t to
Rickettsville. I mingled with the crowd of talking rustics. There was
only one little "bleachers" and this was loaded to the danger point
with the feminine adherents of the teams. Most of the crowd centered
alongside and back of the catcher's box. I edged in and got a position
just behind the stone that served as home plate.

Hunting up a player in this way was no new thing to me. I was too wise
to make myself known before I had sized up the merits of my man. So,
before the players came upon the field I amused myself watching the
rustic fans and listening to them. Then a roar announced the
appearance of the Rickettsville team and their opponents, who wore the
name of Spatsburg on their Canton flannel shirts. The uniforms of
these country amateurs would have put a Philadelphia Mummer's parade to
the blush, at least for bright colors. But after one amused glance I
got down to the stern business of the day, and that was to discover a
pitcher, and failing that, baseball talent of any kind.

Never shall I forget my first glimpse of the Rickettsville twirler. He
was far over six feet tall and as lean as a fence rail. He had a great
shock of light hair, a sunburned, sharp-featured face, wide, sloping
shoulders, and arms enormously long. He was about as graceful and had
about as much of a baseball walk as a crippled cow.

"He's a rube!" I ejaculated, in disgust and disappointment.

But when I had seen him throw one ball to his catcher I grew as keen as
a fox on a scent. What speed he had! I got round closer to him and
watched him with sharp, eager eyes. He was a giant. To be sure, he
was lean, rawboned as a horse, but powerful. What won me at once was
his natural, easy swing. He got the ball away with scarcely any
effort. I wondered what he could do when he brought the motion of his
body into play.

"Bub, what might be the pitcher's name?" I asked of a boy.

"Huh, mister, his name might be Dennis, but it ain't. Huh!" replied
this country youngster. Evidently my question had thrown some
implication upon this particular player.

"I reckon you be a stranger in these parts," said a pleasant old
fellow. "His name's Hurtle--Whitaker Hurtle. Whit fer short. He
hain't lost a gol-darned game this summer. No sir-ee! Never pitched
any before, nuther."

Hurtle! What a remarkably fitting name!

Rickettsville chose the field and the game began. Hurtle swung with his
easy motion. The ball shot across