Mister Conley

A NICKNAME is like a porous plaster— you slap one on a fellow to cure him of something and it takes hold easy enough, but it fetches the hair with it when it comes off. Mister Conley was what we called him, with the accent on the Mister. We wished the title on him to cure him of freshness, and it stuck so tight that we came near making a stranger out of the best third baseman in the league. Most ballplayers are christened by the news paper men, but Conley wasn't. We named him ourselves and we gave him a monaker that was meant to hurt. Sarcasm is the stuff that gets under the skin. It's harder to bear than down right abuse; but, even so, I claim that he might better have been Mister Conley than just plain Conley, 3b. Did you ever stop to think that it's a bad sign when a ballplayer hasn't a nickname of any sort? Take the Guide and pick out the boys who are known simply by their last names, and you'll find you haven't many stars in your collection. They'll be just good enough to get by. No bats or gloves will ever be named after 'eao. It takes an exception to make a rule. For some reason or other they never say Walt when they talk about Johnson. He's always Walter; but, shucks! that fellow doesn't need a nick name! He's got everything else. We tacked the Mister on Conley at the spring training camp, and it was his own fault. You know how it is down South in March — especially when the ivory-hunters have been beat ing the jungles the season before. The place is all gummed up with infielders and outfielders and pitchers — minor leaguers and sandlotters and semi-pro's — until you don't dare to turn round quick for fear of stepping on one of 'em. We regulars don't pay much attention to recruits, as a general thing — we see so many of 'em. If a youngster shows a lot of class we look him over, but that's as far as we go with him. We don't present him with the keys of the city on suspicion. It isn't that we're swelled up or stuck on ourselves; we're only particular. Some clubs are different, but we have always been clan nish. When the boss picks out a new man we give him the third degree; and if he stands the acid and comes out ninety-nine per cent human being we let him in — when we get good and ready. We're never in a hurry about it and we don't like to be rushed. It's easier for a St. Louis woman to break into Chicago society than it is for a busher to land a front seat in our family circle. We'd been hearing a few things about Conley from Gagus, the chief scout. Gagus found him out West somewhere during the boy's first year as a professional ballplayer. Before that he had been at some jerkwater college or other. The trouble with him was that he expected too much of us in the welcome-to-our-city line and expected it too soon. There wasn't any body to give him a quiet tip to lie back and wait; so he came tearing into our midst as frisky as a fox-terrier pup — he wanted to paw everybody and slobber over 'em. The kid meant it all right — he just didn't understand our system. He was loaded to the guards with college notions, and I think he joined out with us under the impression that a big-league ball club is a cross between a college fraternity and a six months' joy ride. Lots of bushers have that idea; but after they've been farmed out and traded round a while they get over it. That sort of experience would have been the best thing in the world for Conley; but he missed it. Conley took a running jump and landed square on third base, owing to Ranee Murdock's coming down with matrimony and emotional insanity at the same time. I'll explain about him: Most of us regulars met at St. Louis and started South from there, that being a sort of shipping point for ballplayers in the spring of the year. Our party was complete — all but Ranee Murdock, who was to join us there after wintering in Kansas City. Ranee had been our third baseman for five years — and a corking good one he was. It was a treat to play beside him; and if a shortstop doesn't know a third baseman when he sees one, who does? Billy Howard, the club secretary, was with us, representing the Bald Eagle, who was al ready at the training camp sizing up the recruits and trying to get a pitcher or two out of the mess. We were all sitting in the lobby of the hotel and Billy was scuttling round like a wet hen, fussing about Ranee, the baggage and a lot of other things — the way club secretaries always do. "I wired him a week ago to meet us here to-day," says Billy. "Come to think of it, he never answered — oh, here he is now!" It was Ranee, sure enough, all dressed up like a horse, with a flower in his buttonhole. I knew the minute I laid eyes on him that some thing was wrong. He was nervous and it showed in the way he laughed and slapped us on the back. That wasn't like Ranee — and it wasn't like him to carry a dinky little cane either. "Well, stranger," says Billy, "I was beginning to think I'd have to leave your transportation here and let you follow us. We're hitting the rattler at seven-thirty. Where is your trunk?" "I didn't bring one," says Ranee — and then he pulled it on us as unexpected as a triple play. He had gone and eloped with a Kansas City girl a couple of days before; and her father, after he recovered from the shock and cooled off, had offered him an interest in the retail clothing business to quit playing baseball. "So I guess I won't need that transportation," says Ranee; he didn't have the nerve to come out flatfooted and say he was going to quit. "Why, man alive," says Billy, "you ain't a-going to run out on the club, are you?" "Well, no-o," says Ranee — "not exactly run out; but I'm a married man now, and" "G-o-o-d — night!" says Smokeless Solly Jones, the pitcher, putting in his oar. "Any time they begin to pull that I'm-a-married-man-now stuff you don't have to ask for waivers. You can hand 'em an unconditional release on the spot. They may look all right and they may talk all right, but they'll never be the same again! If I was a manager I wouldn't give a nickel for a whole carload of bridegrooms. It's a form of insanity, sure!" "Wait!" says Howard, dancing up and down. "Wait a minute, Solly! You're hitting out of your turn. Let me talk to him: Now, Ranee, you wouldn't want to leave the boss flat