The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

“Don’t look at me with that eye.”

  “To the woods for yours!”

  Chase stood there bravely, with the red mantling his face, waiting for the manager to speak. Once or twice Mac attempted to make himself heard, and failing, turned on his gibing players and ordered them to shut up. Then he said:

  “Are you really the fellow they’re guyin’?”

  “Yes.”

  “But he was a pitcher. You said you could play short.”

  “I can play anywhere.”

  “Let me see your mitts; stick out your hands.”

  Chase’s hands were broad, heavy, with long, powerful fingers. “You’re pretty young, ain’t you? Where have you played?”

  Chase told his age and briefly outlined his late experience.

  “Name ‘Hoodoo’ followed you, eh? Been up against it hard?”

  “Yes.”

  Mac laughed and said he knew how that was, then thoughtfully pulled on his cigar. Now it chanced that he was not only an astute manager, but a born trainer of ball players as well. He never overlooked an opportunity. He had seen seedier-looking fellows than Chase develop into stars that set the baseball world afire. Nevertheless, having played the game himself, he was not exempt from its little peculiarities and superstitions. If his team had been winning, he certainly would have thrown any slant-eyed applicant out of the grounds.

  His small, shrewd eyes studied Chase intently.

  “I’ll play you at short today. Barnes, get this fellow a suit.”

  Barnes, the groundkeeper, opened a locker and threw a uniform on the floor at Chase’s feet. His surly action was significant of how thoroughly he had assimilated his baseball education. But he did not say anything, nor did the players, for at that moment there was a stern decision about the little manager which brooked no interference.

  Ordinarily Mac was the easiest-going fellow in the world, overrun and ruled by his players; sometimes, however, he showed an iron hand. But when he had left the dressing-room, a storm burst over poor Chase’s head.

  “You blank-eyed idiot! What do you want to queer the team for?”

  “This is a championship club, sonny.”

  “Don’t look at me with your bum lamp!”

  “I want my notice. I’m through with Findlay.”

  “Now for the toboggan! Last place for ours!”

  Used as Chase had become to the manner of badinage directed at him, he had never encountered it like this. The players spoke good-naturedly, and a laugh followed each particular sally; nevertheless they were in deadly earnest and seemed to consider his advent a calamity which he could have spared them. He dressed in silence, and avoided looking at them, as if indeed their conviction was becoming truth to him, and went out on the grounds.

  He got through the few moments of practice creditably, but when the gong rang calling the players in for the game to begin, a sudden nervousness and nausea made him weak, blind, trembling. The crowded grandstand blurred indistinctly in his sight. The players moved in a sort of haze, and what he heard sounded far off.

  Chase started into that game with a nightmare. When at the bat he scarcely saw the ball, and was utterly at the mercy of the Kenton pitcher. In the field he wobbled when the ball came toward him; it bounded at him like a rabbit; it was illusive and teasing, and seemed to lure him to where it was not; it popped out of his hands, and slipped like oil between his legs; it had a fiendish propensity for his shins, and though it struck sharply, seemed to leave no pain.

  On the solitary occasion when he did get his hands squarely on the ball he threw it far over the first-baseman’s head, far over the right-field bleachers.

  He was dimly conscious that the game was a rout; that the Findlay players, rattled by his presence, sore at his misplays, went to pieces and let Kenton make a farce out of it. He heard the growls of disapproval from the grandstand, the roar from the bleachers—the hooting and tin-canning from the small boys.

  And when the game ended, he sneaked off the field, glad it was all over, and entered the dressing-room in a sick and settled hopelessness.

  Roar on roar greeted him. He fell on a bench and bowed his head in his hands. The scorn, invective, anger, and caustic wit broke about his deadened ears.

  Presently Castorious stalked into the room, followed by Mac and several directors of the club. Cas was frothing at the mouth; big brown freckles shone through his pale skin; his jaw set like a bulldog’s. With the demeanor of a haughty chieftain approaching a captive bound to the stake, he went up to Chase and tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Say! Did anybody, did anybody, did anybody ever tell you you could play ball?”

  Chase lifted his face from his hands and looked at Cas. “Yes,” he said, with a wan smile, “but I guess they were mistaken.”

