by Zane Grey
“You’re asking me to—”
“Lay down, be off your form—”
“You’re trying to buy me to throw the game?” Chase rose unsteadily.
“Hum! Call it so if you like, but—”
In blind rage Chase threw the money in the gambler’s face and pushed him violently with his left hand. The gambler staggered against the bench. Then Chase swung his right arm with all the power he could summon. Gambler and bench went down together.
“You hound!” cried Chase, quivering. “I’ll have you run out of town for this.” On the instant Chase wheeled and hurried down the avenue to the hotel. He went directly to Speer’s room, to find the pitcher lying on his bed looking rather sick.
“Speer! What’s this I hear?” demanded Chase, and he breathlessly described the proposition that had just been made him.
“Ain’t it rotten of me? He bought me, Chase. But I was drunk,” said Speer, in tears. “I’m sober enough now to know what a deal it was.”
“Sure you were drunk!” exclaimed Chase. “But I won’t peach, old man. You just forget it and cut out drinking with strangers after this.” Chase bolted downstairs to collide with Mac, Cas, Enoch, and Thatcher, all going in to lunch. “Fellows, I just punched a man who tried to buy me to throw the game. Flashed a hundred on me. Tried to put it in my pocket.”
“Wha-at?” roared Cas. “Where is he?”
Mac swore. “Smooth-faced guy, well dressed, big blinker in his necktie? I saw him hangin’ ’round. What we won’t do to him—”
“Come on!” roared Cas.
“Wait; get the gang!” shouted Enoch. But the smooth-tongued, smooth-faced gentleman could not be found.
Several passengers at the station testified to seeing a gentleman answering that description—except that he had a badly swelled and discolored eye—going north along the tracks.
That night the story was town talk, and Chase was a hero.
CHAPTER XIII
SUNDAY BALL
“Say, sure I got somethin’ to tell you Indians that I ain’t stuck on,” said Mac. “The directors hev decided to play Sunday ball!”
The boys could not have made a more passionate and angry outbreak if they had heard they were to be hanged.
“Beef! Beef!” shouted Mac, red as a lobster. “Haven’t I been against it? You puff-in-front-of-the-hotel stiffs talk as if I was to blame.”
“Wha-at?” roared Castorious.
“Gimme my release!” cried Benny, who had recently taken to attending a certain church. Benny never did anything by halves.
The Dude flung his bat through a window, carrying away glass and sash. All except Chase were violent in word and action, and he was too greatly surprised to move or speak. Mac’s position often assumed exasperating phases. This was one of them. He tried reason on the most choleric of his players with about as much success as if they had been brass mules. They persisted in venting their spleen on him. Then he lost his temper.
“Flannel-mouths! Hev you all swallowed red-hot bricks? Cheese it now, cheese it! The guy that doesn’t report here Sunday gets let down, an’ fined besides. Got thet?”
Chase left the gounds in some distress of mind. The past four weeks had been so perfect that he had forgotten things could go wrong. Sunday ball! It had never even occurred to him. To give up his place on the team and all the bright promise of the future he could not consider for a moment. He would have to reconcile himself to the inevitable. But what would his mother say? He might keep it from her, he did not need to tell her; she would never find it out. No! The temptation lasted only a moment. He would not deceive her.
And then a further consideration weighed upon him. If he played baseball on the Sabbath in order to attain a future success, would that success be an honest one? He was afraid it would not. He had been trained to respect the Sabbath. If he kept faith with his training, he must confess Sunday games were wrong. Nevertheless, he could not harbor the idea of resigning his place. This made him feel he was willfully doing wrong. And he plunged into bitterness of spirit.
It was with no little curiosity that Chase went out upon the field on Sunday. The grandstand looked as usual; many familiar faces were there. The bleachers were packed, and a line of men and boys, twenty deep, extended along to the right and left of the diamond. Chase had never seen such a crowd in the grounds. Nor had he ever seen such enthusiasm.