on his back, would you?" "No," says Ranee, stalling, "I wouldn't want to do it, Billy; but my wife's old man has made a sweet business proposition and I don't see how I can overlook it. A third interest in the best clothing store in Kansas City is pretty soft. There's no future in baseball — you know that as well as I do. In a few years I'll be all through, and then what have I got? Nothing but a lot of jammed-up fingers and inflammatory rheumatism. I talked it all over with my wife, and she thinks" ''Police!" howls Smokeless, breaking in again. "That's the tip-off, fellers! His wife thinks! Those wishing to take a last view of the remains kindly pass to the right! Why, you poor deluded simp, have you quit thinking for yourself? Did it strike you that it was going to ruin this ball club to have a gap at third base? I'll bet no such notion ever knocked a splinter off that granite dome! You've got an elegant gall — haven't you — com ing round here, shaved nine days under the skin and all disguised up with cologne and chrysanthemums! "And so you're going to peddle hand-me-downs to the yokels because your wife thinks you hadn't better play baseball any more! It's a wonder she'd let you out alone this evening, for fear you'd catch cold! Great Cupid! You didn't marry a suffragette, did you? You've still got a vote, I hope! Ju3t because you let a girl take you by the arm and drag you down the aisle — -" "Here!" says Bance, red as a beet, and pretty mad; "this is the second time you've stuck your cue into a private game, and if you do it again I'll knock all the chalk off of it for you. Do you get me?" "You never saw the day!" bawls Solly. "You and all your wife's counterjumper rela- tions! You couldn't do it if you were in your right mind! Did she have to tell the preacher 'I will' for you?" Well, that was pretty raw, and for a few seconds it looked like war right there in the lobby; but some of the boys got hold of Solly and herded him into the bar, and the rest of us closed in on Ranee and argued with him. It wasn't any use though. It never is any use to argue with a bridegroom; he glories in his shame. Whenever we got Ranee treed and out on a limb he'd tell us what his wife thought. That benched us every time — didn't even leave us a comeback. Pretty soon Solly came back and said he was sorry. Old Smokeless has his faults, but he's always willing to apologise when he sees he's wrong. Sometimes he has to be licked before he can see it; but in this case it wasn't necessary. "Ranee, old hoss," says he, "I went a little too strong with that bawl-out and I'm sorry. Of course I don't really think that she kid-happed you, even if "Let it go at that," says Ranee, and they shook hands. "This is on the level?" says Solly. "You ain't trying to stick the Bald Eagle for more dough, are you? You're really going to quit?" "Yes, I'm going to quit, Solly." "Too bad!" says Smokeless, shaking his head. "Too bad! I'm going to miss you when I'm in there working — especially on the bunts. We'll all miss you; and don't fool your self, Ranee — you'll miss us. The afternoons will be awful long, with nothing to do but carry a tape measure round your neck. You'll get to thinking how good it feels to hook a fast one on the nose and watch her sail." 1 ' Oh, I don't kno /, "sa/s Ranee; but he couldn't look Solly in the "ye. "Some day," sa.yr Smokeless, "you'll run across a big-league ball club on the road. You'll see men who have been like brothers to you looking out of the Pullman windows, and you'd give all the clothing stores in Missouri to be with them again — just for one game; but you'll be fat and out of shape, and you won't be able to get your hands below your knees. You're selling out awful cheap, Ranee, old boy —awful cheap!" "Oh, I don't know," says Ranee, doing his best to smile and not getting it across very strong. "I don't think it will be as bad as that, Solly." "You just wait!" says Smokeless. "It'll be worse." Ranee went to the depot to see us off and somewhere on the way he lost the fat, self-satisfied look of an amateur married man. I was on the observation platform as the train started to pull out and I got a good look at him. He was shy all the earmarks of a bridegroom. Have you ever seen a kid outside a circus tent —a kid who knows that he's not going to get in to see the show, but can't quite bring him self to the point where he'll give up hope and go home? Well, that was Ranee. He was standing there in the gateway, all alone, look ing through at us; and, believe me or not, I wouldn't have traded places with him for the entire state of Missouri. By golly, a man ought to pick out a regular wife to break even for the loss of all his old pals, and I hoped Ranee had been lucky in the draw. Well, that's how we came to be shy a third baseman, and it explains why Mister Conley got his running jump into the regular line-up. The Bald Eagle shed a few tail-feathers when he heard that Ranee had signed a life contract in the Matrimonial League and left a hole at third base you could drive a furniture van through. It's no joke to lose a third baseman, because those fellows are born, not made; and they don't grow on every bush. I'm supposed to be a fair sort of shortstop, which is my regular position, and I've done some second-basing that wasn't so rotten; but put me on third and I'll kick away a dozen games a season. Real third basemen are like black pearls — worth anything you can get for 'em; and there's never enough to go round. What made it particularly bad was that the boss didn't have a word of warning. He'd been counting on Ranee as good for five years more and he didn't have a spare third sacker in sight or under cover. The Bald Eagle — we call him Jimmy Patten to his face — had to get a third baseman in a hurry, and there were only three ways to do it — two of 'em hard and the third 'a miracle: he could trade, buy outright, or find the sort of man he wanted among the recruits. You can figure what sort of terms you get on a trade when the other fellow knows you've simply got to do business with him. The boss knew that if he traded he'd have to give his right eye and a piece of his immortal soul to boot; and if he bought an established star it would be a five-figure deal. It was good horse-sense