The Baseball MEGAPACK ®. Zane Grey

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      A hot retort trembled upon Madge Ellston’s lips, but she withheld it and quietly watched Carroll. How complacent he was, how utterly self-contained!

      “And Billie Sheldon—wasn’t it good to see him brace? What hitting!… That home run!”

      “Sheldon flashed up today. That’s the worst of such players. This talk of his slump is all rot. When he joined the team he made some lucky hits and the papers lauded him as a comer, but he soon got down to his real form. Why, to break into a game now and then, to shut his eyes and hit a couple on the nose—that’s not baseball. Pat’s given him ten days’ notice, and his release will be a good move for the team. Sheldon’s not fast enough for this league.”

      “I’m sorry. He seemed so promising,” replied Madge. “I liked Billy—pretty well.”

      “Yes, that was evident,” said Carroll, firing up. “I never could understand what you saw in him. Why, Sheldon’s no good. He—”

      Madge turned a white face that silenced Carroll. She excused herself and returned to the parlor, where she had last seen her uncle. Not finding him there, she went into the long corridor and met Sheldon, Dalgren and two more of the players. Madge congratulated the young pitcher and the other players on their brilliant work; and they, not to be outdone, gallantly attributed the day’s victory to her presence at the game. Then, without knowing in the least how it came about, she presently found herself alone with Billy, and they were strolling into the music-room.

      “Madge, did I brace up?”

      The girl risked one quick look at him. How boyish he seemed, how eager! What an altogether different Billie! But was the difference all in him! Somehow, despite a conscious shyness in the moment she felt natural and free, without the uncertainty and restraint that had always troubled her while with him.

      “Oh, Billie, that glorious home run!”

      “Madge, wasn’t that hit a dandy? How I made it is a mystery, but the bat felt like a feather. I thought of you. Tell me—what did you think when I hit that ball over the fence?”

      “Billie, I’ll never, never tell you.”

      “Yes—please—I want to know. Didn’t you think something—nice of me?”

      The pink spots in Madge’s cheeks widened to crimson flames.

      “Billie, are you still—crazy about me? Now, don’t come so close. Can’t you behave yourself? And don’t break my fingers with you terrible baseball hands.… Well, when you made that hit I just collapsed and I said—”

      “Say it! Say it!” implored Billie.

      She lowered her face and then bravely raised it.

      “I said, ‘Billie, I could hug you for that!’ … Billie, let me go! Oh, you mustn’t!—please!”

      Quite a little while afterward Madge remembered to tell Billie that she had been seeking her uncle. They met him and Pat Donahue, coming out of the parlor.

      “Where have you been all evening?” demanded Mr. Ellston.

      “Shure it looks as if she’s signed a new manager,” said Pat, his shrewd eyes twinkling.

      The soft glow in Madge’s cheeks deepened into tell-tale scarlet; Billie resembled a schoolboy stricken in guilt.

      “Aha! so that’s it?” queried her uncle.

      “Ellston,” said Pat. “Billie’s home-run drive today recalled his notice and if I don’t miss guess it won him another game—the best game in life.”

      “By George!” exclaimed Mr. Ellston. “I was afraid it was Carroll!”

      He led Madge away and Pat followed with Billie.

      “Shure, it was good to see you brace, Billie,” said the manager, with a kindly hand on the young man’s arm. “I’m tickled to death. That ten days’ notice doesn’t go. See? I’ve had to shake up the team but your job is good. I released McReady outright and traded Carroll to Denver for a catcher and a fielder. Some of the directors hollered murder, and I expect the fans will roar, but I’m running this team, I’ll have harmony among my players. Carroll is a great catcher, but he’s a knocker.”

      THE WINNING BALL, by Zane Grey

      One day in July our Rochester club, leader in the Eastern League, had returned to the hotel after winning a double-header from the Syracuse club. For some occult reason there was to be a lay-off next day and then on the following another double-header. These double-headers we hated next to exhibition games. Still a lay-off for twenty-four hours, at that stage of the race, was a Godsend, and we received the news with exclamations of pleasure.

      After dinner we were all sitting and smoking comfortably in front of the hotel when our manager, Merritt, came hurriedly out of the lobby. It struck me that he appeared a little flustered.

      “Say, you fellars,” he said brusquely. “Pack your suits and be ready for the bus at seven-thirty.”

      For a moment there was a blank, ominous silence, while we assimilated the meaning of his terse speech.

      “I’ve got a good thing on for tomorrow,” continued the manager. “Sixty per cent gate receipts if we win. That Guelph team is hot stuff, though.”

      “Guelph!” exclaimed some of the players suspiciously. “Where’s Guelph?”

      “It’s in Canada. We’ll take the night express and get there tomorrow in time for the game. And we’ll hev to hustle.”

      Upon Merritt then rained a multiplicity of excuses. Gillinger was not well, and ought to have that day’s rest. Snead’s eyes would profit by a lay-off. Deerfoot Browning was leading the league in base running, and as his legs were all bruised and scraped by sliding, a manager who was not an idiot would have a care of such valuable runmakers for his team. Lake had “Charley-horse.” Hathaway’s arm was sore. Bane’s stomach threatened gastritis. Spike Doran’s finger needed a chance to heal. I was stale, and the other players, three pitchers, swore their arms should be in the hospital.

      “Cut it out!” said Merritt, getting exasperated. “You’d all lay down on me—now, wouldn’t you? Well, listen to this: McDougal pitched today; he doesn’t go. Blake works Friday, he doesn’t go. But the rest of you puffed-up, high-salaried stiffs pack your grips quick. See? It’ll cost any fresh fellar fifty for missin’ the train.”

      So that was how eleven of the Rochester team found themselves moodily boarding a Pullman en route for Buffalo and Canada. We went to bed early and arose late.

      Guelph lay somewhere in the interior of Canada, and we did not expect to get there until one o’clock.

      As it turned out, the train was late; we had to dress hurriedly in the smoking room, pack our citizen clothes in our grips and leave the train to go direct to the ball grounds without time for lunch.

      It was a tired, dusty-eyed, peevish crowd of ball players that climbed into a waiting bus at the little station.

      We had never heard of Guelph; we СКАЧАТЬ