All at once it occurred to him that here were hundreds and thousands of boys and men who worked every hour of daylight six days in the week. They were new to him, and he saw that he was as new to them. They had never seen him play. They had never before had a chance to see a ball game in Findlay.
A question came naturally to Chase’s quick mind. Had they played the game when mere tots on the commons and learned to love it, as had he? A blind man would have answered in the affirmative. They were wild and bubbling over from sheer joy. If they loved the game and had only one day to go, albeit that day was Sunday, were they doing harm? Chase could not answer that. But he knew whatever it was for them applied also to him.
Findlay won the first Sunday game. A greater and noisier crowd had never before been in attendance. Noise! The field was a howling bedlam. The boys ran like unleashed colts; the men cheered their own players, roared at their opponents, and at each other.
In his heart Chase was trying desperately hard to justify his own part in it, and because of that he saw much and found food for reflection. Well he knew the pallor of these boys; it came from the dark, sunless foundries. The hundreds of men present had a yellowish, oily look; they were the diggers and refiners, the laborers from the oil-fields. At first Chase thought their unbridled mirth, their coarse jests at the umpire, at the players, and themselves, their unremitting wild, hoarse yells, as unnatural as strident.
Then suddenly a smile here, a laugh of delight there, told him all this was only natural. These men and boys had found expression for their pent-up feelings, for a short delight in contrast to the long day. This was their hour of freedom.
“Yell! That’s right, yell!” muttered Chase through his teeth as he went up to bat. He felt for them, but could not quite understand. He drove one of his famous liners against the fence. “Yell for that!” he said to himself.
A long screeching, swelling howl of rapture rose from the field and stands. It rang in Chase’s ears as he sped ’round the bases, and when, after sliding into third, he stood up, he saw a sight he never forgot. The crowd was one leaping, tossing, waving, crazy mass.
With Chase, to get the track of anything was to trail it to the end. The faces and actions of that crowd made him think; their frenzied glee made him sad, because it reminded him of his old longing for freedom; and its very violence bespoke the bottled-up love of play. These men and boys wanted to play, and circumstances had made it so they could not. They loved to play, As they had mothers, sisters, brothers, and children to support, they had no time to play. As the next best thing they loved to see someone else play. And they had only one day—Sunday.
“It’s this way,” said Chase to himself. “If these men and boys spend their Sundays at home and in church, then Sunday ball is wrong. If they spend it otherwise, then Sunday ball is not wrong.”
Chase was tenacious and stubborn. He found he had loved the game as a boy because of the play in it; now he loved it because of what it was doing for him, because he believed in it. And he set himself to find out what it might be doing for others. He could not write to his mother till he had decided the question. So he spent much of his leisure time going the rounds of the foundries, factories, refineries, brick-yards, and he took care to drop into all the saloons, the beer-gardens, and dance-halls. Everywhere he was known and welcomed. He asked questions, he listened, and he watched.
When another Sunday had passed, he was in possession of all he needed to know. With immeasurable relief, he decided that, while he would rather not have played Sunday ball, it was not wrong for him to do so. He even decided he was doing good. Thus
he settled the perplexing question forever in his own conscience. He would tell his mother how he had arrived at his conclusion, and as for others, it did not matter what they thought.
All this time, Chase had not been blind to certain indications of coolness on the part of people who had hitherto been pleased to be courteous and affable And as these indications had come solely from chance meetings in the streets, he began to wonder how much deeper this coldness would go, provided he sought the society of these persons. That thought alone kept him away from Marjory for over a week. He believed she would understand and still be his friend. But instinctively, he feared her mother; and he had a momentary twinge when he called to mind the young minister so welcome in the Dean household.
One evening when a party of ladies coolly snubbed him, Chase could stand the suspense no longer. So he presented himself at Marjory’s home, and much to his relief found her on the porch alone. “Chase, mama has forbidden me to see you,” she said, with her blue eyes on him.
Chase gulped when he saw the eyes were unchanged, still warm and bright. “No? Oh, Marjory, it’s not so bad as that?”