to look for the miracle first; so the Bald Eagle took another quick slant at the recruit infielders. And there was young Conley right under his nose — a born third baseman; I will say that for him. The first day at the practice park I sized up the bushers carefully, for I was interested in seeing the third-base gap plugged. There was one redhead in the bunch who loomed up like a twenty-dollar goldpiece on a collection plate —and it was Conley. He was a sure-enough ballplayer and it showed in every move he made. There is such a thing as baseball instinct. Almost any man who is fast on his feet and has good eyesight can be taught to field grounders and handle throws; but it's what a man does after he gets the ball in his hands that counts. Up to that point the work is mechanical. Conley knew what to do with the ball and he didn't have to stop to think. He had nice hands; he went after the ball the right way, handled it clean, and got it away from him like a streak. In the batting practice he stood up to the plate as though he'd seen one before and took a good, snappy jolt at the ball. I saw the Bald Eagle watching him, grinning like he does when he picks up a pair of aces on the draw. It didn't take half an eye to see the boss was sweet on the redhead. That night at dinner some of us were talking about Conley. We weren't boosting him, you understand — it was a little early for that. We were just mentioning that we'd noticed him as among those present. About the middle of the discussion in walked the bird himself, looked all round, and then came over and sat down at our table. Well, it wasn't exactly a crime; but it wasn't the right thing either. In our camp the recruits have tables of their own and do their sword-swallowing in a bunch. There was a dead silence for a few seconds; and I guess Conley felt the drop in the temperature, for he fished out a little leather case and handed his card to Solly Jones. It was just his luck to pick out the strongest kidder in the club. Smokeless looked at the card for some time. "Conley— Mister Marshall P. Conley. H'm! Don't recognise the name. Are you — stopping in the city, Mister Conley?" Conley started to laugh, but it fizzled out on him, for nobody laughed with him. ''Why, yes," says the redhead. "I — I'm with the ball club. Conley— from the D. P. D. League, you know." "Huh!" says Smokeless, and went on eating. Conley didn't quite know what to make of it; he sat there looking foolish and turning the cardcase over and over in his hands. More silence. "Pretty nice weather for spring train ing," says he at last. Solly began to talk across the table to Husky Mathews. "No, sir; I tell you you're wrong!" says he, as if he were getting back to an old argument. "I claim there's a better way than sawing 'em off short or knocking 'em off with a club. That's a quick way, but it's likely to fracture the skull." "If I'm wrong show me," says Husky, with out the least notion of what it was all about, but willing to help it along. "I use a kind of salve," says Smokeless. "If anybody is troubled that way rub a little dab into the scalp and in a few days they drop off by themselves. And it don't damage the horns either." "Horns!" says Conley, trying to shoulder in on the play and leaving himself wide open for the comeback. "Horns — on a human being?" "Oh, I wouldn't go so far as to say a human being." And Smokeless took another look at the card. "It's used on goats, Mister Conley— and bi.sh leaguers. It keeps 'em from butting in. I've got a box of it in my trunk if you'd like to try it." That was about all for Conley. It spoiled the meal for him; but the redhead was too proud to push back his chair and quit. He sat there, going through the motions of eating, and now and then trying to edge in on the conversation; but somebody crossed in front and took the ball away from him every time. The best he got was a chance to look interested and nod his head once in a while. It was a pretty rough deal on a beginner; but if he had played his proper position he would have missed it. Smokeless was responsible for the nickname. He carried that card round with him even when he was in uniform, and every time the redhead opened his mouth Smokeless would begin to look through his pockets. He'd dig up the card, take a slant at it and then pull the Mister Conley on him. In a few days we were all doing it. The newspaper men took it up next, and after Conley saw his press notices he began eating by himself over in a far corner. "It's like this," Smokeless explained: "When they were dealing out the humility this young third-basing demon didn't draw to his hand. It's a cinch he's going to be one of us, but it won't hurt him to be reminded once in a while that he's only related to this ball club by marriage. When he's tame we can let up on him." Conley took his taming like a little man and didn't talk back to any of the regulars; but it wasn't exactly nutritious for any of the other bushers to call him Mister. There was a big, rawboned recruit pitcher named Hendricks — from out West somewhere —and he made it his business to ride Conley every chance he got. He Mistered him all over the place for a few days and then the redhead invited him over behind the grandstand. The Bald Eagle refereed it — Jim Patten wouldn't give a nickel for a ballplayer who won't fight — and Conley gave that big rube thirty pounds and as swell a licking as you could wish to see. "That's a plenty!" says Hendricks as he was getting up the last time. * ' I'm no hog! I know when I'm satisfied. I'll call you anything you like if you'll only teach me to use my left hand like that. I never saw her coming once." 11 Don't call me anything. Just keep away from me," says Conley. He went back on the diamond and after that he was cock-of-the-walk with the recruits. The Bald Eagle was tickled to death with him. "He can lick any man on the team," says the boss. "It's a treat to see a good straight left again." "Yeah," says Smokeless; "but his footwork is coarse and he telegraphs that right hand every time he cuts it loose. He'd be a chop-ping-block for a man who would step in and beat him to it." Solly is a wonder at picking out a boxer's weak points, but nobody ever saw him find any of 'em with his fists. "Take a