Then Stringer strode grimly to the plate. It was a hundred to one, in
that instance, that he would lose the ball. The bleachers let out one
deafening roar, then hushed. I would rather have had Stringer at the
bat than any other player in the world, and I thought of the Rube and
Nan and Milly--and hope would not die.

Stringer swung mightily on the first pitch and struck the ball with a
sharp, solid bing! It shot toward center, low, level, exceedingly
swift, and like a dark streak went straight into the fielder's hands.
A rod to right or left would have made it a home run. The crowd
strangled a victorious yell. I came out of my trance, for the game was
over and lost. It was the Rube's Waterloo.

I hurried him into the dressing room and kept close to him. He looked
like a man who had lost the one thing worth while in his life. I
turned a deaf ear to my players, to everybody, and hustled the Rube out
and to the hotel. I wanted to be near him that night.

To my amaze we met Milly and Nan as we entered the lobby. Milly wore a
sweet, sympathetic smile. Nan shone more radiant than ever. I simply
stared. It was Milly who got us all through the corridor into the
parlor. I heard Nan talking.

"Whit, you pitched a bad game but--" there was the old teasing, arch,
coquettishness--"but you are the best pitcher!"

"Nan!"

"Yes!"

BREAKING INTO FAST COMPANY

They may say baseball is the same in the minor leagues that it is in
the big leagues, but any old ball player or manager knows better.
Where the difference comes in, however, is in the greater excellence
and unity of the major players, a speed, a daring, a finish that can be
acquired only in competition with one another.

I thought of this when I led my party into Morrisey's private box in
the grand stand of the Chicago American League grounds. We had come to
see the Rube's break into fast company. My great pitcher, Whittaker
Hurtle, the Rube, as we called him, had won the Eastern League Pennant
for me that season, and Morrisey, the Chicago magnate, had bought him.
Milly, my affianced, was with me, looking as happy as she was pretty,
and she was chaperoned by her mother, Mrs. Nelson.

With me, also, were two veterans of my team, McCall and Spears, who
lived in Chicago, and who would have traveled a few miles to see the
Rube pitch. And the other member of my party was Mrs. Hurtle, the
Rube's wife, as saucy and as sparkling-eyed as when she had been