“Yes. But, Chase, you just give up the Sunday games, and then everything will be all right again.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not? Let them play without”
“It’s no use, Marjory. Either I play on Sundays or give up the game. And it means a good deal to me. Does your mother say it’s wrong?”
“She says it’s awful. And Mr. Marsden held up his hand in holy horror when he heard it. He’s going to work against it—stop it.”
“Do you think it’s so terribly wrong?”
“Oh, Chase, for you to ask me that! Don’t you know it?”
“No, I don’t,” replied Chase, stubbornly.
“Then you won’t give it up?”
“No.”
“Not—not even to please me?”
“I would if I could—but I can’t. Marjory, please—”
“Then—good-bye.”
“Oh!” cried Chase, sharply. He looked at her; the long lashes were down. “You said that as if I were— Look here, Marjory Dean! I’m working for my mother. I’ve seen her faint when she came home at night. I’ve seen her hands bleed. If every day were Sunday and baseball bad—which it’s not—I’d play. What do I care for Mr. Marsden? He’s so dry he rattles like a beanstalk. I don’t care what your mother thinks. She’s— I don’t care—what—what you think, either. Good-bye!” He strode off the porch.
A low, tremulous “Chase!” did not halt him. He was bitterly hurt, angry, and sick. He went to his room, fought out his bad hour alone in the dark, and then came forth feeling himself older and resigned.
But he was more determined than ever to stand by the game.
* * * *
On Sunday, another great throng yelled itself hoarse at the grounds and went home in shirt-sleeves, sweaty, tired, and happy.
Chase dressed, went to dinner, and then strolled ’round to the hotel. All the boys were there lounging in familiar groups. He thought they all seemed rather quiet and looked queerly at him. Before he could learn what was in the air a policeman whom he knew well stepped up reluctantly.
“Chase, I’ve got a warrant for you.” The blood ’round Chase’s heart seemed to freeze. He stared, unable to speak. “My pardner has gone to arrest Mac,” continued the officer.
“Here’s the warrant.” The printed words blurred in Chase’s sight, but his own name in writing, and the term “Sunday baseball,” and the Rev. Mr. Marsden’s name told him the meaning of the arrest.
“I’m sorry, Chase. I hate to run you in. But I’ve my duty,” said the officer, and whispered lower, “We’ll try to get word to Mayor Duff, so you can get bail and not be locked up.”
“Bail? Locked up?” echoed Chase, stupidly.
Mac appeared with another officer. The little manager was pale but composed. “Sure, we’re pinched, Chase,” he said and as the players crowded ’round he continued: “Fade away now, or you’ll put people wise. Somebody hunt up King an’ Beekman an’ send them to the station. Cas, you dig for Mayor Duff’s house an’ ask him to come to take bail for us. Lord! I hope he’s home. If not, the law puts us in a cell tonight. Sure somebody has done us dirt. Them warrants might have been made out for tomorrow.”
“Mac, you an’ Chase walk ’round to the station alone,” said one of the officers. “We’ll go another way.”
“Thanks, shure you’re all right,” replied Mac. “Come on, Chase. Don’t look so peaked.”
“Isn’t the whole team arrested?” queried Chase.
“Sure, an’ the whole team’ll be on trial, but the warrants read for manager and one player. It’d been more regular to hev pinched Enoch, as he is captain. Don’t know why they picked out you.”
“Is playing on Sunday against the law?”
“Naw. Not any more ’n drivin’ a team; but these moss-backed people twist things an’ call us ‘nuisances’ an’ ‘immoral’ an’ Lord knows what. Here we are at the station. It’s pretty tough on you, kid, but don’t quit. This won’t hurt you any.”
The two officers met them, unlocked the station-house doors, and ushered them into the mayor’s office. Presently Beekman strode in, big and important, and said it was not necessary to call in King, for he would go bail for both.
“If Duff’s in town, he’ll come,” continued Beekman.
Presently the sounds of a fast trotting horse and flying wheels drew an officer to the window.
