saw some one thrust forward a frantic young woman. The officers stopped her, then suddenly helped her on the car, just as I started. I recognized Nan. She gripped the Rube with both hands and turned a white, fearful face upon the angry crowd.
The Rube stood in the grasp of his wife and the policemen, and he looked like a ruffled lion. He shook his big fist and bawled in far-reaching voice:
“I can lick you all!”
To my infinite relief, the trolley gathered momentum and safely passed out of danger. The last thing I made out was Nan pressing close to the Rube’s side. That moment saw their reconciliation and my joy that it was the end of the Rube’s Honeymoon.
THE RUBE’S WATERLOO, by Zane Grey
It was about the sixth inning that I suspected the Rube of weakening. For that matter he had not pitched anything resembling his usual brand of baseball. But the Rube had developed into such a wonder in the box that it took time for his let-down to dawn upon me. Also it took a tip from Raddy, who sat with me on the bench.
“Con, the Rube isn’t himself today,” said Radbourne. “His mind’s not on the game. He seems hurried and flustered, too. If he doesn’t explode presently, I’m a dub at callin’ the turn.”
Raddy was the best judge of a pitcher’s condition, physical or mental, in the Eastern League. It was a Saturday and we were on the road and finishing up a series with the Rochesters. Each team had won and lost a game, and, as I was climbing close to the leaders in the pennant race, I wanted the third and deciding game of that Rochester series. The usual big Saturday crowd was in attendance, noisy, demonstrative and exacting.
In this sixth inning the first man up for Rochester had flied to McCall. Then had come the two plays significant of Rube’s weakening. He had hit one batter and walked another. This was sufficient, considering the score was three to one in our favor, to bring the audience to its feet with a howling, stamping demand for runs.
“Spears is wise all right,” said Raddy.
I watched the foxy old captain walk over to the Rube and talk to him while he rested, a reassuring hand on the pitcher’s shoulder. The crowd yelled its disapproval and Umpire Bates called out sharply:
“Spears, get back to the bag!”
“Now, Mister Umpire, ain’t I hurrin’ all I can?” queried Spears as he leisurely ambled back to first.
The Rube tossed a long, damp welt of hair back from his big brow and nervously toed the rubber. I noted that he seemed to forget the runners on bases and delivered the ball without glancing at either bag. Of course this resulted in a double steal. The ball went wild—almost a wild pitch.
“Steady up, old man,” called Gregg between the yells of the bleachers. He held his mitt square over the plate for the Rube to pitch to. Again the long twirler took his swing, and again the ball went wild. Clancy had the Rube in the hole now and the situation began to grow serious. The Rube did not take half his usual deliberation, and of the next two pitches one of them was a ball and the other a strike by grace of the umpire’s generosity. Clancy rapped the next one, an absurdly slow pitch for the Rube to use, and both runners scored to the shrill tune of the happy bleachers.
I saw Spears shake his head and look toward the bench. It was plain what that meant.
“Raddy, I ought to take the Rube out,” I said, “but whom can I put in? You worked yesterday—Cairns’ arm is sore. It’s got to be nursed. And Henderson, that ladies’ man I just signed, is not in uniform.”
“I’ll go in,” replied Raddy, instantly.
“Not on your life.” I had as hard a time keeping Radbourne from overworking as I had in getting enough work out of some other players. “I guess I’ll let the Rube take his medicine. I hate to lose this game, but if we have to, we can stand it. I’m curious, anyway, to see what’s the matter with the Rube. Maybe he’ll settle down presently.”
I made no sign that I had noticed Spears’ appeal to the bench. And my aggressive players, no doubt seeing the situation as I saw it, sang out their various calls of cheer to the Rube and of defiance to their antagonists. Clancy stole off first base so far that the Rube, catching somebody’s warning too late, made a balk and the umpire sent the runner on to second. The Rube now plainly showed painful evidences of being rattled.
He could not locate the plate without slowing up and when he did that a Rochester player walloped the ball. Pretty soon he pitched as if he did not care, and but for the fast fielding of the team behind him the Rochesters would have scored more than the eight runs it got. When the Rube came in to the bench I asked him if he was sick and at first he said he was and then that he was not. So I let him pitch the remaining innings, as the game was lost anyhow, and we walked off the field a badly beaten team.
That night we had to hurry from the hotel to catch a train for Worcester and we had dinner in the dining-car. Several of my players’ wives had come over from Worcester to meet us, and were in the dining-car when I entered. I observed a pretty girl sitting at one of the tables with my new pitcher, Henderson.
“Say, Mac,” I said to McCall, who was with me, “is Henderson married?”
“Naw, but he looks like he wanted to be. He was in the grand stand today with that girl.”
“Who is she? Oh! a little peach!”
A second glance at Henderson’s companion brought this compliment from me involuntarily.
“Con, you’ll get it as bad as the rest of this mushy bunch of ball players. We’re all stuck on that kid. But since Henderson came she’s been a frost to all of us. And it’s put the Rube in the dumps.”
“Who’s the girl?”
“That’s Nan Brown. She lives in Worcester and is the craziest girl fan I ever seen. Flirt! Well, she’s got them all beat. Somebody introduced the Rube to her. He has been mooney ever since.”
That was enough to whet my curiosity, and I favored Miss Brown with more than one glance during dinner. When we returned to the parlor car I took advantage of the opportunity and remarked to Henderson that he might introduce his manager. He complied, but not with amiable grace.
So I chatted with Nan Brown, and studied her. She was a pretty, laughing, coquettish little minx and quite baseball mad. I had met many girl fans, but none so enthusiastic as Nan. But she was wholesome and sincere, and I liked her.
Before turning in I sat down beside the Rube. He was very quiet and his face did not encourage company. But that did not stop me.
“Hello, Whit; have a smoke before you go to bed?” I asked cheerfully.
He scarcely heard me and made no move to take the proffered cigar. All at once it struck me that the rustic simplicity which had characterized him had vanished.
“Whit, old fellow, what was wrong today?” I asked, quietly, with my hand on his arm.
“Mr. Connelly, I want my release, I want to go back to Rickettsville,” he replied hurriedly.
For the space of a few seconds I did some tall thinking. The situation suddenly became grave. I saw the pennant for the Worcesters fading, dimming.
“You want to go home?”
