Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 1380
“Go back! Go back!” yelled Silk. “To the bench! I’m running this game. To the bench or I’ll flash my watch!”
The uproar in the stands and bleachers gave place to an uproar back of center-field. A portion of fence suddenly crashed forward, and through the gap poured a black stream of yelling boys and men.
That one bad decision had served to upset Mac’s equilibrium, and he was now raging. Enoch reasoned with him, Cas swore at him, some of the other players gave him sharp answers. Mac was plainly not himself. He showed it in that inning when he discarded the usual signs and told the team to go ahead on its own hook. Havil and Benny failed to get on base, and once more the Columbus team trotted in to bat.
Then the unexpected, the terrible, happened. By sharp hitting Columbus scored five runs. Cas labored in the box, but he could not stem the torrent of base hits. A fast double play by Chase and Benny and a good catch by Havil retired the side. Findlay 3, Columbus 8. A profound gloom settled over the field. The bleachers groaned and a murmur ran through the grandstand. Cas walked up to the bench and confronted Mac.
“I’m done,” said the great pitcher, simply. “My speed’s gone. I strained my arm the last game. You’d better put Poke in. He’s left-handed, and his speed will likely fool Columbus after my floaters. But say, I won’t go out till I get a chance to get after Silk. He needs a little jacking up. He wouldn’t give me the corners. I’ll make him sick. And, fellows, don’t quit.”
“Oh! we’re licked! We’re licked!” cried Mac. Any one to have seen his face would have known how hard he had worked and what the pennant meant to him. But his players evidently were not of the same mind. They were mostly silent with knitted brows and compressed lips. Mittie-Maru never wavered in his crisp, curt encouragement.
“Wot do we care fer five runs? A couple of bingoes an’ Ward’s in the air. We kin win with two out in the ninth, an’ here we got enough time left to win two games. Stick at ‘em! Don’t quit! Keep the yellow down! We’ll put this game on ice, all right, all right!”
Cas slowly walked up to the plate. The great crowd had not hope enough to cheer. When the umpire called the first ball, which was pretty well up to Cas’s chin, a strike, the crowd yelled. Cas turned square round and glared long at Silk. That worthy called another strike while Cas’s back was turned to the pitcher. He did right, of course, but the crowd did not know it or think so. And they yelled louder. Cas made no effort to hit at the next ball, which also was a strike.
“Out!” called Silk, adjusting his indicator.
Cas turned upon the umpire. No tragedian ever put forth a greater effect of outraged scorn and injustice.
“Wha-at?” he roared in a voice that penetrated to the remotest corners of the field.
“Three strikes and out!” repeated Silk.
“It was wide,” yelled Cas, grandly.
“Batter up,” called Silk.
“Say, haven’t I a right to speak a word?” demanded Cas. He deliberately walked up to Silk. It was Cas’s ruse, a trick as old as baseball, to make a fierce stand in order to influence the umpire on future close decisions. Poor umpires theirs was the thankless task, the difficult task, and they were only human.
“You’re way off today, Silk,” went on Cas. “You’re rotten. You wouldn’t give me the corners, but you give them ‘to Ward.”
“Back to the bench,” ordered Silk.
“Can’t I say a word?”
“Not to me.”
“You ‘re rotten!”
“Costs you twenty-five!”
“Ha! Now you ‘re going some! Queered my pitching, struck me out, and now you fine me. We’ve got a grand show with you calling the plays. Make it fifty, you robber!”
“Fifty it is!” replied Silk.
“Put me out of the game! You’re from Columbus! Go ahead! put me out of the game!”
“Out you go!” shouted Silk.
The crowd heard and rose with a roar of rage. Cas was their idol, and they were with him to a man. They stamped, yelled, and hissed their disapproval. It began to be a tight place for Silk, and he knew it. Right was on his side but under trying circumstances such as these, right did not always triumph.
“Put me off the grounds!” bawled Cas.
“Off you go!” yelled Silk, white in the face.
Then Cas showed his understanding of the crowd and the serious nature of the situation. He had turned his trick; now to avert real disaster. It would not have been wise for an umpire to call the game in the face of that angry grandstand and crazy bleachers. Not one umpire in a hundred would have had the nerve. But it was evident that Cas thought Silk might, for he was not afraid of anything. So Cas waved his long arms to the crowds, motioning for them to sit down.
