a careful eye to specifications. 4 'The best pitchin' staff in the world!" Kehoe used to boast. "Hark to the names av thim: Flannel Halloran; Brick Donovan; Bed Timothy Tierney; Robert Immit Mclnerney; Philip Casey; Black Peter P. Prenderghast, an' Judge Jimmy 0 'Houlihan — kin to the kings av Ireland. It might be stronger had we a Kelly, a Sullivan or a Dooley to fall back upon; but let it go at that. Show me the team av square- headed Swedes or downhearted Dutchmen that can drive thim from the box!" In January Shamus Kehoe received an official communication from Mannie Freiberger, which read as follows: My dear Mr. Kehoe: Yours of the tenth instant, in regard to reservations for yourself and family at spring training camp, received and contents noted. Same shall have prompt attention. Kindly arrange to give a thorough trial to a recruit pitcher named Martin L. McCall, who has been recommended to me. He will join the team at Roseville. I have a personal interest in McCall and hope that you will be able to make something out of him. Trusting that yourself and family are enjoying the best of health, I am Yours very truly, I. FREIBERGER. Shamus Kehoe read the letter to his wife, who had been a Miss Veronica Shaughnessy be fore she decided to spend the greater part of a ballplayer's paycheck. Shamus read all the business letters to her and it was persistently rumoured about the clubhouse that Mrs. Kehoe, sitting at the last court of appeal, cast the deciding vote in many minor matters affecting the team. "That's the worst av these absentee own ers!" growled Kehoe, crushing Freiberger's letter in his hand. "They hire a man to run the ball club accordin' to his own ideas an' fancies, and then they want to jog his elbow every little while. Martin L. McCall! Where did he ever tend bar? The name has the right sound, but I never heard tell av him — not even as a bush pitcher." "Don't be grumblin', Shamus," said Veronica. "Dear heart alive! Supposin' now he'd asked ye to try out a pitcher named Cohen?" "Glory!" shouted Kehoe. "Mannie is no Solomon, but he knows better than that. Mar tin L.? I'll bet ye, ma'am, McCall's middle name is Luke; an' f r that he'll get his chance in spite av Freiberger's pers'nal interest in him." Mannie Freiberger's interest in the recruit pitcher had a flavour of business about it. His father, Abraham Freiberger, had extensive dealings with the J. J. McCall Shoe Company, of Boston, Massachusetts. Mr. J. J. McCall had mentioned to Mr. A. Freiberger that his son Martin, just out of college, was desirous of "pitching a little professional baseball for the fun of the thing." Mr. A. Freiberger knew nothing whatever about the national pastime save what he had been able to gather from glancing over the yearly financial state ment, but he was a competent business man and he reflected that the McCall account was a large one and worth keeping at a price. He mentioned the matter to his son, Mr. I. Frei berger, also a competent business man, who touched a button and dictated the letter to Shamus Kehoe that established a benevolent protectorate over the person of the unknown McCall. Thus do commercial interests encroach upon science and art. In the hurry and bustle attending the South ern training trip Shamus forgot all about Mr. Freiberger's friend. He was more interested in some sponsorless recruits — a Daly, a Callahan, two Murphys, and a scattering of McCaffertys, Delaneys and Shanahans. He had high hopes of Daly as soon as he learned that the young man's first name was Ignatius. Mr. Kehoe's immediate family also claimed a share of his attention — for the girls, Cornelia and Patricia, were to accompany their parents. Cornelia Kehoe, aged nineteen, was a shy, dark-haired slip of a girl, in whose blue eyes dwelt the romance that is born in every true Irish heart. Cornelia was a dreamer, an idealist — a reader of romantic fiction, to whom life was an adventure, an expedition into senti mental byways. In Cornelia's eyes the most commonplace individuals were apt to assume strange disguises and noble attributes. She was fond of Sir Walter Scott and Marie Corelli; and her father, who confined his reading to the annual Guide, often said he wished Corney would read less and eat more. Romance and corned beef do not go well together. Patricia Kehoe was a tomboy — freckled-faced, fifteen and frank to an amazing degree. Since babyhood ballplayers had been her friends; they were now her idols. The one great sorrow of her life was that her father would not allow her to wear a uniform and sit on the bench. "Shame on ye, Patsy!" chided Kehoe. "Ye're gettin' to be a great big girl now, an* ye must wear skirts like other females. And, annyway, the bench is no place f 'r the young an' innicint. Sometimes, when we're havin' our troubles to beat a gang av Swede longshoremen an' the language is runnin' high an' wild, I question if 'tis a fit place f 'r me." So Patricia watched the games from the grandstand, and woe to the Harp who made an error — for Patricia kept her own score. She exulted fiercely over a victory and mourned over a defeat, and Shamus Kehoe often looked after her with a wistful shake of his head. "Powers above!" he would mutter. "What a shortstop she'd have made — if she'd only been a boy!" Three days after the recruits arrived in Boseville, Kehoe, sitting in the hotel lobby after the day's work, gazed upon a strange apparition. It took the form of a