d and welcome cheers
from the bleachers. The Rube was the last player to go out. Morrisey
was a manager who always played to the stands, and no doubt he held the
Rube back for effect. If so, he ought to have been gratified. That
moment reminded me of my own team and audience upon the occasion of the
Rube's debut. It was the same only here it happened in the big league,
before a championship team and twenty thousand fans.

The roar that went up from the bleachers might well have scared an
unseasoned pitcher out of his wits. And the Quakers lined up before
their bench and gazed at this newcomer who had the nerve to walk out
there to the box. Cogswell stood on the coaching line, looked at the
Rube and then held up both arms and turned toward the Chicago bench as
if to ask Morrisey: "Where did you get that?"

Nan, quick as a flash to catch a point, leaned over the box-rail and
looked at the champions with fire in her eye. "Oh, you just wait!
wait!" she bit out between her teeth.

Certain it was that there was no one who knew the Rube as well as I;
and I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that the hour before me would
see brightening of a great star pitcher on the big league horizon. It
was bound to be a full hour for me. I had much reason to be grateful
to Whit Hurtle. He had pulled my team out of a rut and won me the
pennant, and the five thousand dollars I got for his release bought the
little cottage on the hill for Milly and me. Then there was my pride
in having developed him. And all that I needed to calm me, settle me
down into assurance and keen criticism of the game, was to see the Rube
pitch a few balls with his old incomparable speed and control.

Berne, first batter for the Quakers, walked up to the plate. He was
another Billy Hamilton, built like a wedge. I saw him laugh at the
long pitcher.

Whit swayed back, coiled and uncoiled. Something thin, white,
glancing, shot at Berne. He ducked, escaping the ball by a smaller
margin than appeared good for his confidence. He spoke low to the
Rube, and what he said was probably not flavored with the milk of
friendly sweetness.

"Wild! What'd you look for?" called out Cogswell scornfully. "He's
from the woods!"

The Rube swung his enormously long arm, took an enormous stride toward
third base, and pitched again. It was one of his queer deliveries.
The ball cut the plate.

"Ho! Ho!" yelled the Quakers.

The Rube's next one was his out curve.