tip from me, Jones," says the boss, "and lay off of this sorrel-top. Some day he'll weary of your comedy and eat you alive." "Well," says Solly, "in that case I have a ticket that I won't go hungry entirely. I'll gather a toothful here and there while he's making a meal." "All right," says the Bald Eagle, hitching up his belt, "if that's the way you feel about it; but don't forget that the real comedians are the ones who know when to get off the stage, and the best thing about a joke is knowing when it's played out." We didn't ease up on Conley, and Solly worked that cardstuff on him until he wore the card out; but the kid never said a word. I can see now that the college-frat idea must have been strong in his head. A fraternity candi date gets an awful rough ride before he's finally taken in as a brother, and the better he stands the ragging the more they think of him, as a rule. Conley must have had a notion that he was being initiated; and when the boss told him to pack up his junk and get ready to start North with the regulars it was natural for the boy to figure that he'd passed his examinations and been elected a blood brother. That was the time when he should have held back a little and let us make the advances; but I suppose he'd kept himself bottled up so long that he just couldn't stand it another minute. And he was a friendly kid by nature. That night he came swarming into the Pullman with his bags; and the first crack out of the box he jammed my derby down over my eyes and slapped Husky Mathews on the back. "Well, by golly, we're all here, fellers!" says he. "Mister Conley is crowding the mourners a trifle," says Solly to me. "Somebody ought to tell him that it's a long time till October and the averages ain't quite figured up yet. Look at him jab Dugan in the slats! Ain't he fresh-like, all at once!" Well, it probably wasn't all freshness at that. A lot of it was excitement and sheer happiness at getting what every young ballplayer dreams of — a chance in the big league. I remember I was as daffy as a canary bird the first few days myself; and when a kid is happy he's simply got to talk and laugh and make a noise, or he'll bust. After all that silence and dignity the re action had got Conley, and his tongue was loose at both ends. Even then I think he would have made the riffle if he had used ordinary judgment. Every body was feeling lively and cheerful, what with the training season being over and the salaries going to start in a couple of weeks, and so on: It wasn't any time to be carrying grouches and picking flaws, and Conley's little burst of fresh ness might have got by in the general wave of good feeling if he hadn't put himself in line for a bawl-out. It was his second bad break. Of course there was a poker game, and Eddie Pine, our first baseman, dropped thirty bucks right off the reel. Then, like a fellow will do sometimes when he's a loser, Eddie began try ing to run everybody out of the good pots — and, of course, he got trimmed some more. Conley was leaning over from the seat behind making a lot of comments about the different plays and the pots, and so on. That was tolerable rank judgment, to begin with. I saw Eddie look at him once or twice, a little sour; but there wasn't any real clash until Conley tried to tell Pine how he should have played his three queens against Dugan's one-card draw. That was bad enough; but, to make it worse, Dugan caught his man and back-raised Eddie clear to the roof. It really wasn't any time for conversation — let alone advice from an outsider. "You should have laid back with 'em, Ed die," says Conley. "If Joe hadn't hooked up that other tenspot he wouldn't have bet into your two-card draw, and" "Say, who is this guy?" asks Pine, turn ing round and taking a good long look at Conley. "Oh, you mean Little Bright Eyes here?" says Smokeless, who was in the game. "Wait; I think I can place him." Solly rummaged round a while and fished out what was left of the card. "Why, this is Mister Marshall P. Conley — from the D. P. D. League. His horns have grown out again — makes him look different." "Is he a friend of yours?" asks Pine. "Oh, I wouldn't go so far as to say a friend; but he introduced himself to me once.'* "Well, you tell him," says Pine, "that if he sticks his lip in this poker game again I'll take him over my knee and spank him." It isn't necessary to kick a good dog when all he wants to do is jump on you to show you he's friendly. Conley drew back as if he'd been hit in the face. "Why, I didn't mean "he began, sort of stuttering. "Ain't that pest gone yet!" snaps Eddie without even looking over his shoulder. "Whose deal?" "Excuse me, gentlemen — and Mister Pine!" says the boy; but nobody paid any attention to him. Pretty soon he went back to the other end of the car and sat down alone. He looked out the window for about three hours, which was a stall and didn't fool anybody, because it was so dark he couldn't see a thing but his own reflection in the glass. I could imagine how he felt. According to his way of thinking he'd served his time and worked out his probation; and just when he was bursting with happiness because he was going to be a real big leaguer and one of us — zingo! he was back where he started: Mister Conley, from the D. P. D. League. He'd been running his head oif on a foul tip. Well, sir, from that night on, Conley Mistered every one of us. I suppose that was his notion of getting even — a typical kid's trick. It was funny at first and we thought we'd see how far he would go with it; so we Mistered him back whenever we got a chance, which wasn't often, for he never opened his mouth except on business — that is to say, something about baseball. While we were travelling North he spent most of his time up ahead in the smoker; he never came back to our car except to sleep. In the towns where we played spring exhibition games the only place we saw him was at the ball orchard. I had an idea that it would last only a few days; but Conley fooled me — he never forgot to Mister us, even on the bench. "Mister Daly, what was that one you hit?" "That was a spitter, Mister Conley." Can you imagine that kind of talk — on the bench? After the season opened and Conley began to break up games with that long pole of