ed in his early
days, and from a slightly elevated pitcher's box the batter could scarcely
identify "Rube's" delivery from that of a cannon. He was scheduled to
pitch one day and showed around at morning practice looking unusually fit
for George.

"How are you feeling to-day, George?" asked "Connie" Mack, his boss.

"Never better," replied the light-hearted "Rube."

"Well, you work this afternoon."

"All right," answered Waddell.

Then the ground-keeper got busy and built the pitcher's box up about two
feet, so that Waddell would have a splendid opportunity to cut loose all
his speed. At that time he happened to be the only tall man on the
pitching staff of the Philadelphia club, and, as a rule, the box was kept
very low. The scheme would probably have worked out as planned, if it had
not been that Waddell, in the course of his noon-day wanderings, met
several friends in whose society he became so deeply absorbed that he
neglected to report at the ball park at all. He also forgot to send word,
and here was the pitcher's box standing up out of the infield like one of
the peaks of the Alps.

As the players gathered, and Waddell failed to show up, the manager
nervously looked at his watch. At last he sent out scouts to the "Rube's"
known haunts, but no trace of the temperamental artist could be found. The
visitors were already on the field, and it was too late to lower the box.
A short pitcher had to work in the game from this peak of progress, while
the opposing team installed a skyscraper on the mound. The Philadelphia
club was badly beaten and Waddell heavily fined for his carelessness in
disrupting the "inside" play of his team.

An old and favorite trick used to be to soap the soil around the pitcher's
box, so that when a man was searching for some place to dry his
perspiring hands and grabbed up this soaped earth, it made his palm
slippery and he was unable to control the ball.

Of course, the home talent knew where the good ground lay and used it or
else carried some unadulterated earth in their trousers' pockets, as a
sort of private stock. But our old friend "Bugs" Raymond hit on a scheme
to spoil this idea and make the trick useless. Arthur always perspired
profusely when he pitched, and several managers, perceiving this, had made
it a habit to soap the dirt liberally whenever it was his turn to work.
While he was pitching for St. Louis, he went into the box against the
Pirates one day in Pittsburg. His