  Cas opened his lips to say something further, but the words never came. He took a long look at Chase, then went to his locker, sat down, and with serious, thoughtful brow began changing his clothes.

  Mac’s sharp voice suddenly stilled the babel in the room. “Gentlemen, either I run this team my own way, or not at all. That’s it. I’m ready to resign now.”

  “Here, here, Mac, cool down!” said one. “We’re perfectly satisfied with you. We know we couldn’t fill your place. Beekman was a little hasty. He’s a hard loser, you know. So never mind what’s been said. Pull the team out of this rut, that’s all we want. We’ve got confidence in you, and whatever you say goes. If you want money to get a new player or two to strengthen up, why speak out. Findlay must be in front.”

  “Gentlemen, I don’t need any money. I’m carryin’ sixteen players now, an’ I’ve got the best team in this league. All I want is a little luck.”

  “Well, here’s hoping you get it.”

  The directors shook hands with Mac and filed out of the dressing-room. When they were out of hearing, the little manager turned to his players. He seemed to expand, to grow tall; his face went white, his small eyes snapped.

  “Morris, go to the office an’ get your money,” he said. “Stanhope, you’ve got ten days’ notice. Ziegler, the bench for yours without pay till you can hold your tongue. Now, if any of the rest of you fellows have some ideas about runnin’ this team, sing ’em out!”

  He stamped up and down the room before them, waiting with blazing eyes for their replies, but none came.

  “Cas!” he shouted, confronting that individual. “Are you a liar?”

  “Wha-at?” demanded Cas, throwing his head forward like a striking hawk.

  “Are you a liar?”

  “No, I’m not. Who says so? I’ll take a punch—”

  “Did you try to pitch today?”

  “I had no steam; couldn’t break a pane of glass,” replied Cas, evasively.

  “Stow that talk. Did you try?”

  “No, I didn’t,” said Cas, sullenly.

  “Now, ain’t that a fine thing for you to do? You, the best pitcher in this league, with more ’n one big manager watchin’ your work! Ain’t you ashamed of yourself?”

  Cas did not say so, but he looked it.

  “I’ve got somethin’ to say to the rest of you muckers. Of all the rotten quitters you are the worst I ever seen. That exhibition you gave today would have made a dead one out of a five thousand-volt storage battery. Here you are, a bunch of stickers that the likes of ain’t in the rest of the league—and you fall down before a measly little slow ball, a floater that babies could hit! You put the boots on every grounder in sight! You let fly balls bounce off your head! You pegged the ball in the air or at some body’s shins! It just takes a bad spell of luck to show some fellows’ yellow streaks. Saffron ain’t nothing to the color of some of you.”

  As Mac paused for breath, someone grumbled: “Hoodooed!”

  “Bah, You make me sick,” cried Mac. “Suppose we’ve been hoodooed? Suppose we’ve fallen into a losin’ streak? It’s time to bust somethin’, ain’t it?” Then his manner altered, his voice became soft and persuasive.

  “Boys, w
e’ve got to break our slump. Now, there’s Cas, you all know what a great twirler he is. An’ he throwed us down. Look at the outfield. Where’s one outside of the big leagues thet can rank with mine? An’ they played today with two wooden legs. Look at Benny an’ Meade—why, today they were tied to posts. Look at reliable old Hicks behind the plate—today he missed third strikes, overthrew the bases, an’ had eight passed balls. An’ say, did any of you steady up this youngster I was givin’ a chance? Did any of you remember when you was makin’ your first bid for fast company? Now, I ain’t got no more to say to you, except we’re goin’ to brace an’ we’re goin’ through this league like sand through a sieve!”

  With that he turned to Chase, who had listened and now was ready to get his summary dismissal.

  “Didn’t make nothin’ of the chance you asked for, did you?” he said, brusquely.

  Chase shook his head.

  “Lost your nerve at the critical time, when you had a chance to make good. Here I need a shortstop who is fast, an can hit an’ throw; an’ you come along trailin’ a hoodoo an’ muss up the game. Put my team on the bum!”

  Then there was a silence, in which Mac walked to and fro before Chase, who still sat with head bowed.

