He stamped up and down the room before them, waiting with blazing eyes for their replies, but none came.
“Cas!” he shouted, confronting that individual. “Are you a liar?”
“Wha-at?” demanded Cas, throwing his head forward like a striking hawk.
“Are you a liar?”
“No, I’m not. Who says so? I’ll take a punch—”
“Did you try to pitch today?”
“I had no steam; couldn’t break a pane of glass,” replied Cas, evasively.
“Stow that talk. Did you try?”
“No, I didn’t,” said Cas, sullenly.
“Now, ain’t that a fine thing for you to do? You, the best pitcher in this league, with more ’n one big manager watchin’ your work! Ain’t you ashamed of yourself?”
Cas did not say so, but he looked it.
“I’ve got somethin’ to say to the rest of you muckers. Of all the rotten quitters you are the worst I ever seen. That exhibition you gave today would have made a dead one out of a five thousand-volt storage battery. Here you are, a bunch of stickers that the likes of ain’t in the rest of the league—and you fall down before a measly little slow ball, a floater that babies could hit! You put the boots on every grounder in sight! You let fly balls bounce off your head! You pegged the ball in the air or at some body’s shins! It just takes a bad spell of luck to show some fellows’ yellow streaks. Saffron ain’t nothing to the color of some of you.”
As Mac paused for breath, someone grumbled: “Hoodooed!”
“Bah, You make me sick,” cried Mac. “Suppose we’ve been hoodooed? Suppose we’ve fallen into a losin’ streak? It’s time to bust somethin’, ain’t it?” Then his manner altered, his voice became soft and persuasive.
“Boys, we’ve got to break our slump. Now, there’s Cas, you all know what a great twirler he is. An’ he throwed us down. Look at the outfield. Where’s one outside of the big leagues thet can rank with mine? An’ they played today with two wooden legs. Look at Benny an’ Meade—why, today they were tied to posts. Look at reliable old Hicks behind the plate—today he missed third strikes, overthrew the bases, an’ had eight passed balls. An’ say, did any of you steady up this youngster I was givin’ a chance? Did any of you remember when you was makin’ your first bid for fast company? Now, I ain’t got no more to say to you, except we’re goin’ to brace an’ we’re goin’ through this league like sand through a sieve!”
With that he turned to Chase, who had listened and now was ready to get his summary dismissal.
“Didn’t make nothin’ of the chance you asked for, did you?” he said, brusquely.
Chase shook his head.
“Lost your nerve at the critical time, when you had a chance to make good. Here I need a shortstop who is fast, an can hit an’ throw; an’ you come along trailin’ a hoodoo an’ muss up the game. Put my team on the bum!”
Then there was a silence, in which Mac walked to and fro before Chase, who still sat with head bowed.
“Now you see what losin’ your nerve means. You’re fast as lightnin’ on your feet, you’ve got a great arm, an’ you stand up like a hitter. But you lost your nerve. A ball player mustn’t never lose his nerve. See what a chance you had? I’m weak at short. Now, after I turn you down you won’t never get such a chance again.”
He kept pacing slowly before Chase, watching him narrowly; and when Chase at last lifted his pale, sombre face from his hands, Mac came to a sudden stop. With some deliberation he put his hand into his coat pocket and brought forth a book and papers. Then in a different voice, in the same soft tones with which he had ended his talk to the other players, he said to Chase:
“Here’s twenty-five dollars advance, an’ your contract. It’s made out, so all you need to do is sign it. A hundred per month for yours! Don’t stare at me like thet. Take your contract. You’re on! An’ as sure as my name’s Mac Sandy, I’ll make a star of you!”
CHAPTER VI
FIRST INNINGS
When Chase left the grounds, his eyesight was still as blurred as it had been during the game, only now from a different source. His misery fell from him like a discarded cloak. He kept his hand deep in his right trousers’ pocket, clutching the twenty-five dollars as if it were the only solid substance to give actuality to his dream of bliss. First he thought he would send all the money to his mother; then he reflected that as he resembled the most ragged species of tramp he must spend something for at least respectable clothing. He entered a second-hand store, where he purchased for the sum of five dollars a complete outfit, even down to shoes and hat.
It was not much on style, Chase thought, but clean and without a rip or hole. With this precious bundle under his arm, he set out to find the address given him by Mac, where he could obtain board and lodging at a reasonable rate. After some inquiry he found the street and eventually the house, which, because of a much more pretentious appearance than he had supposed it would have, made him hesitate.
But following a blindly grateful resolve to do anything and everything that Mac had told him, he knocked on the door. It opened at once to show a stout matron of kindly aspect, who started somewhat as she saw him.
Chase said he had been sent there by Mac, and told his errand, whereupon the woman looked relieved.
“Exkoose me,” she replied, “come righdt in. I haf one rooms, a putty nice one, four thalers a weeg.”
She showed Chase a large room with four windows, a big white bed, a table and bureau, and chairs and a lounge; and with some difficulty managed to convey to him that he might have it and board for the sum of four dollars weekly. When he was certain she had not made a mistake he lost no time in paying her for a week is advance. Good fortune was still such a stranger to him that he wanted to insure himself against moments of doubt.
He washed and dressed himself with pleasure that had not been his for many a day. Quite diligently did he apply the comb and brush Mrs. Obenwasser had so kindly procured. His hair was long and a mass of tangles, and it was full of cinders, which reminded him grimly of his dearly earned proficiency as a nightrider on fast mail trains and slow freights.
“That’s all over, thank Heaven!” breathed Chase. “I hope I can forget it.”
But he knew he never would. When he backed away from the mirror and surveyed his clean face and neat suit, and saw therein a new Chase, the last vanishing gleam of his doubt and unhappiness left him. The supper bell, ringing at that moment, seemed to have a music of hope; and he went downstairs hungry and happy. Several young men at the table made themselves agreeable to him, introduced themselves as clerks employed downtown, and incidentally dyed-in-the-wool baseball fans. Chase gathered that Mrs. Obenwasser was a widow of some means and kept boarders more out of the goodness of her heart and pride in her table than from any real necessity.
Chase ate like a famished wolf. Never had meat and biscuits and milk and pie been so good. And it was shame that made him finally desist, not satisfied appetite.
After supper he got paper, pen, and ink from his landlady and went to his room to write home. It came to him with a sudden shock that he had never written since he left. What could they have thought? But he hastened to write, for he had good news. He told Will everything, though he skimmed over it lightly, as if his vicissitudes were but incidents in the rise of a ball player. He wrote to his mother, telling her of his good fortune, of the promise of the future, of his good health and spirits. Then he enclosed all his money, except a dollar or so in silver, in the letter and sealed it. Try as hard as he might, Chase could not prevent his tears from falling on that letter and they were sealed up with it.
Then he sallied forth to look for the post-office and incidentally to see something of Findlay. He was surprised to find it a larger