tall, thin youth, clad in advertising-section clothes, which gave him the appearance of having no shoulders, stomach or hips. He wore snub-nosed tan shoes and a shaggy cloth hat with no more than the barest suspicion of a brim — somewhat resembling an inverted bowl. A great deal of yellow hair was pushed sternly away from his forehead in the general direction of the nape of his neck, and about his three-inch collar was a knitted scarf of a violent hue. Behind the stranger staggered two bellboys, laden with suitcases and satchels, to say nothing of a bag of golf clubs, a lawn-tennis racquet or two and a mandolin in a leather box. "All dhressed up like a broken arm!" mur mured Shamus Kehoe. "An"tis plain to be seen that the young man hates himself bitterly. Fr'm the look av him he's ayther the Duke av Flatbush or the Earl av Fifth Avenay." After the young man had inscribed his name upon the hotel register and the elevator had snatched him upward Kehoe strolled over to the desk, seeking to gratify an idle curiosity. There, upon the page, staring at him in bold, round script, were these words: Martin L. McCall, Boston, Massachusetts. Shamus Kehoe made noises in his throat and waggled his fingers at the clerk. "Had ye speech with this party?" he demanded, placing his finger upon the signature. "Why, no," said the clerk. "He waltzed up to the desk and said he wanted the best suite in the house. I gave it to him — and that's all there was to it. Flossy-looking boy — eh!" "Ye gave him the best in the house?" howled Kehoe. "Then take it away fr'm him! Chase him over in the Annex, along with the other bushers! The best in the house, says he! Who does he think he is — Chris Matchewson or Ty Cobb? Roust him!" "I'm awfully sorry," apologised the clerk. "I didn't know he was one of the team." "He ain't! "sputtered Kehoe. * ' He ain't; an ' ye can win a swell bet f 'r yerself that he won't never be! He's a friend av Freiberger's is what he is — bad luck to Mannie f 'r wishin' him on to me! But the club is payin' his ixpinses the little while he's here; so hump yerself an' evict him fr'm the bridal suite before he takes root an' grows fast to the furniture. Poke him away in a hall bedroom somewhere's an' leave him have McCafferty f'r company. Mac's grandfather come fr'm Donegal, an' I took a dislike to that North-av-Ireland gossoon the first time I laid eyes on him." In ten minutes the clerk was back again, nervous and more apologetic than ever. "He — he says he won't move." "What's that?" shouted Shamus Kehoe. "Lead me to him! I'll move him so quick 'twill make his head swim!" The manager of the Harps burst into McCall's room just as that young man was emerging from the bathtub. Under the circumstances his self-possession was remarkable. "G'wan! Get out av here!" barked Kehoe. "What d'ye think a trainin' camp is — the Waldorf -Asthoriaf" "Judging by the appearance of the best rooms in the house, no, "said Martin L. McCall, continuing to polish his shoulders with a bath towel. "And who are you? The fireman or the head porter?" Shamus choked. "My name is Kehoe," said he with a power ful effort at self-control that made the veins of his neck stand out prominently. Martin L. McCall whistled. Then he dropped the towel and held out his hand. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Kehoe," said he. "I didn't mean to be fresh; I simply didn't know who you were. I apologise to you, sir, for a rudeness I assure you was unintentional." Shamus Kehoe gulped a few times and then took the proffered hand which met his with a quick, firm pressure. Kehoe liked men who shook hands as if they meant it; and, prejudiced as he was, there was that about this lean, trim, smiling lad which disarmed Shamus and left him fumbling for wrords. "I understand," said McCall, "that there is a question about these rooms. If you don't mind I'll keep them, and I expect to pay my own bills while I am here. It's like this, sir," and the boy slipped into the vernacular: "I may turn out to be quite a pitcher — and then again I may be a piece of cheese. I wouldn't have the crust to ask any ball club to gamble my hotel bill on the result. That's fair enough, isn't it, Mr. Kehoe?" Again the brilliant smile. "Fair an' well spoken," said Shamus Kehoe. "Say no more about it. 'Twas an unfortunate mistake I made. It ain't exactly customary f 'r a bush ballplayer to have money, ye under stand. I'll bid ye good evenin'." And Sha- mus went down in the elevator, shaking his head in a dazed manner. "The young diwil has a nice way with him,'* thought Kehoe, "and I'll bet he's a bear among the women!" Later, when the Kehoe family were at dinner, Martin L. McCall made a conspicuous en trance. He wore a dinner jacket of the very latest cut; his waistcoat was the newest thing devised by a Fifth Avenue tailor to afflict the sons of men; and from his collar to the tips of his patent leathers he was groomed within an inch of his life — flawless. "Oh, look, ma!" said Patricia. "I guess there's class to that!" "Humph!" said Mrs. Kehoe. "Ain't he the pretty boy, though?" "Not handsome, but distinguished," said Cornelia. "Pa, why don't you look like that when you dress up?" "The yanigans are all laughing at him," said Patricia. "Why, pa, he's bowing to you!" "So he is, Patsy," said Shamus, nodding. "Ma, d'ye mind the letter we had fr'm Freiberger — about a pitcher?" "That's never him!" exclaimed Veronica. "It is though, "said