The Zane Grey Megapack. Zane Grey

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      Poke drove Thatcher away from the plate and struck Meade out. “Put ’em over,” said Benny, as he came up.

      The first ball delivered hit Benny on the foot, and roaring, he threw down his bat. “You Rube! You wild Indian! I’ll git you fer thet!”

      Enoch Winters was the next batter. “Say, you lean, hungry-lookin’ rubberneck, if you hit me!” warned Enoch, in his soft voice.

      Poke struck Enoch out and retired Chase on a little pop-up fly. Then Cas sauntered up with his wagon-tongue bat and a black scowl on his face.

      “Steady up, steady up,” said he. “Put ’em over. Don’t use all your steam.”

      “Mister, I ain’t commenced yit to throw hard,” replied Poke.

      “Wha-at?” yelled Cas. “Are you kidding me? Slam the ball! Break your arm, then!”

      The rustic whirled a little farther ’round, unwound himself a little quicker, and swung his arm. Cas made an ineffectual attempt to hit what looked like a white cord stretched between him and the pitcher. The next ball started the same way, but took an upward jump and shot under Cas’s chin.

      Cas, who had a mortal dread of being hit, fell back from the plate and glared at Poke.

      “You’ve got his alley, Poke!” cried the amiable players. “Keep ’em under his chin!” Cas retired in disgust as Mac came trotting up from the field, where he had been coaching the high-school player.

      “What’s he got?” asked Mac, eagerly.

      “What’s he got!” yelled nine voices in unison. “Oh! Nothing!”

      “Step up an’ take a turn,” said Mac to his new player. “No, don’t stand so far back. Here, let me show you. Gimme the bat.”

      Mac took a position well up to the plate and began illustrating his idea of the act of hitting.

      “You see, I get well back on my right foot, ready to step forward with my left. I’ll step just before he delivers the ball. I’ll keep my bat over my shoulder an’ hit a little late, so as to hit to right field. Thet’s best for the hit-an’-run game. Now, watch. See. Step an’ set; step an’ set. The advantage of gettin’ set this way is the pitcher can’t fool you, can’t hit you. You needn’t never be afraid of bein’ hit after you learn how to get set. No pitcher could hit me.” Then raising his voice, Mac shouted to Poke, “Hey, poke up a couple. Speed em over, now!”

      Poke evidently recognized the cardinal necessity of making an impression, for he went through more wonderful gyrations than ever. Then he lunged forward with the swing he used in getting the ball away. Nobody saw the ball.

      BUMB! A sound not unlike a suddenly struck base-drum electrified the watching players. Then the ball appeared rolling down from Mac’s shrinking person. The little manager seemed to be slowly settling to the ground. He turned an agonized face and uttered a long moan.

      “My ribs—I—my ribs!—he hit me,” gasped Mac.

      Chase, Poke, and the new man were the only persons who did not roll over and over on the ground. That incident put an end to the morning “drill.”

      After dressing, Chase decided to try to find Mittie-Maru. The mascot had not been at the last two games, and this fact determined him to seek the lad. So he passed down the street where he had often left Mittie, and asked questions on the way. Everybody knew the hunchback, but nobody knew where he lived.

      Chase went on until he passed the line of houses and got into the outskirts of the town, where carpenter-shops, oil refineries, and brick-yards abounded. Several workmen he questioned said they saw the boy almost every day, and that he kept on down the street toward the open country. Chase had about decided to give up his quest, when he came to the meadows and saw across them the green of a line of willows. This he knew marked a brook or river, along which a stroll would be pleasant.

      When he reached the river, he saw Mittie-Maru sitting on a log patiently holding a long crooked fishing pole. “Any luck?” he shouted.

      Mittie-Maru turned with a start, and seeing Chase cried out, “You ole son-of-a-gun! Trailed me, didn’t you? What yer doin’ out here?”

      “I’m looking for you, Mittie.”

      “What fer?”

      Chase leaped down the bank and seated himself on the log beside the boy. “Well, you haven’t been out to the grounds lately. Why?”

      “Aw! Nuthin’,” replied Mittie savagely.

      “See here, you can’t string me,” said Chase, earnestly. “Things aren’t right with you, Mittie, and you can’t bluff it out on me. So I’ve been hunting you. We’re going to be pards, you know.”

      “Are we?”

      Chase then saw Mittie’s eyes for the first time and learned they were bright, soft, and beautiful, giving his face an entirely different look.

      “Sure. And that’s why I wanted to find you—where you lived—and if you were sick again.”

      “It’s my back, Chase,” replied Mittie, reluctantly. “Sometimes it—hurts worse.”

      “Then it pains you all the time?” asked Chase, voicing a suspicion that had come to him from watching the boy.

      “Yes. But it ain’t bad today. Sometimes—hol’ on! I got a bite. See! It’s a whopper—Thunder! I missed him!”

      Mittie-Maru rebaited his hook and cast it into the stream. “Fishin’ fer mine, when I can’t git to the ball-grounds. Do you like fishin’, Chase?”

      “Love it. You must let me come out and fish with you.”

      “Sure. There’s good fishin’ fer catfish an’ suckers, an’ once in a while a bass. I never fished any before I came here, an’ I missed a lot. You see, movin’ ’round ain’t easy fer me. Gee! I can walk, but I mean playin’ ball or any games the kids play ain’t fer me. So I take mine out in fishin’. I’ve got so I like sittin’ in the sun with it all lonely aroun’, ’cept the birds an’ ripples. I used to be sore—about—about my back an’ things, but fishin’ has showed me I could be worse off. I can see an’ hear as well as anybody. There! I got bite again!”

      Mittie-Maru pulled out a sunfish that wriggled and shone like gold in the sunlight. “Thet’s enough fer today. I ain’t no fish-hog. Chase, if I show you where I live, you won’t squeal? Of course you won’t.”

      Chase assured him he would observe absolute secrecy; and together they mounted the bank and walked up stream. The meadows were bright with early June daisies and buttercups; the dew had not yet dried from the clover; blackbirds alighted in the willows and larks fluttered up from the grass. They came presently to an abandoned brickyard, where piles of broken brick lay scattered ’round, and two mound-like kilns stood amid the ruins of some frame structures.

      “Here we are,” said Mittie-Maru, marching up to one of the kilns and throwing open a rudely contrived door. A dark aperture revealed the entrance to this singular abode.

      “You СКАЧАТЬ