“The mayor’s here,” he said.
Mac settled back with a deep breath.
“Good!” he exclaimed.
A tall man with a gray beard came in hurriedly, followed by Castorious. He nodded to all, threw his gloves on the desk, and took the warrants held out to him. In a few moments he had made the necessary recording of the arrests and of accepted bail. Then he shook hands with Mac and Chase.
“Glad I happened to run across Castorious. Was driving out into the country. You’ll get your hearing tomorrow morning, and if you wish I’ll set the trial for Wednesday or Thursday morning.”
“The sooner the better,” replied Mac.
Then the mayor bowed pleasantly and left. Chase followed the others out. He could scarcely realize that he had been arrested; and leaving his friends in earnest conversation, he went to his room and to bed. He did not have a very restful night.
* * * *
The morning papers were full of the particulars of the arrest and the consideration of Sunday ball; and the subject was the absorbing topic of conversation everywhere. All the directors of the team were present at the hearing, and afterwards repaired to Judge Meggs’s office to discuss the matter of defense.
Meggs was a shrewd old lawyer, and incidentally an admirer of the game of baseball. While in office, he had been known to adjourn court because he wanted to see Findlay “wollop” their rivals. Therefore it was felt that with the case in his hands, the team would escape imprisonment and fine even if Sunday ball were discontinued.
Beekman and King had visited practically all the men of business in Findlay and stating their case, that the Sunday game was conducted in an orderly manner, that no drinks were sold at or near the grounds, that it was played at the earnest request of thousands of working men and boys, had gotten a long list of signatures to their petition favoring the game.
During the discussion as to the defense, one of the directors had mentioned the fact that certain members of the laboring class were better off in summer for the playing of the game.
“Can we prove that?” asked Judge Meggs.
“I know it’s true,” spoke up Chase.
“How do you know?” returned the lawyer.
Somewhat incoherently, but with the eager earnestness of conviction, Chase told what he knew. Then the judge questioned him in regard to his motive, drew him out to tell what baseball meant to him and to others like him, with the result that he presently said to the directors:
�
��Gentlemen, we have our defense, and you may take my word for it, we shall win.”
He asked Chase to call at his office an hour before the time fixed upon for the trial next day.
* * * *
Findlay lost the ball game that afternoon. They played listlessly, and plainly showed the effects of the cloud hanging over them.
On Wednesday, Chase went to Judge Meggs’s office at the appointed time.
“Now, Chase, if you are a star of the diamond you ought to shine just as brightly in the courtroom. This morning when I call on you, I want you to get up and tell the court what you told me about yourself and baseball. Be simple, earnest, and straightforward. You have here the opportunity to vindicate yourself and your fellow-players, so make the best of it.”
Chase went to the courtroom with the judge. It was crowded with people. The Findlay team and the team visiting town at that time occupied front seats. All the directors and many businessmen were present. There was a plentiful sprinkling of ladies in the background.
Mayor Duff opened proceedings as soon as the judge arrived with Chase. The prosecuting minister did not appear. His representative, a young lawyer, rose and expatiated on the evils of the Findlay team in general and of Sunday ball in particular. These young men set bad examples, engendered idleness and love of play, they were opposed to work, they enticed boys from school to see a useless and sometimes dangerous sport, they fostered the spirit of rivalry, of gambling.
Baseball on Sunday was an abomination, it was a desecration of the Sabbath, it added to the undermining of the church, it opposed the teachings of the Bible, it kept the boys and girls from Sunday school. Sunday was a day of rest, of prayer, of quiet communion, not a day for playing, howling, yelling, mobbing, carousing. The permitting of the game was a disgrace to the decent name of Findlay, a shame to her respectable citizens, and a sin to her churches.
The prosecution examined witnesses, who swore to endless streams of passing men on the streets; of yelling that made the afternoon a hideous nightmare; of brawls on corners and mob violence in the ball-grounds; of hoodlums accosting women. And there the prosecution rested.