Shamus. "That's Mar tin L. McCall." "Is he a ballplayer, pa?" demanded Patricia. "The jury is still out," said Mr. Kehoe drily. "He blew in this evenin' like a min-sthrel parade, with a tennis bat, some golfin' tools an' a mandoleen. I'd say the evidence was all ag'in him bein' a ballplayer; but — ye never can tell, Patsy. He says himself he dunno if he is or not." "Oh, pa!" squealed Patricia. "Introduce him to us!" "Yes, do!" said Cornelia. "I love a mandolin!" "In good time," grunted the father. "Leave me finish my dinner in peace." "It must be that some of the Irish have money!" sighed Mrs. Kehoe. After dinner Mr. McCall was presented to the Kehoe family, and the hit he made was instantaneous. He talked well, but not too much. He told some good stories of college life, spoke understandingly of baseball and other sports and pastimes, and actually elicited a promise from Shamus to take a trip round the links some morning. When Mrs. Kehoe insisted that Cornelia dis play her talent for music, McCall complimented her highly upon her rendition of Silvery Waves; then qualified as a critic by playing the piano a bit himself, and singing a stein song in a very fair barytone voice. Just before sleep claimed her that evening, Patricia summed up her first impression of the charming stranger. "He's the real thing, Corney!" she said drowsily. "And did you notice how he called me Miss Patricia? These rough-neck ball players have got to quit this Pat and Paddy business. I won't stand for it!" In the other room Shanms and his wife were also discussing the latest addition to the yanigan squad. "He has lovely manners," said Veronica; "and, annyway, 'tis nbthin' against the boy that he has been to college." "Well," said Kehoe with a yawn, "he ain't a tenor singer. That counts him nine points right off the reel!" On the next day, which was Friday, rain fell and the ballplayers were kept indoors. McCall appeared in a complete change of costume and spent most of his time getting acquainted with the other recruits. The McCaffertys and the Murphys and the Dalys looked upon him with suspicion at first, but he found his way to their hearts; and before night it was Martin and Denny and Mike with them all. Ignatius Daly was the undisputed polo champion of the squad, but McCall took him into camp with ridiculous ease; and at three-cushion billiards — which is a grown man's game — he gave Shamus Kehoe the worst beating the veteran had suffered in years. "If ye can handle a leather ball as well as ye can an ivory wan, "said Kehoe, "there '11 be nothing to it at all." That evening, as a special mark of esteem, McCall was invited to dine with the Kehoes; and in honour of the occasion he put on what Patricia called "the soup and fish" and Shamus referred to as a "full-dhress suit." The Kehoes ordered fish; but there was an embarrassing pause when McCall made his selection. Shamus looked at Veronica. "Ye said beefsteak, did ye not!" inquired Kehoe at last in the same tone he would have used in asking the boy whether it was true he had robbed a bank or burned down an orphan asylum. "A tenderloin — rare, please," said McCall. "An' to-day Friday!" whispered Veronica. "Dear, dear!" Thereafter the burden of the conversation fell upon young shoulders, but Kehoe recovered sufficiently to ask a question or two. "Ye have a middle initial," said he. "Not to be inquisitive — but would the L stand for Luke!" "No, "said McCall. « ' It stands for Luther." "Mar-rtin Luther!" breathed Kehoe softly, and spoke no more. "McCall is an Irish name," suggested Veronica, stepping upon Shamus' foot to bring him out of his trance. "It's Scotch too, "said McCall. ' * My people have been in this country for over two hundred years; but they came originally from Scotland, I believe." "Presbyterian!" asked Veronica, willing to know the worst. "Yes, ma'am," said Martin. After the young people had gone into the music room Kehoe found his tongue. "Ah, be aisy!" said the charitable Veronica. "Dear heart alive, 'tis not the lad's fault at all! Could he help it if they brought him up wrong?" "Martin Luther!" groaned Kehoe. "'Tis enough to jinx the club these ten years to come. An' I made certain his middle name would be Luke!"* m Martin Luther McCall set about conditioning his pitching arm with exquisite deliberation. No ten-thousand-dollar-a-year star ever subjected a lame "wing" to a more leisurely course of training. Concerning his pitching ability there were varying opinions, but every one agreed upon one point — he dressed the part to perfection. The other recruits appeared in stained and disreputable garments — the cast-off gear of many a minor league; but the uni form Martin Luther brought with him was new and it bore the evidences of careful tailoring. It was a neat affair of the softest white flannel, with a tiny crimson stripe running through it. His stockings, cap and belt were of solid crimson, as was his sweater which bore a great white letter upon the breast. His shoes were the best that money could buy and he drew them snugly about his slim ankles with broad silk laces. When Martin Luther took the field there was a noticeable flutter in the grandstand, where * Note to the scorekeepers — Give Kehoe an error on McCall's middle initial. the young women of Eoseville congregated daily to watch the antics of the embryo big leaguers. It was noticed and commented upon that Martin did most of his warming up as close to the grandstand as possible, and every move he made was a picture. Shamus Kehoe watched McCall for the first few days and thereafter ignored him completely during working hours. When the other yanigans were beating out bunts or diving into the sliding pit, Martin Luther toiled gracefully in the shade of the grandstand. He was quite willing to plough through the dirt and sprint to first base with the best of them, but the manager seemed satisfied to worry along with the Delaneys and the Dalys. Shamus did unbend so far as to question Patrick Henry O'Meara, the veteran catcher, whose duty it was to develop the young pitchers. 