e of the play, but Berne had
struck out--that was enough for them.

Callopy, the famous spiker, who had put many a player out of the game
for weeks at a time, strode into the batter's place, and he, too, was
not at the moment making any funny remarks. The Rube delivered a ball
that all but hit Callopy fair on the head. It was the second narrow
escape for him, and the roar he let out showed how he resented being
threatened with a little of his own medicine. As might have been
expected, and very likely as the Rube intended, Callopy hit the next
ball, a sweeping curve, up over the infield.

I was trying to see all the intricate details of the motive and action
on the field, and it was not easy to watch several players at once.
But while Berne and Callopy were having their troubles with the Rube, I
kept the tail of my eye on Cogswell. He was prowling up and down the
third-base line.

He was missing no signs, no indications, no probabilities, no
possibilities. But he was in doubt. Like a hawk he was watching the
Rube, and, as well, the crafty batters. The inning might not tell the
truth as to the Rube's luck, though it would test his control. The
Rube's speed and curves, without any head work, would have made him a
pitcher of no mean ability, but was this remarkable placing of balls
just accident? That was the question.

When Berne walked to the bench I distinctly heard him say: "Come out
of it, you dubs. I say you can't work him or wait him. He's peggin'
'em out of a gun!"

Several of the Quakers were standing out from the bench, all intent on
the Rube. He had stirred them up. First it was humor; then ridicule,
curiosity, suspicion, doubt. And I knew it would grow to wonder and
certainty, then fierce attack from both tongues and bats, and
lastly--for ball players are generous--unstinted admiration.

Somehow, not only the first climaxes of a game but the decisions, the
convictions, the reputations of pitchers and fielders evolve around the
great hitter. Plain it was that the vast throng of spectators, eager
to believe in a new find, wild to welcome a new star, yet loath to
trust to their own impulsive judgments, held themselves in check until
once more the great Lane had faced the Rube.

The field grew tolerably quiet just then. The Rube did not exert
himself. The critical stage had no concern for him. He pitched Lane a
high curve, over the plate, but in close, a ball meant to be hit and a
ball ha