“All right, Silk, out for mine.” Cas ran for the bench and grabbed his sweater. He shook his big fist in Poke’s face. “Now, Rube, at ‘em! Fast and over the pan! Mittie, you roast this bunch of deaders back to life.”
Mac was sitting with his head bowed in his hands. At Cas’s last words he raised a heartbroken face, and began to rail at the umpire, at Cas for having a glass arm, and at all his players. When Enoch got hit by a pitched ball and thereby sent to his base, with Thatcher up, Mac senselessly yelled to him and tried to start the hit-and-run game, which he had a few moments before discarded.
Enoch and Thatcher got confused, and finally when Thatcher hit into second both were easy outs in a double play. Then the players, sore and disgusted, told Mac a few things. The little manager looked sick.
“I’m runnin’ this team,” he howled. Chase suddenly confronted him with blazing eyes.
“No, you’re not running the team. You’re queering our chances. You’ve lost your head. Go soak it! Climb under the bench! Crawl through the fence! Anything — only get out!”
Mac fell back a beaten man. His eyes bulged, his lips moved, but no sound came forth. It was plain that he could not believe what he had heard. Chase, his find, his idol, his star, had risen against him.
“We’ll win this game yet. Go hide somewhere, so we can’t see your face. Mittie will run the team.”
“Mittie?” echoed Mac. Then a spark of Chase’s inspiration touched his smouldering baseball sense. Managers and players often do strange things; they follow blind leads and believe in queer omens. They are as superstitious as Indians. Without a word Mac yielded to his impulse and left the bench.
Mittie-Maru jumped up into the vacated seat. A glow lighted his pale face; his beautiful eyes had a piercing, steely flash. “Rube,” he said to Poke, “cut the inside corner. Keep ’em high an’ speed em up!”
The big knots stood out and rippled on the rail-splitter’s arms. He was not lost to his opportunity. And there were friends and admirers from his native town there to see, to glory in his glory. He struck out three successive Columbus hitters and the hopeless crowd took a little heart.
“What’ll I do, Mittie?” asked Chase, picking out his bat.
“They’re playing deep fer you. Dump one down third.”
Chase placed a slow teasing bunt down the third-base line and raced with all his speed for first. The play was not even close. It was his third hit. Havil looked at Mittie. The new manager said, “Bunt towards first.” The second ball pitched, Havil laid down as if by hand along the first-base line. Two on bases, no one out! The crowd awoke.
“Now fer mine, Mittie?” asked Benny. “We’ll try a double steal. It’s not good baseball, but we’ll try it. Swing wild on the ball an’ balk the catcher. If the play goes through jest tap the next ball down in the infield.”
Benny fell all over himself and all over the catcher. Chase dove into third and Havil reached second. The bleachers began to yell and stamp. As Ward got into motion with his swing Chase started home. It happened that the ball was a slow one, and Chase seemed to be beating it to the plate. Everybody gasped. Then Benny tapped the ball down in the in-field and broke for first. The play bewildered the pitcher, catcher, and third-baseman. Chase scored, Havil went to third, and Benny reached first.
Then the shrill cries, the whistles, the tin horns and clapping hands showed that the crowd had awakened fully to possibilities. Ford hit into deep short, who threw to second to catch Benny. The play was a close one, and Silk’s decision favored the runner. Havil scored. Two runs scored, two men on bases, and nobody out! Roar on roar!
Through it all the little ragged hunchback sat coldly impervious. His fire raged deep. The years of pain and hopeless longing, the boyish hopes never to be fulfilled, had their recompense in that hour of glory. For victory shone in his piercing eyes. To a man, the players now believed in him, as boy, as manager, as genius, as baseball luck.
Speer bunted better than he hit, a fact of which Mittie took advantage. “Lay one down to Wilson.” Wilson divined the play, came rushing in, picked up the bunt with one hand, and made a splendid throw. One out, runners on second and third! Hicks was a poor hitter in a pinch, another fact Mittie remembered.
“Work a base on balls. Work hard, now!”
The contortions old man Hicks went through would have disconcerted most pitchers. Ward threw three balls for Hicks, then two strikes, and the next one, straight over, seemed a little high. Everybody gasped again.
