a couple of other of the boys, and the manager of the Birds rubbed it into Mac like he was a dunce. Whatever hand Mac held he played wrong, and I guess he must have lost about fifteen bucks before Caplan sounded taps, and we ducked to our berths.
Owing to the fact that two ball teams was traveling on the same train, there wasn’t much room, and I found myself chucked into a lower with Mac. You can guess my feelings. For the past four months, I had done nothing but get bawled out because I played alongside of him, and to say that I felt like snapping at him, would be but telling the truth.
I turned my back to him, as he got undressed, and closed my eyes tight, so that he would think I was asleep. But, squinting at him, I was surprised to see that he was actually smiling, and the smile was one of happiness! It was the first time he had done it for three months at least. As he crawled in, he whispered soft:
“Happy!”
The boys had nicknamed me that.
I grunted, making believe that I was falling asleep.
He laid his hand on my shoulder and I turned around.
“Happy,” he smiled down at me “Listen, lad, I got it! You have been the only fellow who has not laid into me since that big bum pulled something on me! But Happy, I got it! Lad, shake me hand. I tried long to discover it—but I got it now! Play your head off for the rest of the season, lad, and watch old Mac. Try to cheer the fellows up, but don’t say anything about me! For, lad, just as sure as God made little apples, we are going to win that pennant!”
And with a little sigh of contentment, he slapped the light into the wall, and laid down. And I could feel some of the confidence that he had put into his speech. What he had got I couldn’t say, but he had chosen me as a father confessor, and I felt somehow that I had been unduly honored that night. I fell to sleep wondering what it was that Mac had got, but the mystery did not solve itself.
The next day we opened at Cincy, and the way we tore through those Red Legs was sad to see. It didn’t take the boys a minute to see that the man we had on third was the Mac of old—crashing, roaring Mac, the greatest third-baseman of them all!
Twice more we rolled through our opponents for a series. The Cubs and Pirates seemed to fall like reeds before a cyclone when we struck them. Like an arrow we headed to first place, and when we started back to the Polo Grounds for the last series with the Birds, we were but half a game behind them, and going so fast that we sounded like a rumbling, crashing express train!
Was we happy? Was Caplan smiling? Was we planning how we was going to spend our world series money? I ask you. Why we was so full of pep, that I thought somebody would have had sense enough to bring boxes so’s they could sweep it up, and sell what we spilled!
Right out there, roaring his head off, playing with a dash and spirit that thrilled even the cold-heartedest of spectators, was MacGinley—Johnny Mac, the cleverest third-baseman in the business! Could you blame us for counting our world series money?
We opened that last series before a gang that would have made a peach of an army for defense if they was all soldiers. The way they yelled put the Niagara Falls to shame. When we came out for our practise, they raised the roof of the grandstand with their noise.
But when we started the first game, we played without MacGinley! He never showed up! Caplan raved, and tore his hair. But Mac never came. Comiskey, a recruit, filled in, and he did as good as he could, which wasn’t much. That afternoon, when the final score came in, it was seen that the Mammoths was on the wrong end by five to zero.
The result was depressing to say the least. It wasn’t the losing so much, as it was the way Big Jim Donoghy rubbed it into us. He had us raving before the fourth inning was over. We was ready to fight. And there was not a man on the team who couldn’t have skinned MacGinley alive, and hung the skin on the top flag-pole of the Polo Grounds.
A game and a half they was ahead of us, and if we wanted to win the pennant, we had to take the remaining games! Could you imagine anything worse?
* * * *
That night Mac came into our room, with a great smile on his shrewd face. He had a package in his hand.
“Lad, I told you we was going to win the pennant, didn’t I?”
“Where was you today?” I snarled, smarting from the plaguing I had received from Big Jim Donoghy. “Are you quittin’?”
The instant I said it, I was sorry. There was a flash in the blue eyes, and Mac stiffened.
“I’ll forgive you, lad,” he said quietly. “I guess it looked like it. But you’ll see; to- morrow you’ll see!”
He laid the package on the table, looked at it a while, glanced at me, then tore the paper off. It was a mouse-trap!
“For the love of Mike!” I gasped, “what the hell is the matter with you? Are you going crazy?”
He smiled and shook his head.
“I seen mice in this room last night,” he retorted, “and I want to catch a couple of them.”
I turned over with a snort and closed my eyes. I could hear Mac moving about placing his trap, and whistling. Then I fell asleep.
The next morning he was up before me, and I couldn’t see the mouse-trap around. We was out to take a little drill—for Caplan never gave up hope. There was a possibility of us winning those remaining three games, and he was game to the core.
In the afternoon, there was a bigger crowd than ever out. They panned us unmercifully.
We gritted our teeth, and waited for the gong to sound. Just before it rang, Mac came from the clubhouse. The bleachers booed and hissed loudly. He carried a little package, and set it in the corner of the bench.
Well, that game was a hummer. Straight into the seventh we went, with no score. Then, in the eighth, Mac laid down one of his bunts, and beat the throw by a head first slide. When he rose, he limped a bit, and called time. I assisted him across the diamond, and to the bench. He pretended to take off his shoe, and slipped the little package into his shirt.
Then he limped back, and took his place on first. I could see determination written in his eyes. I was coaching.
Big Jim Donoghy started to ride him. He called him everything on the calendar, and some things that weren’t. But Mac only smiled. He took a little lead. Donoghy yelled at him.
Then Mac edged off, bending over. Like a flash Donoghy yelled to his pitcher.
Mac bent forward still further. His hand went to his shirt, and came out. The throw was low, just as Donoghy called and knew it would come, so’s he could tag Mac as he slid back.
Then, along the ground scampered two little mice. They hurtled toward the big first-baseman manager as he bent forward and over.
The ball came fast. There was a yell of anguish. A big body went into the air, and the ball hurried past, going to the wall.
Around the diamond streaked a figure as if the furies were after him. Past second he went, and to third. In the coacher’s box Caplan urged Mac to spin for the plate. Murray in right had retrieved the ball. He was the best thrower in the league.
His arm went back.
