The Zane Grey Megapack. Zane Grey

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      * * * *

      Next morning he wrote to his mother and told her all about it, adding that she must not take the expenditure of his money so much as an instance of reckless extravagance as it was a case of highway robbery.

      In the afternoon on the way to the ball-park, he met Mittie-Maru and relating last night’s adventure, asked him if he could use a pincushion or two.

      “Not on yer life!” cried Mittie-Maru. “Sorry I didn’t put you wise to them church sociables. They jobbed you, Chase. Sold you a lot of bricks. You want to fight shy of thet bunch, all right, all right.”

      “Don’t you ever go to church?”

      “I went to Sunday school last fall. Miss Marjory, she was in the school, got me to come. She’s a peach. Sweeter ’n a basket of red monkeys. She was all right, all right, but I couldn’t stand fer the preacher, an’ some others, so I quit. An’ every time I see Miss Marjory, I dodge or hit it up out of sight.”

      “What was wrong with the preacher?”

      “He’s young, an’ I think preachers oughter be old. He fusses the wimmen folks too hard. He speaks soft an’ prays to beat the band, an’ everybody thinks he’s an angel. But—oh, I ain’t a knocker.”

      “Wait for me after the game.”

      “Sure. An’ say, Chase, are you goin’ to stand fer the things Meade calls you?”

      “I’m afraid I can’t stand it much longer.”

      * * * *

      If anything, Chase’s reception in the dressing-room was more violent than it had been the day before. Nevertheless, he dressed without exchanging a word with anyone. This time, however, he was keenly alert to all that was said and to who said it. All sense of personal affront or injustice, such as had pained him yesterday, was now absent. He felt himself immeasurably older; he coolly weighed this harangue at him with the stern necessity of his success and found it added up to nothing.

      And when he went out upon the field, he was conscious of a difference in his feelings. The mist that had bothered him did not now come to his eyes; nor did the contraction bind his throat; nor did the nameless uncertainty and dread oppress his breast. He felt a rigidity of muscle, a deadliness of determination, a sharp, cold confidence.

      The joy of playing the game, as he had played it ever since he was big enough to throw a ball, had gone. It was not fun, not play for him, but work—work that called for strength, courage, endurance.

      Chase gritted his teeth when the umpire called: “Play ball!” and he gritted them throughout the game. He staked himself and all he hoped to do for those he loved, against his own team, the opposing team, and the baseball world. He saw his one chance, a fighting chance, and he meant to fight.

      When the ball got into action he ran all over the field like a flash. He was everywhere. He anticipated every hit near him, and scooped up the ball and shot it from him, with the speed of a bullet. He threw with a straight, powerful overhand motion, and the ball sailed low, with terrific swiftness, and held its speed. He grabbed up a hit that caromed off Winter’s leg, and though far back of third base, threw the runner out with time to spare. He caught a foul fly against the left-field bleachers. He threw two runners out at the plate, and that from deep short field.

      He beat out an infield hit; he got a clean single into right field; and for the third time in three days he sent out a liner that by fast running he stretched into a three-bagger. Findlay had clinched the game before this hit, which sent in two runners, but for all that, the stands and bleachers rose in a body and cheered. The day before Chase had doffed his cap in appreciation of their applause. Today he did not look at them. He put the audience out of his mind.

      But with all his effort, speed, and good luck he made an unfortunate play. It came at the close of the eighth inning. Wheeling got runners on second and third, with only one out. The next man hit a sharp bouncer to Chase. He fielded the ball, and expecting the runner on third to dash for home he made ready to throw him out. But this runner held his base. Chase turned to try to get the batter going down to first, when the runner on second ran right before him toward third. Chase closed in behind him, and as the fellow slowed up tried to catch him. Then the runner on third bolted for home. Chase saw him and threw to head him off, but was too late.

      In the dressing-room after the game the players howled about this one run that Chase’s stupidity had given Wheeling. They called him “wooden head,” “sap-head,” “sponge-head,” “dead-head.” Then Mac came in and delivered himself.

      “Put the ball in your pocket! Put the ball in your pocket, didn’t you? Countin’ your money, wasn’t you? Thinkin’ about the girls you was with last night, hey? Thet play costs you five. See! Got thet? You’re fined. After this, when you get the ball an’ some runner is hittin’ up the dust, throw it. Got thet? Throw the ball! Don’t keep it! Throw it!”

      When the players’ shout of delight died away, Chase turned on the little manager.

      “What d’you want for fifteen cents—canary birds?” he yelled, in a voice that rattled the windows. He flung his bat down with a crash, and as it skipped along the bench more than one player fell over himself to get out of its way. “Didn’t I say I had to learn the game? Didn’t you say you’d show me? I never had that play before. I didn’t know what to do with the ball. What d’ you want, I say? Didn’t I accept nine chances today?”

      Mac looked dumfounded. This young lamb of his had suddenly roused into a lion.

      “Sure you needn’t holler about it. I was only tellin’ you.”

      Then he strode out amid a silence that showed the surprise of his players. Winters recovered first, and turned his round red face and began to bob and shake with laughter.

      “What—did he—want for fifteen cents—canary birds? Haw! Haw! Haw!” In another moment the other players were roaring with him.

      CHAPTER VIII

      ALONG THE RIVER

      Castorious blanked the Wheeling club next day, and the following day Speer won his game. Findlay players had returned to their old form and were getting into a fast stride, so the Chronicle said. “Three straight from Columbus” was the slogan! Mac had signed a new pitcher, a left-hander named Poke, from a nearby country village, and was going to develop him. He was also trying out a popular player from the high-school team.

      Mac had ordered morning practice for the Columbus series of games. The players hated morning practice, “drill” they called it, and presented themselves with visible displeasure. And when they were all on the grounds, Mac appeared with a bat over his shoulder and with his two new players in tow.

      Poke was long and lanky, a sunburned rustic who did not know what to do with his hands and feet.

      “Battin’ practice,” called out Mac, sharply, ordering Poke to the pitcher’s box.

      Poke peeled off his sweater, showing bare arms that must have had a long and intimate acquaintance with axe and rail-pile.

      “Better warm up first,” said Mac. It developed that Poke did not need any warming. When he got ready he wound himself up, and going through some remarkable twist that made him resemble a cartwheel, delivered СКАЧАТЬ