be some scandalous doings. Finally the waiter brought Jim’s check, and he paid it. And then he got up and started to leave—and stopped.
I looked for the reason—and saw six of
’em. One in every exit. Cops! The place was pinched! It was a raid.
It was nothing else; but I want to say right here that that doesn’t mean that the place wasn’t a decent enough place. It was. But it was like this: somebody had been riding the mayor, or the police commissioner, or somebody, and they had started in to clean things up, and they were doing it—regardless.
But of course, right then, all this was beside the question. The real question seemed to be—what next?
Well, of course there were all sorts of possibilities, mostly unpleasant; but I didn’t have the time then, and I won’t take it now, to go into ’em. Here’s what happened: as a general thing these raids are pulled off without a whole lot of fuss. The cops separate the sheep from the goats, and the sheep are turned loose, and the goats take a ride on the city, and that’s all there is to it. But this one turned out different.
Somebody started something right off the bat, and in an instant the place was in an uproar. In the next instant it was a riot. Men were fighting, women screaming, and crockery being smashed all over the place.
All in all, if you ask me, there is no better place to stage a riot than in a restaurant. A restaurant sort of lends itself to the occasion, so to say. Anyway, this one did. As riots go, it was a larb!
And maybe it would give us the chance we were looking for. I grabbed Louise, started to make a break for an exit, and—ran spang into a bluecoat! He gripped me by the shoulder and said:
“Hello, Bud, what’s your hurry?”
It was Dick Byrnes, an old pal of mine; a fellow I knew well; a rabid baseball fan. And if a feller ever needed a friend this was one of the times. So I was going to put it up to Dick to get us out of there. when—
“Bud! Look out!” sang Louise.
I don’t know what made me do it—may- be it was instinct—but I ducked down and away, and—zowie! Jim Riordan connected with Byrnes in the same place and in the very same manner that I landed on Jim that day after the ball game!
Now anybody will tell you that any time you hit a cop in the eye you have done something. Anyhow, it brought Jim to reason, and before Byrnes could start in using the wood on him, Jim began coming across with his alibi. Byrnes, hanging on to his eye with one hand and his club with the other, listened for a moment, and then he cut in:
“Ah, tell it to Sweeney! Say, what d’ye thing I am, a sucker? You didn’t go to hit me at all! Aiming to hit somebody else!
“And believe me, I’m wise to you! You’re Riordan, the ump—and many’s the time I’ve ached for a chance to lay my mitts on you! Come along with me!”
“Listen, Dick,” I said. “Just a minute.” And I came through with the whole story, in a hurry. “And so you see,” I wound up, “it was me he was looking for. Can’t you get us out of this?”
It came hard; but it came. “All right,” growled Byrnes, “I’ll get you out of it.” And he did.
After we had gone a little ways—Jim was pretty subdued, and didn’t seem to notice that I was there—Louise asked, very innocent: “Dad, what under the sun possessed you—to hit a cop?”
Jim started in—trying to explain. “Tell it to Sweeney!” I kidded him. “I did!” said Jim.
“How many times?” I asked him. “Would you admit that a thing like that could happen, say, twice?”
“Say,” said Jim, “shall I apologize?”
THE REDHEADED OUTFIELD, by Zane Grey
There was Delaney’s red-haired trio—Red Gilbat, left fielder; Reddy Clammer, right fielder, and Reddie Ray, center fielder, composing the most remarkable outfield ever developed in minor league baseball. It was Delaney’s pride, as it was also his trouble.
Red Gilbat was nutty—and his batting average was .371. Any student of baseball could weigh these two facts against each other and understand something of Delaney’s trouble. It was not possible to camp on Red Gilbat’s trail. The man was a jack-o’-lantern, a will-o’-the-wisp, a weird, long-legged, long-armed, red-haired illusive phantom. When the gong rang at the ball grounds there were ten chances to one that Red would not be present. He had been discovered with small boys peeping through knotholes at the vacant left field he was supposed to inhabit during play.
Of course what Red did off the ball grounds was not so important as what he did on. And there was absolutely no telling what under the sun he might do then except once out of every three times at bat he could be counted on to knock the cover off the ball.
Reddy Clammer was a grand-stand player—the kind all managers hated—and he was hitting .305. He made circus catches, circus stops, circus throws, circus steals—but particularly circus catches. That is to say, he made easy plays appear difficult. He was always strutting, posing, talking, arguing, quarreling—when he was not engaged in making a grand-stand play. Reddy Clammer used every possible incident and artifice to bring himself into the limelight.
Reddie Ray had been the intercollegiate champion in the sprints and a famous college ball player. After a few months of professional ball he was hitting over .400 and leading the league both at bat and on the bases. It was a beautiful and a thrilling sight to see him run. He was so quick to start, so marvelously swift, so keen of judgment, that neither Delaney nor any player could ever tell the hit that he was not going to get. That was why Reddie Ray was a whole game in himself.
Delaney’s Rochester Stars and the Providence Grays were tied for first place. Of the present series each team had won a game. Rivalry had always been keen, and as the teams were about to enter the long homestretch for the pennant there was battle in the New England air.
The September day was perfect. The stands were half full and the bleachers packed with a white-sleeved mass. And the field was beautifully level and green. The Grays were practicing and the Stars were on their bench.
“We’re up against it,” Delaney was saying. “This new umpire, Fuller, hasn’t got it in for us. Oh, no, not at all! Believe me, he’s a robber. But Scott is pitchin’ well. Won his last three games. He’ll bother ’em. And the three Reds have broken loose. They’re on the rampage. They’ll burn up this place today.”
Somebody noted the absence of Gilbat.
Delaney gave a sudden start. “Why, Gil was here,” he said slowly. “Lord!—he’s about due for a nutty stunt.”
Whereupon Delaney sent boys and players scurrying about to find Gilbat, and Delaney went himself to ask the Providence manager to hold back the gong for a few minutes.
Presently somebody brought Delaney a telephone message that Red Gilbat was playing ball with some boys in a lot four blocks down the street. When at length a couple of players marched up to the bench with Red in tow Delaney uttered an immense sigh of relief and then, after a close scrutiny of Red’s face, he whispered, “Lock the gates!”
Then the gong rang. The Grays trooped in. The Stars ran out, except Gilbat, who ambled like a giraffe. The hum of conversation in the grand stand quickened for a moment with the scraping of chairs, and then grew quiet. The bleachers sent up the rollicking cry of expectancy. The umpire threw out a white ball with his stentorian “Play!” and Blake of the Grays strode to the plate.
Hitting safely, he started the game with a rush. With Dorr up, the Star infield played for a bunt. Like clockwork Dorr dumped the first ball as Blake got his flying start for second base. Morrissey tore in for the ball, got it on the run and snapped it underhand to Healy, beating the runner by an inch. The fast Blake, with a long slide, made third base. The stands stamped. The bleachers howled. White, next man up, batted a high fly to left field. This was a sun field and the hardest to play in the league. Red Gilbat was the