1 'Has he got anything at all, Pat?" demanded Shamus. "If he has," said the gruff old fellow, "'tis safely concealed from me. Maybe he's holdin' back to give us a surprise; but up to date O'Meara closed the sentence by taking his nose firmly between thumb and finger. "As bad as that?" asked Kehoe cheerfully. "Even worse," said O'Meara. "He has no curves save a wandherin' roundhouse thing that is sad to watch, an' never comes near the plate but by accident. He has less conthrol than a blind henna wk; an' when he cuts loose wid what he calls the fast wan he never knows whether 'twill go up, down or sideways. He wears rib bons in his shoes an' makes soft eyes at all the females; an' he is the grandest little grand-stander since Arlie Latham's time. To-day, when he should have been wor-rkin' in the hot sun an' loosenin' up that dead arm of his, he was up in the last row av the shed, murmurin' kind words to a dizzy blonde. Outside av these small failin's, Shamus, the lad is a great pitcher an' intirely all right in every respect. Wid all his faults I love him still. I did not think I would, but I do. The rascal has the instincts of a gintleman." When the regulars arrived in camp they took a deep interest in Martin Luther, but were civil to him because Patricia introduced him as a friend and bade them behave. On the next evening Bartholomew Burke, Mixed-ale Mulligan, Windy Jawnny O'Brien and Francis X. Shea paid a visit to Martin Luther's rooms while he was absent. By way of reminding him that the real ballplayers were in town they rearranged the furniture to a certain extent, unpacked three trunks and scattered the contents lavishly, put the golf clubs to bed in the bathtub, hung the mandolin on the fire-escape —and departed, leaving ruin and desolation be hind them. This is one of the oldest and best training-camp jokes in the world. Martin Luther went to his rooms at ten o'clock and the Harps waited patiently in the lobby, expecting to hear from him. They were disappointed. McCall worked like a beaver until three in the morning, restoring order and collecting his effects, and thereafter he never so much as breathed a word about the experience. This was the first test, and he passed it with a rating of one hundred per cent. Had he summoned bellboys to his aid his marking would have been less. Had he squealed zero would have been his portion. The next night he was invited to sit in a friendly little poker game with Costigan, Shea, Tierney, Prendergast and O'Malley — all experts of note and distinction, and recognised as such from Boston to St. Louis. Martin Luther played a very stiff game for one so young and inexperienced, and displayed remarkable judgment in the values of the hands he held. The evening's entertainment cost him exactly eighty-five dollars and forty cents. At eleven o'clock he rose and stretched his arms over his head. "Some rainy day, when you fellows haven't got anything to do, "said he, * ' I wish you would teach me this game. I learned something at college that they told me was poker. They must have been kidding me. Good night, all! We bushers have to be in the hay by eleven." "Well!" said Red Timothy Tierney as the door closed behind the neophyte. "He's there like a duck!" said four Harps, speaking as one. "He is so!" chuckled Red Timothy. "If you want to know what's in a guy get him off a big loser in a poker game when the car-rds are runnin' agin' him. Hands that a man can only call on will make the best of 'em crab sometimes. This lad never had the smile wiped off his face all the evenin'. He's a nice loser an' a dead game sport. I'm for him." Thus Martin Luther passed a second acid test, and after that a third and a fourth. The Harps liked him; they could not help them selves. They were inclined to laugh at him for his too evident interest in "skirts," and as a pitcher they voted him the best-dressed actor in any league; but when it came to the boy himself there were no dissenting votes. Martin Luther was absolutely and emphatically all right! Veronica Kehoe took a motherly interest in him and found herself able at times to forget his Scotch Presbyterian ancestry. Patricia clung to him loyally, even after watching him work for several days — in itself a fine tribute to a winning personality. She would not allow even her father to say a word against his pitching. Cornelia was often seen in his company after she learned that he thought Kenilworth was the greatest novel ever written; and between times he taught her to play tennis and golf and gave her lessons on the mandolin. He also won a silk hat from Shamus Kehoe who claimed that no man living could drive any sort of ball over the centre-field fence at the park — a distance of almost six hundred feet. Martin took a brassy and, dropping three golf balls in the grass by the home plate, won the bet, with yards to spare. But golf and tennis do not qualify a man for the big league; and as training progressed Shamus Kehoe began to weed out the least promising recruits. "Old lady," said he one evening to the wife of his bosom, "I'm thinkin' I should be sayin' something to Martin. 