his, and show so much class that the fans quit yell ing for Ranee Murdock, we judged the thing had gone far enough and tried to make a few advances; but Conley wouldn't have it. He froze us stiff and then crawled farther back into his shell. A grown man with a grievance can't be near as nasty as a half-baked kid, and Conley was a fright. He peddled out insults right and left — and did it so darned politely too! The Bald Eagle, being a strategist, thought a battle might clear the atmosphere; so he rigged up a little trouble one night in the club house. Conley knocked out eighty-five dollars' worth of crown and bridge work for Eddie Pine and put an awful head on Solly Jones; and the worst of it was he refused to shake hands afterward. "The storybook dope is wrong," says the Bald Eagle. "Peace ought to come after war, but this is a reversal of all previous form. The boy has got a screw loose somewhere; but, so long as he's hitting.325 and third-basing all over the shop, he can be as upstage as he likes. If he begins to show politeness in his hitting I'll climb on to his collar.... Solly, I thought you said that he'd be a sucker for any man who'd step in and beat him to the punch?" Smokeless was over in the corner, and Absalom, our black rubber, was working on his face. "Well, didn't you see me step in?" mumbles Solly. "Trouble was that I forgot to step out again.... Ouch! Easy there, Absalom! You're getting that stuff in my eye!" The newspapers got hold of the Mister business; but, of course, they took the wrong slant. The plain truth might have done Conley good, but I suppose they figured it made a better story the other way. A woman reporter came to the hotel in Chicago, took one peek at Conley — I'll swear the kid never said ten words to her — and tore off a whole page of slush. The Chesterfield of the Big League was the heading, and there were pen-and-ink drawings of Conley in a claw-hammer; Conley playing polo; Conley turkey-trotting with a blonde heiress — and I don't know what all; but the write-up that went with 'em had the drawings skinned a mile. The woman said Conley was a member of the younger set — she didn't mention what set his old folks belonged to; so we're still guessing on that point — and she pulled a fierce line of bunk, accusing Conley of being rich and hand some, and playing ball for the love of the sport! It made a lively little article; but it would have been better for Conley if she had said he was a pin-feathered kid, with a sour disposition and eighteen hundred a year. "Even on the field," raved this literary female, "in the rush of conflict, surrounded by the rougher element, mingling with men of lower standards, this young Chesterfield of the diamond maintains his lofty ideals, command ing the respectful admiration of his teammates, who see in him everything a professional athlete should be but too often — alas! — is not." "Help!" says Smokeless Solly when he read it. "The rougher element — that's us, fellers. We're the men of lower standards. She's been opening our mail.... And who in Sam Hill is this Chesterfield person? I don't seem to make him at all. Chesterfield! Where did he ever tend bar?" Conley was mighty sore about that write-up. He told the hotel clerk he had a girl in Dexter, Iowa, who wouldn't care for that turkey-trot ting picture at all. It would make her think that he was leading a double life. That was a fair sample of the guff that got into the papers — and the baseball writers knew the truth, but wouldn't print it. The fans Mistered the kid from Boston to St. Louis, so that he never had a chance to forget his grouch and be human. In spite of his faults Conley was popular with the crowds. Anybody who plays the difficult corner the way that kid played it, with a fancy line of extra-base knocks on the side, can have plenty of people cheering for him; but popularity didn't make Conley happy. He was the saddest and the lonesomest big-league star in the business; and I'll bet there were times when he'd have given twenty points off his batting average for a heart-to-heart talk with a real pal. There wasn't a man in the club he could call his friend — and the ballplayer who hasn't at least one chum on the payroll is in hard luck. Well, it went along that way until the end of the season, Conley getting crustier and crustier, but playing like a wild man and breaking up many a game with that fifty-five-ounce bat of his. He never loosened up with us for a minute — not even after the game that cinched the pennant and made us sure of the World's Series; and, believe me, there was some celebration that night too! After every Big Series it is customary for the long-range critics to get in their fine work. In the corner groceries and cigar stands from Maine to California you can meet fellows who know more about baseball strategy than the men who get twenty thousand a year for handling a pennant-winning club. These wise Ikes, who never saw a regular game, can tell you just where the mistakes were made and how each game might have been won. I'm not in the class with these experts, so you needn't expect me to tip off any real low-down stuff on the series we played with the Grizzlies for the World's Championship. It's enough to say that at the end of the fifth game the score stood three games to two in our favour. We needed another to win the long end of the money. It never should have gone beyond five games; but Scotty MacPherson, pitching the fifth game, laid a fast one across the outside corner of the plate for Shag Robinson, the Grizzly first-baseman, and Shag hit it a mile, with two on the bases. Scotty had 'em licked 2 to 0 at the time, but Shag's home run beat us. Any pitcher who gives that dynamiter a fast one, outside, ought to have his roof examined by the nut commissioners. Before the series began we were all a little bit nervous about Conley. It was practically certain that the Grizzlies would centre the at tack on him as much as possible, figuring that on account of his inexperience they might be able to rattle him. Nobody knows how a recruit is going to act in his first World's Series; and, for that matter, I've seen many a veteran choke up and kick away easy chances when he was in there playing for the difference between sixty and forty