  “Now you see what losin’ your nerve means. You’re fast as lightnin’ on your feet, you’ve got a great arm, an’ you stand up like a hitter. But you lost your nerve. A ball player mustn’t never lose his nerve. See what a chance you had? I’m weak at short. Now, after I turn you down you won’t never get such a chance again.”

  He kept pacing slowly before Chase, watching him narrowly; and when Chase at last lifted his pale, sombre face from his hands, Mac came to a sudden stop. With some deliberation he put his hand into his coat pocket and brought forth a book and papers. Then in a different voice, in the same soft tones with which he had ended his talk to the other players, he said to Chase:

  “Here’s twenty-five dollars advance, an’ your contract. It’s made out, so all you need to do is sign it. A hundred per month for yours! Don’t stare at me like thet. Take your contract. You’re on! An’ as sure as my name’s Mac Sandy, I’ll make a star of you!”

  CHAPTER VI

  FIRST INNINGS

  When Chase left the grounds, his eyesight was still as blurred as it had been during the game, only now from a different source. His misery fell from him like a discarded cloak. He kept his hand deep in his right trousers’ pocket, clutching the twenty-five dollars as if it were the only solid substance to give actuality to his dream of bliss. First he thought he would send all the money to his mother; then he reflected that as he resembled the most ragged species of tramp he must spend something for at least respectable clothing. He entered a second-hand store, where he purchased for the sum of five dollars a complete outfit, even down to shoes and hat.

  It was not much on style, Chase thought, but clean and without a rip or hole. With this precious bundle under his arm, he set out to find the address given him by Mac, where he could obtain board and lodging at a reasonable rate. After some inquiry he found the street and eventually the house, which, because of a much more pretentious appearance than he had supposed it would have, made him hesitate.

  But following a blindly grateful resolve to do anything and everything that Mac had told him, he knocked on the door. It opened at once to show a stout matron of kindly aspect, who started somewhat as she saw him.

  Chase said he had been sent there by Mac, and told his errand, whereupon the woman looked relieved.

  “Exkoose me,” she replied, “come righdt in. I haf one rooms, a putty nice one, four thalers a weeg.”

  She showed Chase a large room with four windows, a big white bed, a table and bureau, and chairs and a lounge; and with some difficulty managed to convey to him that he might have it and board for the sum of four dollars weekly. When he was certain she had not made a mistake he lost no time in paying her for a week is advance. Good fortune was still such a stranger to him that he wanted to insure himself against moments of doubt.

  He washed and dressed himself with pleasure that had not been his for many a day. Quite diligently did he apply the comb and brush Mrs. Obenwasser had so kindly procured. His hair was long and a mass of tangles, and it was full of cinders, which reminded him grimly of his dearly earned proficiency as a nightrider on fast mail trains and slow freights.

  “That’s all over, thank Heaven!” breathed Chase. “I hope I can forget it.”

  But he knew he never would. When he backed away from the mirror and surveyed his clean face and neat suit, and saw therein a new Chase, the last vanishing gleam of his doubt and unhappiness left him. The supper bell, ringing at that moment, seemed to have a music of hope; and he went downstairs hungry and happy. Several young men at the table made themselves agreeable to him, introduced themselves as clerks employed downtown, and incidentally dyed-in-the-wool baseball fans. Chase gathered that Mrs. Obenwasser was a widow of some means and kept boarders more out of the goodness of her heart and pride in her table than from any real necessity.

  Chase ate like a famished wolf. Never had meat and biscuits and milk and pie been so good. And it was shame that made him finally desist, not satisfied appetite.

  After supper he got paper, pen, and ink from his landlady and went to his room to write home. It came to him with a sudden shock that he had never written since he left. What could they have thought? But he hastened to write, for he had good news. He told Will everything, though he skimmed over it lightly, as if his vicissitudes were but incidents in the rise of a ball player. He wrote to his mother, telling her of his good fortune, of the promise of the future, of his good health and spirits. Then he enclosed all his money, except a dollar or so in silver, in the letter and sealed it. Try as hard as he might, Chase could not prevent his tears from falling on that letter and they were sealed up with it.