'Tis not fair to the lad to be keep in' him hangin' on here, spendin' his money an' wastin' his time. He'd much better be makin' shoes than monkeyin' with professional baseball." "Break it to him gently, dear heart," said Veronica. "Remember he's as sensitive as a girl." "I will that," said Shamus. Following out this charitable impulse Mr. Kehoe found Martin Luther sitting upon the porch alone, looking at the rising moon. "Well, me boy," said Shamus, dropping into a chair, "I'm afraid I have bad news f'r ye. As a pitcher ye're an awful thing." Martin's response to this delicate opening was unexpected. "Right you are!" said he. "And it's because of that I'm sitting here looking at the moon. I've got the blues, Mr. Kehoe — and I've got 'em bad!" "Don't take it so hard, lad," said Shamus, laying his big, red hand upon Martin's arm. "Ballplayin' is a bad business f'r the best av thim. A few years an' ye're done. Better a boy should be learnin' something that'll be av use to him all his life." Martin Luther laughed the hollow ghost of a laugh. "I never expected to make a business out of baseball," said he. "I just wanted to see whether I had the goods or not — that was all. I wish that was the worst of my troubles." "Maybe I could offer ye some advice," said Shamus, regarding him kindly. "I've had a lot to do with young men, first an' last; an' I've given some av thim the right steer. What's eatin' ye, Martin? Ye say ye're grievin' f 'r that ye're such a bad pitcher, an' the next minute ye say ye don't care whether ye pitch or not. 'Tis queer talk, son." "It's a queer situation too," said Martin Luther, and lapsed into silence. "Put all the cards on the table," said Sha mus. "Ye're a good lad, an' if I can help ye it shall be done." Martin Luther McCall drew a long, deep breath. "Mr. Kehoe," said he, "I'm in love." "Glory be!" ejaculated the manager. "An' that's the way the cat hops! I'm afraid I can do nothin' f'r ye, Martin." "Nobody can," said the boy. "But if I was a pitcher I could do something for myself." "What's that!" demanded Shamus, taking his feet from the railing and throwing away his cigar. "How would pitchin' have anything to do with it"? I don't follow ye." "Well, it's like this," said Martin: "This girl is queer." "God be good to us! "said Shamus piously. "They're all that way, Martin, lad." "She's queer," repeated Martin. "She ad mires baseball players." "There's nothin' queer about that at all," said Kehoe, thinking of his younger days and the lovely creature who refused a cigar drum mer, an engineer and three brakemen for love of a dashing shortstop. "I mean that she's got a sort of a bug about it, "said Martin Luther patiently. ' * She makes heroes out of 'em." "Humph!" said Shamus. "Have I — seen the lady, maybe?" "It's quite likely," said Martin Luther. "She's here in town on a visit — comes to the ball park sometimes. When I saw how she felt about ballplayers I sort of stalled along. She got the idea that I was quite a pitcher and I — well, I didn't deny it — I didn't have the nerve to tell her the truth; and now it's got to the point where she expects me to make good — and I'm not there!" "She knows little about the game, I take it," said Shamus, "else ye wouldn't have got away with your bluff thus far." Martin winced. "On the level," he asked, nam I as bad as that!" Kehoe nodded. "Patsy has had your number fr'm the first day," said he. "'Tis as plain as the nose on your face that ye will never be a pitcher." Martin Luther sighed heavily. "This girl knows the practice games begin to-morrow," said he, "and she expects me to go in there and pitch. If I could get away with it only once — only once!" Shamus Kehoe shifted his chair and stared into the boy's face incredulously. "Ye think it would make a difference?" he asked. "All the difference in the world!" said Mar tin. "But what's the use of talking about it? If I went in there they'd hammer me all over the lot." "Yes," said Kehoe. "They would. They would so." There was a long silence. Sentiment, the birthright of the Irish, was stirring in the depths of Shamus Kehoe's heart. It brought his youth back to him and the memories of the days when he walked with Veronica Shaughnessy — the light in her eyes. "She's a good girl, me son?" asked Shamus softly. "So good that it seems strange she should care for me at all," said Martin humbly. "'Tis not like ye to be so meek," said Sha mus. "What makes ye think 'tis love an' not a mere passin' fancy?" "When you met Mrs. Kehoe," countered Martin Luther, "did you have to stop and ask yourself any questions'? You knew, didn't you?" "Yes, me son — I knew." For the feeling in the boy's voice Shamus could have forgiven him everything — even his middle name, had he thought of it. He thought of other things in stead — the moon, for instance; and remembered that it was the same one which shone down on his own lovemaking. And when an Irishman stares at that calm silver face long enough and recalls all that it has seen of the best of him — the joy and the sorrow — his calm judgment is apt to suffer a severe moonstroke. "But what's the use?" mourned Martin