per cent. It is good baseball tactics to shoot at the weakest spot on a team, and it was good judg ment for the Grizzlies to figure that the soft place in our lineup would be at third. If they could make Conley nervous or get him to fight ing the ball they would have just that much advantage. Sure enough, they went after the kid from the tap of the gong. The players kidded him, the coachers yelled at him, and the pitchers gave him the old beanball. In the very first game and Conley's first time at bat, Buzz Gaffney, the big Grizzly righthander, whistled a wicked one right at Conley's head. That sort of thing is calculated to worry a hitter and get him to thinking about what would happen if his head got in the way of one of those bean-balls. Conley ducked, of course — and Gaffney laughed. "Take your foot out of the water-bucket, Mister Conley," says Buzz, which is about as insulting a remark as a pitcher can make. ' * Stand up there — if you ain't afraid!" I forgot to say that Conley never Mistered any opposition players or umpires. 1 'I'm standing right here!" he pipes, thump ing the rubber with the end of his bat. "Shoot another one like that and I'll let it hit me and take a base. Why, you poor miserable old has-been, you haven't got enough speed to dent a derby hat! Come on! Show me!" Then Conley hogged the plate. Buzz switched to a curve and the kid lined it out for two bases. That should have been enough to convince 'em that Conley wasn't the scaring kind; but they kept right after him, trying to find out where his goat was pastured. They were still looking for the animal when the sixth game opened on their home grounds. Old Smokeless Solly was selected to pitch the sixth game; he had already trimmed the Grizzlies once with his slow ball. I claim that Solly Jones has the slowest ball in the major leagues — which is where he gets the name of Smokeless. It floats up to the plate like a toy balloon and a man can read the signature of the league president on it before he takes a swing. It looks easy to hit and it is easy to hit — in the air. Solly had let the Grizzlies down with nine goose-eggs in his first game; so we felt reasonably comfortable behind him. The Grizzlies sent Swede Olson after us — a {336] MISTEE CONLEY six-foot lumberjack, with a nasty hop on his fast ball. They were fighting uphill for the sixty per cent and it was a real battle from the opening inning. In the second, Mike Mullaney, their shortstop — an aggressive little mick — tried to steal third base. Danny Daly, our catcher, juggled the ball the least fraction of a second and then had to make a chain-lightning peg to Conley. I was close to the baseline and I can swear that Mullaney had a clear path to the bag. He went in like a thunderbolt, spikes first, sliding low to get away from the tag; and I saw him throw his right foot a bit wide. It caught Conley on the shin and the kid went down in a heap; but he held on to the ball. The umpire called Mullaney safe. As Conley got up he said something to Mullaney, and as I ran over I heard Mike's answer: "Keep off the baseline if you don't want to be spiked! You'll get your legs cut off trying to block people." "He wasn't on the baseline," I says, "and he never even came close to blocking you. I saw you slam that right foot out to get him — and I've got a notion to punch you in the eye! Are you hurt bad, Conley!" The kid took a few steps, trying out his left ankle. His red stocking was torn a little six inches above the shoetop, so it was a cinch that the spikes had hit him. * ' No, Mister Hines, "says he. "I'm all right, thank you." He didn't forget to Mister me even then! Well, I gave Mullaney a bawling-out on general principles, because I didn't want him to think he was getting away with anything. Smoke less came over and joined in. "We keep a file on our bench for fellers like you," says Solly — "a file to sharpen spikes with. You'd better stay away from second the rest of this game, because every man that slides in there will have a razor-edge aimed at your knee-cap. And that ain't all — the next time I get you up there at the plate I'm going to hit you right in the ear. In the ear! Do you get me?" Mike showed his teeth. "You couldn't hit the ground with your hat!" says he. "And as for this bush third baseman he'll be on crutches the rest of his life if he tries to block me again." "You're a liar! I didn't block you," says Conley. All this time the fans were yelling and those who rooted for us howled: "Dirty ball! Dirty ball!" And the home contingent cheered Mullaney. The noise lasted until Solly, back in the box but still jawing at Mike, snapped the ball over to third and caught Mullaney flatfooted as a cigar-store Indian, six feet off the bag. Conley ran him down on the line and when he tagged him out he brought the ball from his hip, knocking Mullaney flat on his face. I heard him grunt twenty feet away. "How bad did he nick you?" asks the Bald Eagle when Conley limped to the bench. "Just broke the skin, Mister Patten. It stings a little — that's all." "Let's have a look at it." "It's not worth skinning down the stocking for. It '11 be all right in a minute." Conley went over and sat down on the far end of the bench, and I saw him twisting his stocking so that the torn place would come on the side instead of over the shin. "There's one game rooster!" says Patten. "Did you see him slam the ball into Mullaney's ribs? They'll find out pretty soon that they're wasting time trying to get this kid's goat." Mind you, I don't say that Mullaney or any other ballplayer would deliberately spike a man. I've played ball for nine years and I never saw but one case where I felt sure the spiking had been done on purpose. This was probably an accident; but after it had happened and couldn't he helped it was baseball sense for Mullaney to put all the blame on Conley and threaten to cut him in two the next chance he got. And then Mullaney, being an infielder him self, knew that nothing in the world shakes a man's nerves like a spiking. I've been cut pretty badly a few times; and to this day I never see a man coming at me feet first without wondering whether I'm going to get it again, and remembering just how those steels hurt when they rip through the flesh and scrape the