“Four balls!” called Silk. The crowd broke out afresh. One out, three runners on bases! Ziegler, batting for Castorious, hit a mean, twisting grounder between short and third. Both men went after it, knocked it down between them, but too late to catch the hitter. Another run scored, and the bases full! How the bleachers screamed!
“Bing one, Cap!” said Mittie, from the heights.
Enoch met the first ball squarely. It sailed fast and true into the second-baseman’s hands. The runners had no chance to move. “O-h-h! Hard luck!” moaned the crowd.
“Never mind thet. Stick at ‘em!” cried Mittie, jumping down from his perch. “A couple more hits an’ the game’s on ice. Dude, poke one to left. Don’t swing. Jest poke one over the in-field.”
Thatcher went to bat while Enoch ran to the coacher’s box and began to yell and screech, to tear up the grass with his spikes, to give every indication of insanity. Thatcher was remorselessly unanxious. He made Ward split the plate, and at last with three and two he placed a short fly back of third. Another runner scored.
Two out, bases full, one run to tie! Mittie-Maru suddenly lost all his quiet; he jumped at Chase and clasped him with small, claw-like hands; his eyes shone on Chase with a power that was hypnotic. And through that gleam of power beamed his friendship and hope and faith.
“Chase, somethin’ tol’ me it would hang fire fer you! Now! Now! My Star of the Diamond, it’s up to you. If ever in yer life you put the wood on do it now!” When Chase hurried up to the plate, the great crowd rose and shouted one long sharp cry, and sank into intense silence. The situation was too critical for anything but suspended breath.
Enoch’s coaching pealed over the field.
“Oh! My! Mugg’s Landin’! Irish stew! Lace curtains! Ras-pa-tas! We’re a- goin’ to do it! We can’t be stopped now. Oh My! They’re takin’ him out! They need another pitcher!”
The Columbus captain sent Ward to the bench and ordered out Henson, a left-hander. As he nervously rubbed the ball, Enoch broke loose again.
“Henson, look who’s at the bat!” he yelled, in terrible tones. “It’s Chase! He’s leadin’ the league! ‘Oh! Oh! My! Mugg’s Landin’ — !”
If ever Chase felt like flint, the time was then. He heard nothing. He saw nothing but the pitcher. It seemed he called upon all his faculties to help his eyesight. His whole inner being swelled with emotions that he subordinated to deadly assurance. Henson took his swing and sent up a fast ball. Chase watched it speed by. “Ball!” called Silk.
Henson swung again. Chase got the range of the ball, stepped forward, and, with his straight, clean, powerful sweep, met it fairly. “Bing!” It rang off like a bell.
The crowd burst into thunder. When Chase’s liners started off so, only the fence stopped them. This one shot for the corner behind center-field. For one instant everybody thought the ball was going over, but it hit a bill-board and bounced back.
What a long, booming, hoarse and thrilling roar rent the air! Two runners scored, and Thatcher was coming fast. Then in the wild moment all grasped that Chase, with his wonderful fleetness, was gaining on Thatcher. His fair hair streamed in the wind; his beautiful stride swallowed up the distance. The center-fielder got the ball and threw to Starke, who had run out to receive the throw. As Chase, now close to Thatcher, turned third, Starke lined the ball home. Every heart was bursting; every eye was staring.
The women were screaming, “Run, boy! Run, boy! Oh! run!-. run! run!” yet could not hear their own voices. The men were roaring, “On! On! On! A-h-h!”
The Findlay players leaped like warriors round a stake. Mittie-Maru ran toward the plate. Starke’s great throw sped on! Thatcher scored!
“Slide, Chase, slide!” In one blended roar the whole crowd voiced a fear, awful at the moment.
Chase slid in a flash of dust across the plate, a fraction of time ahead of the ball. It bounded low, glanced off the catcher’s glove, and struck Mittie, who whirled late, fairly on his hump. Poor Mittie went down as if he had been shot, spun round like a top, and lay still.
But few on the field saw this accident. The crowd had gone into a sort of baseball delirium tremens. Chase had made a home run inside the grounds, scoring four more runs! A thunderbolt out of the clear sky would have passed unnoticed.
Somebody carried Mittie into the dressing-room. The game went on. Poke blanked the Columbus players inning after inning. The heart was taken out of them. Findlay won. Before a weak, voiceless, shaken, disheveled, happy crowd the score went up.
Findlay 11, Columbus 8.