Luther. "She thinks I'm a great pitcher — and I'm a piece of cheese!" Shamus Kehoe spoke suddenly, his voice thick with moonbeams and gruff with newborn resolution. "Ar-re ye game?" he demanded. "Ye '11 take a chance?" "On what?" "On the girl!" said Kehoe. "Suppose ye had a chance to pitch agin the reg'lars to-mor row — would ye be willin' to try?" "I'm not afraid — if that's what you mean," said Martin slowly. "She'll have to know sometime. Yes, I'm game." "Glory!" exclaimed Kehoe. "I'll send ye in to-morrow. Six innin's is all we play the first week. And, Martin?" "What, sir?" "Don't leave it get yer goat. Often I've seen 'em this early in the season when they could not hit a mess av balloons." Long after Martin Luther had gone indoors Shamus Kehoe sat on the porch and looked at the moon. "Ah, 'tis a grand thing to be young!" he mused. "It is so! If he wins the game he wins the gir-rl. God forgive me f'r a sinti-mintal old fool, but it runs in me mind that the lad will win to-morrow, even if we have to crowd the game on to him unbeknownst. Glory! All me life have I been readin' mushy tales about the heroic young pitcher an' the lovely girl in the grandstand. I was almost believin' there wasn't anny such animal, an' here I run into it in real life!... I wonder now, is it the blonde or the wan in the red hat?" rv The first practice game of the season is al ways more or less of a joke to the seasoned veterans. Almost anything may happen that early in the spring, and almost everything does; but the word Kehoe passed along to his hired men convinced them there was still something new under the sun. "'Tis like this, boys," Shamus said: "The lad is goin' back home to make shoes. He is — bar none — the worst pitcher in the world. His heart is set on winnin' wan game; an', speakin' strictly in confidence, there is a girl tangled up in it. I look to ye, as true Irishmin, to see that the lad gets away with it. An' I'll fine the man wan hundhred bones who blabs after ward!" To a man the Harps entered enthusiastically into the spirit of the thing. To be ordered to throw a game was a novelty and, under the circumstances, a joke — though Patrick Henry O'Meara, selected to catch for the yanigans be cause of his familiarity with Martin's erratic delivery, expressed grave doubts and drooled pessimistically all the way from the hotel to the baseball park. "It will be no cinch, I warn ye," said that honest man to Messrs. Gilligan, Finnigan and Costigan. "Do not think 'tis a mere matter of strikin' out in a pinch. He will not get more than seven or nine balls over the plate all day. His conthrol this mor-rnin' was un usual wide an' promiscuous. Whoever catches f'r ye had better heave wan to hell-an'-gone occasionally an' let in a mess av runs. Martin will need thim." "Nix!" said Gilligan. "If we hippodrome it he'll tumble an' so will everybody else. It's got to be a close score. Since we're out to toss a game, let's do it right!" Shamus Kehoe sat on the bench and scanned the crowd in the grandstand with deep interest. "Pickin' wan girl out av that flock is a tough job," said he to Francis X. Shea. "Yer eyes are better than mine. Do ye see annything av a nervous blonde who looks as if her future happiness is thremblin' in the balance!" Patrick Henry O'Meara, catching McCall's practice shoots, offered encouragement and advice. "All ye need is conthrol," said he. "Their battin' eyes are ba-ad, an' their legs are stiff an' sore. Ye can beat thim by keepin' the ball over the plate. ConthroPll do it." Whereupon Martin Luther proceeded to heave a few that caused O'Meara to groan. Windy Jawnny O'Brien was selected as um pire and privately instructed to call everything a strike that came within reaching distance of the plate. Kehoe gave the signal and the yanigans trotted to their places — alert, overanxious and firmly convinced that their future careers depended upon making a favourable showing against the veterans. Contrary to his custom, Martin Luther did not make a theatrical en trance. He was the first man on the diamond — pale, nervous to a pitiable degree, but plainly determined to give the veterans the best that was in him. If he heard the pattering of gloves in the grandstand he gave no sign. Little Malachy Dugan was first at bat. Mar tin Luther, observing O'Meara sign for a fast ball, whirled his arm like a dervish and threw the fastest one in stock. Malachy Dugan leaped nimbly away from the plate; but, even so, the ball grazed the tip of his nose. This so unnerved Martin that, in spite of all Jawnny O'Brien could do, Malachy had a base on balls forced upon him. "Tell him to catch me off first," whispered Dugan to O'Meara as he left the plate. "I'll take an awful lead." Patrick Henry strolled into the diamond, mask in hand. "F'r the love av Heaven," he pleaded, "more conthrol an' less speed! Take y'r time an' t'row 'em on the side where ye see the bat stickin' out. Try a peg to first; Dugan is often caught napping." Martin Luther cuddled the ball under his chin; out of the corner of his eye he saw Malachy creeping down the baseline. There was a shrill chorus of feminine squeals and twitterings as Martin whirled and threw the ball toward McCafferty, the recruit first baseman. It was Dugan he hoped to catch napping, but it was McCafferty who was sound asleep — and the ball whizzed on into right field. There was nothing for Dugan to do but to continue on his way, which he did, calling down the black curse upon all the McCaffertys, their heirs and assigns forever. He stopped at third base. "Mulligan," breathed O'Meara into the ear of the next batter, "do ye shpill wan down to Martin an' leave him t'row Dugan out at the plate. 