bone. Yes, Mullaney had the right system, but his threats didn't seem to work on Conley. The kid was all over the place like a circus tent, pulling off sensational stops and going back into the shadow of the grandstand after fouls. He knocked down one cannon-ball drive along the third-base line that was a daisy. That wallop was ticketed clear through to the fence, and Conley saved us one run right there — and possibly two. In the fifth inning Butch Dillon, the Grizzly rightfielder, went whirling into third base spikes first and yelling: "Look out! Look out!" But Conley didn't flinch a muscle. He took the throw and put the ball on Butch as clean as you would wish. Then, in the first of the sixth — just to make it more binding — Conley got hold of one of Olson's fast shoots and hammered it over Dillon's head, scoring me from second with the first run of the game. The kid was spry enough on the field, but I noticed that he limped badly coming and going between innings; and once he poured some water on his stocking and let it soak in. I was sitting beside him when he did it and heard him suck in his breath the way my little boy does when he cuts his finger. That tipped it to me that his shin was hurting him more than he would admit and I gave him credit for gameness. Well, the game boomed along into the ninth inning, still 1 to 0; so we had an edge of one run when they went to bat in the last half. All we had to do was blank 'em again and the long end of the money was ours. I was already reading the figures on my check. It was the pitcher's turn to hit; and Neville, the Grizzly manager, yanked Olson and sent Bradner up to bat for him. At the same time he switched the system of attack. For eight innings they had been waiting Solly out and letting the first ball go by; but Bradner came up with orders to clout the first one that was over the plate. We hadn't seen much of Bradner in the series, but we knew he was a dangerous man with the stick. "Hello, little one!" says Solly to Bradner. "When did they let you out of the cage?" Then he floated up a slow one on the inside. Bradner stepped back, clubbed his bat short and whaled the ball down at me a mile a minute on the barehand side. I got two fingers on it, but it ran up my arm and down my back like a squirrel — and Bradner was safe. The scorer gave me an error on it — the cross-eyed dub! I think I was lucky to stop it at all. Butch Dillon was the next man up and he hit the first ball — a measly little pop-up back of first base, just far enough to be mighty unhandy to reach. Eddie Pine, who is a big, leggy fellow, went tearing back after it and Joe Dugan came tearing in from right field. We saw it was Pine's ball and we all yelled: "Eddie! Eddie!" But Joe came bulling along like a steam engine, with his nose in the air; and he smashed into Pine full tilt. Eddie turned a complete somersault, Dugan was knocked flat on his back and, of course, the ball fell as safe as a government bond. Bradner, waiting halfway between first and second in case the ball should be caught, reached third and Dillon sprinted to second. It was all Dugan's fault for not letting Pine take the ball, but his alibi was that there was so much noise in the stands he didn't hear us. If Joe has a weakness it's a little tendency toward solid ivory. Well, there we were, up against one of the sudden switches in the luck that make baseball such an uncertain proposition. A minute be fore and those fans wouldn't have given a smooth dime for their chances; now they were all up, jumping and dancing and yelling like Comanches. A minute before we thought we had a cinch; now we were drawn in on the grass, fighting to cut off the tying run, with a possible winning run on second base and no body out. It was a desperate situation, for Dugan's boneplay had unsettled us and shaken our nerves. Old Solly was cackling at the next batter, but it wasn't on the level with him. He didn't feel any more like laughing than the rest of us, but he didn't think it was policy to let Shag Eobinson know it. Shag was the next hitter — the fencebuster; and we knew to a moral certainty that if the first one came over he would take a crash at it. I remember sort of praying that he would hit it on the ground and give us a gambling chance for our white alley — and then Solly let fly, waist high and inside. It was a slow ball, and that gave Shag a chance to pull back from the plate and set himself. He timed it beautifully, swinging as if it were the last act of his life and he wanted to use all his steam before he went. Shag put everything between his spikes and his shoulders into one terrific swipe, and he caught that slow ball square on the end of his bat — wham! It came down toward third base, level as a sunbeam and buzzing like a bee. I didn't have time to untrack myself or turn my head — just time to think, "There goes the ball game!"— when out of the corner of my eye I saw Conley make a lunge into the air with his glove. The crack of the bat and the spat of the ball against leather were like two handclasps — they were that close together — and there was Conley, scrambling along the grass after the ball! One chance in a million and he got away with it; he had actually knocked that lightning drive out of the air with a blind, one-handed stab! Bradner was tearing for the plate, Dillon was between second and third, and the tremendous roar from the stands died out all at once, as if a muffler had been put on it — which meant that every man inside the turnstiles realised that Conley had better than an even chance to cut off that tying run at the plate. The boy came up from the grass with a jerk, throwing the ball underhand without taking time to set him self fairly on his feet. Danny Daly, our catcher, jumped high in the air — and the next thing I knew Bradner had scored and Dillon was pounding over the plate with the run that won the game for the Grizzlies. After making a stop that was nothing short of a baseball miracle, Conley had thrown the ball away and the World's Series stood a tie — three games apiece. We were dressing at the hotel and after the game was over it was every man for himself. WTe had to fight our way through a solid mob of lunatics, all singing and dancing and yelling that the Grizzlies