Inside the dressing-room the players grouped silently, with pale faces, around a space where a doctor worked over Mittie-Maru. A cold hand gripped their hearts. The doctor kept shaking his head and working, working; still the little misshapen form lay huddled in a small heap, the pale, distorted face showed no sign of life.
“Ah!” breathed the doctor, in sudden relief.
Mittie-Maru began to stir. He twisted, his narrow breast heaved, he moaned in pain, he broke into incoherent speech. Then, as consciousness fully returned, he lived over the last play he had seen.
“Steady — Chase, ole man — eagle-eye, now ole boy — lay back an’ bing the next one — Oh-h! Run, Chase! Up On yer toes! Now yer flyin’ — make it a triple! Come on! — Come on! Come on — on — on! it’s a homer! It’s a homey! it’s a homer!”
CHAPTER 16
LAST INNINGS
IT WAS WEDNESDAY following the great Saturday game. Chase hurried to his room where he had taken Mittie after the accident. He found the lad sitting up, a little wan, but bright and expectant.
“All over, Mittie!” shouted Chase. “The season’s over; the championship is ours; today was the last game, and the directors made it a benefit for the team. Bully of them, wasn’t it?”
“No more ‘n square. The team’s made barrels of money. Wot’d you do today.”
“Oh, made Mac sore, as usual.”
“How?”
“Well, we smothered Mansfield in an inning or so, and then Mac wanted us to lay down, strike out, make the game short. Now I’d have to try to bing one, even if my life were threatened. So I caught one on the nose, and, by George! Mittie, I hit it over the fence, and the ball broke a window in Mrs. Magee’s house. Mac’ll have to pay damages. Say, but wasn’t he sore!”
“Thet makes six homers fer you, Chase, on our own grounds. An’ you’ve had fourteen triples, an’ only three doubles. It’s strange ‘bout thet. Most fellars git more doubles. But you’re so dinged fast on yer feet thet you ‘d stretch most any double into a triple. Gimme them long liner triples fer mine!”
“Mittie, how’re you feeling? How about the banquet to-night?”
“I’ll go, you bet. I’d be out home long ago, if you hedn’t made me promise to stay here.”
“Mittie, I’ve had some ideas working in my mind the last few days, and now everything’s settled. You’re going to live with me.”
“Am I — ?” began Mittie, rebelliously.
“Yes.”
“I’ve got a tin-type of myself spongin’ on you here—”
“Not here, Mittie. I have bought that white cottage in the maple grove by the River. And I’ve had it all fixed up. It’s now ready for the furnishings. In a few days I’ll write to mother and Will to pack their duds and come on. Maybe we won’t surprise them! You’ll come out there to live with us. There’s a dandy little room next to mine and it’ll be yours. You’ll like Will, and you’ll love mother. She’s the sweetest—”
“I ain’t a-goin’ to do it,” cried Mittie, in a queer, strangled voice. The old, resolute strength had gone from it.
“Yes, you are. I’m big enough to carry you out there and tie you if necessary. Then I’ve got another idea. You know that little alcove next to King’s store? Well, there’s one there. I’ve had a carpenter measure it, and he’s going to build a wee little stand there. You and I are going into business, cigars, tobacco, candy, etc. I furnish capital, you manage affairs, we divide profits. Why, it’s a gold mine! There’s not a place of that kind in town. Everybody knows you, everybody wants to do something for you. Didn’t you ever think of selling things? There’s money in it.”
“Chase; it’d — be — grand,” said Mittie. “I’ll do it — I’ll — Chase, if you ain’t the best ever! But haven’t you — any idees fer yerself?”
Then Mittie-Maru, the defiant, the Spartan lad, the sufficient-unto- himself, the scorner of emotions, the dweller in lonesome places, covered his face and sobbed as might any of the boys whom he ridiculed. But his weakness did not last long.
“Chase, I’ll be dinged if thet soak I got in the game Saturday hasn’t give me softenin’ of the brain,” he said, and smiled through his tears.
Chase had seen the light of that smile in his mother’s eyes; and in the eyes of another of whom he must not think. For a moment a warm wave thrilled over him and he felt himself sway beneath its influence. He had done his best for his mother; he had done right by Marjory; he had waited and waited. So he made himself think of other things, of the new home, of peace for his mother, of ambition for Will, of companionship with Mittie, of his opening career.