'Twill make a gran' play f'r him an* may cheer him up." Mixed-ale Mulligan's great specialty was pushing a ball through a gap in the infield; and it was no trouble for him to shorten the grip on his bat and send the sphere hopping directly at Martin. "Home wid it! Home wid it!" howled O'Meara. Martin Luther rushed forward to meet the ball, juggled it for an instant and then hurled it at 0 'Meara with all his strength. The throw was high and wide, but Patrick Henry swept it into his capacious mitt and stooped to tag the sliding Dugan. He missed him by at least eighteen inches. "Ye're out!" snapped Umpire O'Brien sternly; and for the first time in his life Malachy Dugan took the worst of a decision at the home plate without trying to pull the buttons off the umpire's coat. "What kind of baseball is that?" demanded Patricia Kehoe of her sister Cornelia. "That lobster bunted — bunted with a man on third base and nobody out! Of course it's only a practice game, but a man ought to be fined for 'pulling a bone' like that." Finnigan, the next batter, stood still while two atrocious strikes were called on him, and then swung brazenly at one a foot over his head. He missed it as far as possible. "A-a-ah!" scolded Patricia. "What's the matter with Wolfe Tone? He went after a wild pitch!" Gallegher, next up, contrived to end the inning with a weak infield fly and the grand stand cheered Martin Luther hysterically as he went to the yanigan bench. "Make it a close score!" ordered Kehoe as the Harps took the field. Eed Timothy Tierney, whose left arm is famed in song and story, mowed down the recruits with slow, tantalising drops and wide curve balls, and three men fell before him in order. In the second inning Martin Luther essayed a few curves on his own account, which caused O'Meara to leap about like an agitated bull frog, cursing wildly under his breath. One of these random shots smote Aloysius Gilligan, the first batter, a resounding trump in the ribs and he went to first base. Tad Costigan did his honest best to force Aloysius at second base and would surely have succeeded had not Ignatius Daly, the shortstop, fumbled the ball, both men being safe. "Now then," said Shamus to Francis Xavier Shea, "help him out av the hole — poor lad!" Shea, first ascertaining the exact position of Dominick Murphy, the recruit third baseman, hit the ball as straight to him as he knew how. Dominick made a nice pickup, rushed to third ahead of Gilligan and then whizzed the ball across the diamond to McCafferty in time to.double Shea. "Aw, what are those fool women clapping about?" sniffed the keen-eyed Patricia. "The play at third was all right, but Shea stumbled getting away from the plate and it took him twenty minutes to get started again! They're playing like a lot of apple-women." Bartholomew Burke, the catcher, who had some of the instincts of a dramatist, took three terrific swings at three pitched balls and closed the second inning. ''Easy there!" cautioned O'Meara. "That looked pretty raw." "Aw, what t'hell!" growled Burke. "I ribbed up a swell exit f 'r him, didn't I!" The Harps deserve no credit for holding the recruits runless for five innings; but in holding themselves in like case for the same length of time they performed a feat seldom if ever equalled in baseball history. Martin Luther, instead of settling down, grew worse with each inning, and seemed determined to lose the game in spite of the stern opposition of nine experienced and resourceful men. It was in the fourth session that Patricia Kehoe marched out of the grandstand and left the park, with fire in her eyes. "I'm as game as anybody," said she to Cornelia; "but I can't stand for this! Think of that fool of a Shea trying to steal second— with the bases full! A Swede did that once in the National League and they laughed him out of baseball! "Martin is in there without a thing in the world but a glove and a lovely disposition, and they ought to be hitting him all over the place. You can stay if you want to, but I'm going. I think they're all crazy with the heat." By inventing miracles upon the spur of the moment, and contriving errors of omission and commission, the Harps managed to struggle to the end of the fifth inning without a run; and Shamus Kehoe offered himself a fresh chew of tobacco and summed up the situation tersely: "Glory be!" said he. "I had no notion 'twould be so raw. Hurry an' get it over — 'tis makin' me ill." Gallegher and Gilligan hastened to retire themselves, but Tad Costigan made an un pardonable blunder and was forced to do some quick thinking in order to redeem himself. Tad took a careless swing at the first ball pitched and accidentally connected with it. It rolled to the centre-field fence — an honest home run; but Tad was thinking hard as he galloped down to first base. "The miserable fool!" grunted Umpire O'Brien. "No— 'tis all right, O'Meara! He cut first base by ten feet — an' McCafferty seen him do it." When the ball came back into the diamond McCafferty yelled for it and Jawnny O'Brien soberly declared Costigan out for failing to touch first base. Tad howled like a wounded wolf, and Dugan, Finnigan and Shea had their hands full