would get us the next day. I finally got to one of the exits and Solly Jones reached out of a taxicab and pulled me in, along with Joe Dugan and Eddie Pine — four of the sorest people in the whole world. "Well, the yellow showed at last!" says Dugan. "I've been expecting it would. These kids ain't there in a pinch and that's why they're no good in a big series. Now Conley" "Oh, shut up!" snaps Pine. "He heaved one away, yes — and he blew the game for us; but he never should have had the chance to do it. Who was the fool that put those runs on the bases! Who knocked me on my ear when I was just going to grab Dillon's fly? You make me sick!" "Well, at that, there was no excuse for Conley chucking that ball away!" says Solly. "He had plenty of time to get Bradner; but he lost his head completely. That bum heave of his is likely to cost us the series; these fellows are going to be a tough bunch to beat to-morrow, coming from behind and grabbing us this way! Gee! That was a hard game to blow!" Between us we gave Conley quite a panning —though Pine wouldn't let Dugan open his mouth once. We were pretty well shaken up and we didn't relish the idea of going against a club that had beaten us out twice in whirl wind finishes. Somebody had to be the goat and Conley was elected. We didn't give him any credit for the good plays he'd made. That is never done after a losing game. You can save one nine times by sensational fielding; but lose it and you're first cousin to a yellow dog. We dressed in our rooms and met in the lobby afterward. Conley wasn't there and neither was Husky Mathews, who shared his room with him. We were all sitting round, with our hats pulled down over our eyes, talking out of the sides of our mouths and roasting Conley to a fare-ye-well, when Husky Mathews stepped out of the elevator. He listened to the anvil chorus for a few minutes and there was a queer look on his face. Joe Dugan was expressing him self pretty freely and all at once Mathews broke out, short and savage: "Conley's yellow, is he? I wish some of you game fellows that never quit in your lives would go up to Number Four-twenty-two and take a look at the leg that kid has been playing on all the afternoon! Yellow! I don't like a bone in his head, but I can lick anybody who says he's yellow!" There was silence after that, because Husky looked as if he meant it. "Was he hurt bad!" asks Solly Jones. "Go and look, you soreheads!" says Husky, heading for the bar. Half a dozen of us went upstairs. The tran som of Conley's room was open and we heard voices. Old Absalom was in there with him. The darky was almost crying. "Boy, fo' heaven's saik," he says, "why didn't yo' tell me? Dis laig oughta been 'tended to as soon as it was hurt! Yo ' wanter ruin yo'self fo' life? Misteh Patten he sho will be wild when he sees how bad yo' is cut up! Whyn't yo' say something?" "Say something!" says Conley, shrill and excited. "Who did they have to put in my place? Nobody that knows how to work with that infield like I do. If I had peeled that stocking down Patten would have taken me out of the game — you know he would! I couldn't quit, Absalom; I had to stick and do the best I could. When I jumped after that ball it felt as if my leg was coming off, and the pain sort of turned me sick all over and dizzy. I just had to throw blind — it hunt so I couldn't see!" "Dere now, honey! Dere now!" says Absalom. "I wouldn't be frettin' myself if Ise yo '. Dey all throw 'em away — bes' playehs in the land do it sometimes; but dey don't all have so good a excuse as yo' got, an' dey ain't a-many of 'em game enough to go seven innin's on a laig hurt like dis one is. No, suh!" "But I lost the game! "says Conley. * ' I lost the game! And think of what that means to the other fellows! I know I don't get along very well with 'em, but I'd rather have had my leg cut clear off than give 'em a chance to say that I threw 'em down! And now I can't play to-morrow; and" I heard something that made me back away from the door. We went out to the elevator and Solly Jones took charge of affairs. "Hines," says he, "go downstairs and bring up every man on the team — every one of 'em. You can tell 'em what you've heard. This Conley business has got to be fixed up now!" We didn't give him a chance to say he wouldn't see us. We opened the door and marched in. Conley was sitting on the edge of the bed with his foot in a basin of warm water; and Absalom, on his knees, was working over the nastiest spike cut I ever saw — and I hope I'll never see another one like it — a deep, ragged cut five inches long, clear to the bone. Knowing how spikes feel, it made me ache all over just to look at it. Conley's face hardened as we came crowding into the room, but he couldn't hide the tear marks on his cheeks. For a few seconds there wasn't a sound in the place except hard breath ing; the fellows hadn't expected that it would be so bad and it sort of took 'em by surprise. Solly Jones got down on the floor and examined the cut, whistling a little between his teeth. "You played all the afternoon — with that!" says he. Conley nodded. I don't think he could have said anything just then, even if he had wanted to. Solly looked up at the rest of us; and then he turned to Conley. "If you don't mind," said he, "I'll shake you by the hand and we'll take twenty minutes for a new book. I've always wanted to meet the gamest guy in this business. I'm for you, Conley — win, lose or draw! Put her there, kid!" Conley looked at him for a minute and then he held out his hand. "All right, Solly," said he. "All right. You pitched a swell game and I'm sorry I threw it away for you" Then he choked. Well, I guess there were others of us that choked too. It might have been damp round there in a minute but for Solly Jones. "Gentlemen and roughnecks," says he, "allow me to present Spike Conley!" So he's Spike Conley now and the Mister thing is a joke with all of us. We call him the best third baseman in the world. We may be shading it a little at that — but he's surely the gamest. Oh, you want to know about that seventh game? We won it in a walk, thank you — Spike sitting on the bench all done up in bandages. And I'd be ashamed to tell you what Joe Dugan did to Mike Mullaney after the series was over.