  Then he sallied forth to look for the post-office and incidentally to see something of Findlay. He was surprised to find it a larger and more prosperous place than he had supposed. Main Street was broad and had many handsome buildings. The avenues leading from it were macadamized and lined with maple-trees. Chase strolled ’round a block and saw many fine brick residences and substantial frame houses with vine-covered, roomy porches and large lawns. Back on Main Street again, he walked along without aim. There was a hotel on the next corner, and a number of young men were sitting outside with chairs tilted back against the window, and also on the edge of the sidewalk.

  Chase had sauntered into the ken of his fellow players. “Say, fellars, will you get onto thet!”

  “It’s Chaseaway!”

  “Hello, Chase, old sport, come an’ have a drink.”

  “Dude Thatches; we can see your finish. Our new shortstop is some on the dress himself. He’ll show you up!”

  “Would you mind droppin’ your lid over thet lame blinker? I don’t want to have the willies tonight.”

  Then an incident diverted their attack on Chase. Someone kicked a leg of Enoch Winter’s chair, and being already tipped far back, it overbalanced and let Enoch sprawl in the gutter. Whereupon the group howled in glee.

  “Cap’n, wasser masser?” inquired Benny, trying to help Enoch to his feet and falling over him instead. Benny was drunk. Slowly Enoch separated himself from Benny and righted his chair and seated himself.

  “Now, ain’t it funny?” said he.

  His slow, easy manner of speaking, without a trace of resentment, made Chase look at him. Enoch was captain of the team and a man long past his boyhood. Yet there remained something boyish about him. He had a round face and a round bullet head, cropped close; round gray eyes, wise as an owl’s, and he had a round lump on his right cheek. As this lump moved up and down, Chase presently divined that it was only a puffed-out cheek over a quid of tobacco. He instinctively liked his captain and when asked to sit down in a vacant chair near at hand, he did so with the pleasant thought that at last he was one of them.

  Chase sat there for over an hour,
intensely interested in all of them, in what they said and did. He felt sorry for Benny, for the second-baseman was much under the influence of liquor, had a haggard face and unkempt appearance. The fellow called Dude Thatcher was a tall youth, good looking, very quiet, and very well dressed. Chase saw him flick dust off his shiny shoes, and more than once adjust his spotless cuffs. Meade was a typical ball player, under twenty, a rugged and bronzed fellow of jovial aspect. Hicks would never see thirty again; there was gray hair over his temples; he was robust of build and his hands resembled eagles’ claws. He was a catcher, and many a jammed and broken finger had been his lot.

  What surprised Chase more than anything was the fact that baseball was not once mentioned by this group. They were extremely voluble, too, and talked on every subject under the sun except the one that concerned their occupation. Under every remark lay a subtle inflection of humor. Mild sarcasm and sharp retort and ready wit flashed back and forth.

  The left-fielder of the team, Frank Havil by name, a tall, thin fellow with a pale, sanctimonious face, strolled out of the hotel lobby and seated himself near Chase. And with his arrival came a series of most peculiar happenings to Chase. At first he thought mosquitoes or flies were bothering him; then he imagined a wasp or hornet was butting into his ear; next he made sure of one thing only, that something was hitting the side of his face and head. Whatever it was he had no idea. It came at regular intervals and began to sting more and more. He took a sidelong glance at Havil, but that young man’s calm, serious face disarmed any suspicion. But when Havil got up and moved away the strange fact that the stinging sensation ceased to come caused Chase to associate it somehow with the quiet left fielder.

  “Chase, did you feel anythin’ queer when Havil was sittin’ alongside of you?” asked Winters.

  “I certainly did. What was it?”

  “Havil is a queer duck. He goes ’round with his mouth full of number ten shot, an’ he works one out on the end of his tongue, an’ flips it off his front teeth. Why, the blame fool can knock your eye out. I’ve seen him make old baldheaded men crazy by sittin’ behind them en’ shootin’ shot onto the bald spots. An’ he never cracks a smile. He can look anybody in the eye, an’ they can’t tell he’s doin’ it, but they can feel it blamed well. He sure is a queer duck, an’—you look out for your one good eye.”