urn in a flash. Rube tagged reluctantly in their rear. He looked
like a man in a trance. I wanted to speak encouragingly to him, but
Raddy told me to keep quiet.

It was inspiring to see my team practice that afternoon. There had
come a subtle change. I foresaw one of those baseball climaxes that
can be felt and seen, but not explained. Whether it was a hint of the
hoped-for brace, or only another flash of form before the final
let-down, I had no means to tell. But I was on edge.

Carter, the umpire, called out the batteries, and I sent my team into
the field. When that long, lanky, awkward rustic started for the
pitcher's box, I thought the bleachers would make him drop in his
tracks. The fans were sore on any one those days, and a new pitcher
was bound to hear from them.

"Where! Oh, where! Oh, where!"

"Connelly's found another dead one!"

"Scarecrow!"

"Look at his pants!"

"Pad his legs!"

Then the inning began, and things happened. Rube had marvelous speed,
but he could not find the plate. He threw the ball the second he got
it; he hit men, walked men, and fell all over himself trying to field
bunts. The crowd stormed and railed and hissed. The Bisons pranced
round the bases and yelled like Indians. Finally they retired with
eight runs.

Eight runs! Enough to win two games! I could not have told how it
happened. I was sick and all but crushed. Still I had a blind, dogged
faith in the big rustic. I believed he had not got started right. It
was a trying situation. I called Spears and Raddy to my side and
talked fast.

"It's all off now. Let the dinged rube take his medicine," growled
Spears.

"Don't take him out," said Raddy. "He's not shown at all what's in
him. The blamed hayseed is up in the air. He's crazy. He doesn't
know what he's doing. I tell you, Con, he may be scared to death, but
he's dead in earnest."

Suddenly I recalled the advice of the pleasant old fellow at
Rickettsville.

"Spears, you're the captain," I said, sharply. "Go after the rube.
Wake him up. Tell him he can't pitch. Call him 'Pogie!' That's a
name that stirs him up."

"Well, I'll be dinged! He looks it," replied Spears. "Here, Rube, get
off the bench. Come here."

Rube lurched toward us. He seemed to be walking in his sleep. His
breast was laboring and he was dripping with sweat.

"Who ever told you that you could pitch?" asked Spears genially. He
was master at baseball ridicule.