sized him up carefully, and in the ninth inning, with the game hopelessly lost and one man on base, he sent Zimmer in as a pinch hitter. Charlie stepped into one of Dave Masterson’s fastest fast ones and lined it out for three sacks. Then he stole home.
He was oblivious to the delirious howls of the fans as he walked to the bench. He artfully dusted the trousers of his spick-and-span uniform, and ignored the wondering looks bestowed upon him by his new teammates.
“I’ll bet,” complimented Tommy Carey, the little second baseman, “that you’re the first man that ever stole home on Von Shaick.”
“Oh!” smiled Zimmer phlegmatically. “It’s no harder here than in the bushes.”
The next day Clary put Zimmer in center field. The new man did several things of an unusual nature. For instance, he poled out two doubles and a single in three trips to the plate; he stole second and third after his single; he tallied twice; and he nabbed a man at the plate on the throw-in from a line drive to center. The fans went wild over him.
Within a week Clary realized that he had unearthed one of the rarest gems in baseball: a born player. Zimmer was calm through it all; his head did not seem turned by the adulation he received through the newspapers, he never made mistakes of judgment and batting and base-running ability did not decrease. And he took chances which would have made the immortal Ty turn pale green with envy. The hook slide and fall away were easy for him, and he had invented one or two little deceptive dips which were all his own, and which his less confident teammates dared not try to imitate.
It was during the series with the Blizzards that the first clash came. Even though he realized that he owned the best player in either of the big leagues, Manager Clary had ideas of his own about running a ball team, and when Zimmer deliberately ignored his signal for a drive and bunted—and then beat the bunt to first—he called him down hard in the clubhouse after the game.
“Listen here, Zimmer,” he rasped, “that’s the fourth time in three days that you’ve crossed my signals, and I’ve stood all I intend to stand of that sort of thing.”
“Didn’t they expect me to line it out? Weren’t they all playing ’way back?”
“Yes.”
“And didn’t I fool ’em with that bunt?”
“That’s got nothing to do with it. You’re a busher with a busher’s ideas. I’m running this bunch, and I intend to run it. See?”
“But you act the bone-head at times.” Zimmer’s statement was made calmly, as though he were talking to a naughty child. The other players gasped, and Clary himself grew livid.
“You overgrown hunk of cheese you,” he snapped, “I’ve a good mind to ram that down your ugly throat!”
Zimmer grinned and rose to his feet.
“If you’re able to do that,” he said quietly, “I’ll obey any damn’ fool signal you give me after this.”
The mutual defi couldn’t have been more final. Immediately Clary started stripping to the waist. The men stood forth half naked, Clary slightly taller and heavier; both confident, and both smiling slightly.
Clary was known as one of the best boxers in baseball; for years it had been his way to rule with the iron fist when any of his players became too unruly. In this manner he had subdued a tendency toward heavy drinking and too much poker on his championship team of three years previous. O’Hare grinned pityingly at Zimmer.
“Our wisenheimer is in for it now, good and proper,” he volunteered. Charlie turned laughingly.
“Maybe,” he said significantly, “I can scrap as well as I can play ball.”
“For Clary’s sake,” breathed Vardon, “I hope not.”
Tommy Carey assumed the rôle of referee. “By rounds?” he inquired.
They nodded.
“Three minutes—one minute’s rest?”
“Yes.”
“Very well—go!”
The smile vanished from the outfielder’s not unattractive face. He sparred with his guard extended, dancing lightly in and out, attentive, catlike. Clary hunched himself into a ball, waiting an opening.
It came when Zimmer jabbed tentatively with his left. Clary uncorked and catapulted close, slamming with both hands for the body and jaw. Zimmer didn’t move his body—but his right streaked upward with mule-kick power and landed flush on the side of the manager’s jaw. Clary struck the ground with a thud, and rolled over.
At the count of ten he was up.
“That wasn’t quite a knock-out,” said Zimmer critically. “Your knee was off the ground when he said ‘ten.’ Have you had enough?”
“I have—not.”
“Well, I won’t hit you in the condition you’re in now. Take a minute’s rest. I want to convince you that you’re easy for me.”
Clary rushed weakly. Zimmer clinched.
“I told you I wasn’t goin’ to beat you up when you were groggy,” he repeated, “and I ain’t. You’ll get what’s coming to you next round.”
For the balance of the three minutes Zimmer held Clary helpless. At the end of the minute’s rest, they met in the center of the clubhouse floor, with Clary somewhat recovered, and the victim of a berserk rage.
As they got within range of each other Clary stepped in and hooked a vicious fight for the jaw. Zimmer moved his body forward with the glide of a panther, and his left crashed to the stomach. Clary sank to the floor, where he writhed in agony for many minutes after he had been counted out.
“I hate to hit a man in the stomach,” condoled Charlie, “but a blind man couldn’t pass up that opening.”
After that incident personal comment regarding Zimmer was seldom heard. His exhibition of pugilistic prowess was effective. And Zimmer went on crossing signals and doing what he deemed best—and worst—of all, getting away with it.
Clary chafed. After a terrific two weeks, during which he felt himself the butt of his teammates, the men had another set-to in the clubhouse. Zimmer landed three times: two were knock-downs and the last was a knock- out. Clary was finally convinced that he could never whip Zimmer.
He tried benching him. Immediately there arose a howl from the papers and from the fans. What right had he to bench the heaviest hitter on the team? For three days Clary stood the gaff of public censure. Then he made the mistake one day of sending in Zimmer as a pinch hitter with the score tied, a man on second, and two out. Zimmer promptly lined one to deep right and the game was won. After that there was nothing for Clary to do but put Zimmer back in the game. The race was too close to spare him. The first time he played after his reinstatement he crossed the manager’s signals twice. And the worst part of it was that Zimmer seemed infallible. He never miscalculated. All of his featherbrained schemes turned out for the best. But it is never pleasant for a manager to have an unruly member on his team, and Clary chafed and was miserable.
He could not bench
