will steal,” muttered Spears. “He can’t be stopped.”
Spears had called the play. The Rube tried to hold the little base-stealer close to second, but, after one attempt, wisely turned to his hard task of making the Bisons hit and hit quickly. Ellis let the ball pass; Gregg made a perfect throw to third; Bogart caught the ball and moved like a flash, but Carl slid under his hands to the bag. Manning ran down to second. The Rube pitched again, and this was his tenth ball over the plate. Even the Buffalo players evinced eloquent appreciation of the Rube’s defence at this last stand.
Then Ellis sent a clean hit to right, scoring both Carl and Manning. I breathed easier, for it seemed with those two runners in, the Rube had a better chance. Treadwell also took those two runners in, the Rube had a way those Bisons waited. They had their reward, for the Rube’s speed left him. When he pitched again the ball had control, but no shoot. Treadwell hit it with all his strength. Like a huge cat Ashwell pounced upon it, ran over second base, forcing Ellis, and his speedy snap to first almost caught Treadwell.
Score 8 to 7. Two out. Runner on first. One run to tie.
In my hazy, dimmed vision I saw the Rube’s pennant waving from the flag-pole.
“It’s our game!” howled Spears in my ear, for the noise from the stands was deafening. “It’s our pennant!”
The formidable batting strength of the Bisons had been met, not without disaster, but without defeat. McKnight came up for Buffalo and the Rube took his weary swing. The batter made a terrific lunge and hit the ball with a solid crack It lined for center.
Suddenly electrified into action, I leaped up. That hit! It froze me with horror. It was a home-run. I saw Stringer fly toward left center. He ran like something wild. I saw the heavy Treadwell lumbering round the bases. I saw Ashwell run out into center field.
“Ah-h!” The whole audience relieved its terror in that expulsion of suspended breath. Stringer had leaped high to knock down the ball, saving a sure home-run and the game. He recovered himself, dashed back for the ball and shot it to Ash.
When Ash turned toward the plate, Treadwell was rounding third base. A tie score appeared inevitable. I saw Ash’s arm whip and the ball shoot forward, leveled, glancing, beautiful in its flight. The crowd saw it, and the silence broke to a yell that rose and rose as the ball sped in. That yell swelled to a splitting shriek, and Treadwell slid in the dust, and the ball shot into Gregg’s hands all at the same instant.
Carter waved both arms upwards. It was the umpire’s action when his decision went against the base-runner. The audience rolled up one great stentorian cry.
“Out!”
I collapsed and sank back upon the bench. My confused senses received a dull roar of pounding feet and dinning voices as the herald of victory. I felt myself thinking how pleased Milly would be. I had a distinct picture in my mind of a white cottage on a hill, no longer a dream, but a reality, made possible for me by the Rube’s winning of the pennant.
THE RUBE’S HONEYMOON, by Zane Grey
“He’s got a new manager. Watch him pitch now!” That was what Nan Brown said to me about Rube Hurtle, my great pitcher, and I took it as her way of announcing her engagement.
My baseball career held some proud moments, but this one, wherein I realized the success of my matchmaking plans, was certainly the proudest one. So, entirely outside of the honest pleasure I got out of the Rube’s happiness, there was reason for me to congratulate myself. He was a transformed man, so absolutely renewed, so wild with joy, that on the strength of it, I decided the pennant for Worcester was a foregone conclusion, and, sure of the money promised me by the directors, Milly and I began to make plans for the cottage upon the hill.
The Rube insisted on pitching Monday’s game against the Torontos, and although poor fielding gave them a couple of runs, they never had a chance. They could not see the ball. The Rube wrapped it around their necks and between their wrists and straight over the plate with such incredible speed that they might just as well have tried to bat rifle bullets.
That night I was happy. Spears, my veteran captain, was one huge smile; Radbourne quietly assured me that all was over now but the shouting; all the boys were happy.
And the Rube was the happiest of all. At the hotel he burst out with his exceeding good fortune. He and Nan were to be married upon the Fourth of July!
After the noisy congratulations were over and the Rube had gone, Spears looked at me and I looked at him.
“Con,” said he soberly, “we just can’t let him get married on the Fourth.”
“Why not? Sure we can. We’ll help him get married. I tell you it’ll save the pennant for us. Look how he pitched today! Nan Brown is our salvation!”
“See here, Con, you’ve got softenin’ of the brain, too. Where’s your baseball sense? We’ve got a pennant to win. By July Fourth we’ll be close to the lead again, and there’s that three weeks’ trip on the road, the longest and hardest of the season. We’ve just got to break even on that trip. You know what that means. If the Rube marries Nan—what are we goin’ to do? We can’t leave him behind. If he takes Nan with us—why it’ll be a honeymoon! And half the gang is stuck on Nan Brown! And Nan Brown would flirt in her bridal veil! … Why Con, we’re up against a worse proposition than ever.”
“Good Heavens! Cap. You’re right,” I groaned. “I never thought of that. We’ve got to postpone the wedding.… How on earth can we? I’ve heard her tell Milly that. She’ll never consent to it. Say, this’ll drive me to drink.”
“All I got to say is this, Con. If the Rube takes his wife on that trip it’s goin’ to be an all-fired hummer. Don’t you forget that.”
“I’m not likely to. But, Spears, the point is this—will the Rube win his games?”
“Figurin’ from his work today, I’d gamble he’ll never lose another game. It ain’t that. I’m thinkin’ of what the gang will do to him and Nan on the cars and at the hotels. Oh! Lord, Con, it ain’t possible to stand for that honeymoon trip! Just think!”
“If the worst comes to the worst, Cap, I don’t care for anything but the games. If we get in the lead and stay there I’ll stand for anything.… Couldn’t the gang be coaxed or bought off to let the Rube and Nan alone?”
“Not on your life! There ain’t enough love or money on earth to stop them. It’ll be awful. Mind, I’m not responsible. Don’t you go holdin’ me responsible. In all my years of baseball I never went on a trip with a bride in the game. That’s new on me, and I never heard of it. I’d be bad enough if he wasn’t a rube and if she wasn’t a crazy girl-fan and a flirt to boot, and with half the boys in love with her, but as it is—”
Spears gave up and, gravely shaking his head, he left me. I spent a little while in sober reflection, and finally came to the conclusion that, in my desperate ambition to win the pennant, I would have taken half a dozen rube pitchers and their baseball-made brides on the trip, if by so doing I could increase the percentage of games won. Nevertheless, I wanted to postpone the Rube’s wedding if it was possible, and I went out to see Milly and asked her to help us. But for once in her life Milly turned traitor.
“Connie, you don’t want to postpone it. Why, how perfectly lovely! … Mrs. Stringer will go on that trip and Mrs. Bogart.… Connie, I’m going too!”
She
