to sleep wondering what it was that Mac had got, but the mystery did not solve itself.
The next day we opened at Cincy, and the way we tore through those Red Legs was sad to see. It didn’t take the boys a minute to see that the man we had on third was the Mac of old—crashing, roaring Mac, the greatest third-baseman of them all!
Twice more we rolled through our opponents for a series. The Cubs and Pirates seemed to fall like reeds before a cyclone when we struck them. Like an arrow we headed to first place, and when we started back to the Polo Grounds for the last series with the Birds, we were but half a game behind them, and going so fast that we sounded like a rumbling, crashing express train!
Was we happy? Was Caplan smiling? Was we planning how we was going to spend our world series money? I ask you. Why we was so full of pep, that I thought somebody would have had sense enough to bring boxes so’s they could sweep it up, and sell what we spilled!
Right out there, roaring his head off, playing with a dash and spirit that thrilled even the cold-heartedest of spectators, was MacGinley—Johnny Mac, the cleverest third-baseman in the business! Could you blame us for counting our world series money?
We opened that last series before a gang that would have made a peach of an army for defense if they was all soldiers. The way they yelled put the Niagara Falls to shame. When we came out for our practise, they raised the roof of the grandstand with their noise.
But when we started the first game, we played without MacGinley! He never showed up! Caplan raved, and tore his hair. But Mac never came. Comiskey, a recruit, filled in, and he did as good as he could, which wasn’t much. That afternoon, when the final score came in, it was seen that the Mammoths was on the wrong end by five to zero.
The result was depressing to say the least. It wasn’t the losing so much, as it was the way Big Jim Donoghy rubbed it into us. He had us raving before the fourth inning was over. We was ready to fight. And there was not a man on the team who couldn’t have skinned MacGinley alive, and hung the skin on the top flag-pole of the Polo Grounds.
A game and a half they was ahead of us, and if we wanted to win the pennant, we had to take the remaining games! Could you imagine anything worse?
* * * *
That night Mac came into our room, with a great smile on his shrewd face. He had a package in his hand.
“Lad, I told you we was going to win the pennant, didn’t I?”
“Where was you today?” I snarled, smarting from the plaguing I had received from Big Jim Donoghy. “Are you quittin’?”
The instant I said it, I was sorry. There was a flash in the blue eyes, and Mac stiffened.
“I’ll forgive you, lad,” he said quietly. “I guess it looked like it. But you’ll see; to- morrow you’ll see!”
He laid the package on the table, looked at it a while, glanced at me, then tore the paper off. It was a mouse-trap!
“For the love of Mike!” I gasped, “what the hell is the matter with you? Are you going crazy?”
He smiled and shook his head.
“I seen mice in this room last night,” he retorted, “and I want to catch a couple of them.”
I turned over with a snort and closed my eyes. I could hear Mac moving about placing his trap, and whistling. Then I fell asleep.
The next morning he was up before me, and I couldn’t see the mouse-trap around. We was out to take a little drill—for Caplan never gave up hope. There was a possibility of us winning those remaining three games, and he was game to the core.
In the afternoon, there was a bigger crowd than ever out. They panned us unmercifully.
We gritted our teeth, and waited for the gong to sound. Just before it rang, Mac came from the clubhouse. The bleachers booed and hissed loudly. He carried a little package, and set it in the corner of the bench.
Well, that game was a hummer. Straight into the seventh we went, with no score. Then, in the eighth, Mac laid down one of his bunts, and beat the throw by a head first slide. When he rose, he limped a bit, and called time. I assisted him across the diamond, and to the bench. He pretended to take off his shoe, and slipped the little package into his shirt.
Then he limped back, and took his place on first. I could see determination written in his eyes. I was coaching.
Big Jim Donoghy started to ride him. He called him everything on the calendar, and some things that weren’t. But Mac only smiled. He took a little lead. Donoghy yelled at him.
Then Mac edged off, bending over. Like a flash Donoghy yelled to his pitcher.
Mac bent forward still further. His hand went to his shirt, and came out. The throw was low, just as Donoghy called and knew it would come, so’s he could tag Mac as he slid back.
Then, along the ground scampered two little mice. They hurtled toward the big first-baseman manager as he bent forward and over.
The ball came fast. There was a yell of anguish. A big body went into the air, and the ball hurried past, going to the wall.
Around the diamond streaked a figure as if the furies were after him. Past second he went, and to third. In the coacher’s box Caplan urged Mac to spin for the plate. Murray in right had retrieved the ball. He was the best thrower in the league.
His arm went back. Mac was going like the wind. We yelled like Indians. It was the big chance, the break of the game.
Mac hit the dirt hard. The ump waved his hand down in a long sweep. The bleachers rose in a body, and roared. We had scored.
Mac picked himself up. There was a hard look on his face. Straight to the coacher’s box at first he went, with the fanatics throwing hats and canes into the air.
Standing on first Big Jim Donoghy had a wild look in his eye.
Mac took his station without a word. The mice had disappeared, frightened at the noise, into the stands.
“You big bum,” shouted Mac to the big manager. “Play ball! What are you waiting for? Get in the game! Come on, umps!”
Big Jim Donoghy was boiling over. He walked over to Mac, threatening the little figure.
“You—you—” A string of curses fell on the air.
And then he crumpled up, as Mac replied.
“Afraid of mice, eh, Jim?” he asked sweetly. “Come on, get in the game!”
You know the rest. Six times we scored in that memorable inning. And when we ran to the clubhouse that night we were jubilant. The next games were worse. There was no holding us. We waded through the Birds like they were canvas-back ducks well-done.
And Big Jim was surely finished. Mac haunted the coacher’s box. He kept up a string of talk that would have done credit to a vaudeville actor.
That’s the story. Brains and strategy did it. Do you know why Mac didn’t say nothing, but hung around Big Jim Donoghy? To find out just what he found out. He is a bull-dog, is Mac—and that’s why he’s our manager now! Think of a big guy like Donoghy being afraid of mice! Well, we all got some vulnerable spot, and that was his. But, it took a brainy fellow like MacGinley to find it out! Even the elephant ain’t got no love for a mouse, and Donoghy is the nearest thing to a human elephant I ever saw!
JACK AND THE BEAN BALL, by Samuel G. Camp
Listen. I’m gonna ask you one of them hypocritical questions. Suppose, some time, you went to a ball game. Getting right down to brass tacks, suppose the Long Branch Cubans was playin’ the Royal Giants—you might say the Claros versus the Colorado Maduros. Get me? And suppose, just about the time the hostilities is due to begin, one, two, three guys appear from nowhere in particular, the first one carryin’ a rock about the size of a bushel basket, the second guy carryin’ a sledge, and the third a couple of empty pop-bottle cases.
And