to keep him from assaulting the umpire. It was all very realistic and thrilling; but, even as he struggled, Costigan was saying: "I took no chance. I missed 'em all on the trip round. Did ye notice?" The recruits swarmed to the bench to take their last turn at bat. "Let's have a run, fellows," pleaded Martin Luther. "Who hits first?" "Little me," said O'Meara. "An' if I get on, Martin, bust wan a mile — d'ye hear?" Judge Jimmy 0 'Houlihan had succeeded Tierney in the box for the regulars. The descendant of Irish kings winked openly at Patrick Henry and threw him a straight ball, waist-high and on the outside — in the very spot where O'Meara always liked them best. The fat old catcher sent a humming grounder down toward Dugan at short, who dashed for ward, made a snatch at the ball and, missing it by a hair's-breadth, executed something very like a drop kick, which gave the slow-moving O'Meara time to reach second base. "Fine wor-rk, Malachy, me son!" wheezed the old gentleman. "'Tis a gran' stage set-tin' f'r Martin. If he can hit the ball at all he's a hero — an' he wins his own game." Martin Luther advanced to the plate, clutching a long, heavy bat. The grandstand broke into applause, with here and there a flutter of a handkerchief. The boy did not hear it. His face was white, his jaw was set at a pugnacious angle, and his eyes glittered with stern determination. He knocked the dirt from his spikes, rubbed dust on his palms and crouched, every muscle tense, the bat jerking in short, nervous circles. Judge Jimmy tied himself in a knot and stood on one leg, flinging the other one high in the air; but the ball that was born of such cataclasmic effort wabbled feebly up to the plate — a fair, fat mark for any but a blind man. Martin Luther whipped the bat back round his neck and stepped briskly forward, swinging with every ounce of his eager young strength. There was a solid crash; a streak of white be tween short and third; a puff of dust on the far green; a swirl of outfielders' flying legs — and, in the midst of a cackling ovation from the stand and joyful whoops from the yanigans, Patrick Henry O'Meara came trundling home with the run that won the game. And nobody seemed to notice that Aloysius Gilligan ran in the wrong direction. "Glory be!" chuckled Shamus Kehoe." "Tis exactly the way it always happens in the magazines — the hero wins his own game in the last innin'. I'll believe anny thing after this."* Of course it was too good to keep. That evening after dinner Shamus Kehoe sat on the porch with Veronica and they looked at the moon. "My, but Patreeshy was mad as a hornet when she came home from the park this after noon!" said Mrs. Kehoe. "By what she says, the boys played an awful game. What ailed thim?" * Note to the scorekeepers — This is the place to divide the nine assists. "Ah, that's a secret!" said Shamus; and be cause it was he told Veronica the whole story from beginning to end. "'Twas a fearful struggle," said he in conclusion; "but we finally forced it upon him. That poor misbeguidsd girl of his thinks he's a pitcher; an' it ain't our fault if he didn't have all the earmarks av a Chris Matchewson. The boys certainly done noble!" Being a woman, Veronica noticed that Shamus had overlooked the most important point in the narrative. "Who is this girl?" she demanded. "He did not say," said Shamus; "but I have an idea 'tis the large blonde who's at the park so reg'lar. O'Meara see him talkin' with her." "Humph!" said Veronica scornfully. "If she's the same girl I see traipsin' about the streets with a poodle dog, she's not good enough f'rhim." "Martin is no child!" argued Shamus. "He's seen plenty av girls. I'd trust the boy to know which wan he wants." "All men are fools about women," said Veronica sternly; "an' I'll have ye to know, Shamus, that ye're no fit figure f'r a Cupid! Ye should have kept out av it. Hush! Here comes the lad now, with the girls." "What do you think of him, ma — getting away with his own game in the last inning?" asked Patricia. "I've just been hearin' about it, Martin," said Mrs. Kehoe. ''When are we to congratulate ye?" "Begin now!" said Martin Luther; and stooping quickly he imprinted a rousing kiss upon the plump cheek of that astounded lady. "Bless the boy!" sputtered Veronica, blush ing furiously. "I sh'd box your ears f'r that, Martin! Where's the girl?" "Here she is," said Martin, taking Cornelia's hand. "We're engaged!" "Ye're what?" shouted Shamus, leaping to his feet. "Dear heart alive! "gasped Veronica. "My Cornelia — ingaged!" "Well, what do you know about that?" squealed Patricia, launching herself upon Martin Luther like a young thunderbolt. "Now I can never be anything but a sister to you, Martin! You may kiss me too!" "Will you give her to me, sir?" asked Martin anxiously. Shamus Kehoe glared and swallowed hard. "Do ye want him, Corney!" he asked at length. The girl moved closer to Martin Luther and leaned her head upon his shoulder. "Take her!" exploded Shamus, and under his breath he said: "'Tis the second time I've given her to him — the rascal!" Patricia stood on tiptoe and whispered in Martin's ear. "I hope you'll be a better husband than you are a pitcher," she said. "I hope so too," said Martin Luther. Shamus Kehoe sat down heavily and stared at the moon. "Glory be!" he murmured. "An' I thought it was the blonde!" f t Note to the acorekeepers — Give Kehoe an error on the colour of the lady's hair.