The Zane Grey Megapack. Zane Grey

surprised Chase as much as it pleased him. Mac came along then, and at once said, “Howdy, boys. Cas, what are you dressed for?”

      “I want to work today.”

      “You do? What for?”

      “Well, I’m sore about yesterday, and I’m sore on—Kenton. If you’ll work me today, I’ll shut them out.”

      “You’re on, Cas, you’re on,” said Mac, rubbing his hands in delight. “Thet’s the way I want to hear you talk. We’ll break our losin’ streak today.

      Then Mac pulled Chase aside, out of earshot of the players pouring from the dressing-room, and said, “Lad, are you goin’ to take coachin’?”

      “I’ll try to do everything you tell me,” replied Chase.

      “Sure, thet’s good. Listen. I’m goin’ to teach you the game. Don’t ever lose your nerve again. Got thet?”

      “Yes.”

      “When you’re in the field with a runner on any base make up your mind before the ball’s hit what to do with it if it should happen to come to you. Got thet?”

      “Yes.”

      “Play a deep short unless you’re called in. Come in fast on slow hit balls; use a underhand snap throw to second or first base when you haven’t lots of time. Got thet?”

      “Yes.”

      “When the ball is hit or thrown to any base-man, run with it to back up the player. Got thet?”

      “Yes.”

      “All right. So far so good. Now as to hittin’. I like the way you stand up. You’re a natural-born hitter, so stand your own way. Don’t budge an inch for the speediest pitcher as ever threw a ball. Learn to dodge wild pitches. Wait, watch the ball. Let him pitch. Don’t be anxious. Always take a strike if you’re first up. Try to draw a base on balls. If there’s runners on the bases, look for a sign from me on the bench. If you see my scorecard stickin’ anywhere in sight, hit the first ball pitched. If you don’t see it—wait. Turn ’round, easy like, you know, an’ take a glance my way after every pitched ball, an’ when you get the sign—hit. We play the hit-an’-run game. If you’re on first or any base, look for the same sign from me. Then you’ll know what the batter is up to, an’ you’ll be ready. Hit an’ run. Got thet?”

      “Yes, I think so.”

      “Well, don’t get rattled even if you do make a mistake, an’ never, never mind errors. Go after everythin’ an’ dig it out of the dust if you can, but never mind errors! An’ Chase, wait,” called Mac, as the eager youngster made for the field. Then in a whisper, as if he were half afraid some of the other players would hear, he went on: “Don’t sass the umpire. Don’t ever speak to no umpire. If you get a rotten deal on strikes, slam your bat down, puff up, look mad, do anythin’ to make a bluff, but don’t sass the umpire. See!”

      “I never will,” declared Chase.

      * * * *

      The Findlay team came on the grounds showing the effects of the shakeup. They were an aggressive, stormy aggregation. Epithets the farthest remove from complimentary flew thick and fast as the passing balls. A spirit of rivalry pervaded every action. In batting practice, he who failed to send out a clean, hard hit received a volley of abuse. In fielding practice, he who fumbled a ball or threw too high or too low was scornfully told to go out on the lots and play with the kids. It was a merciless warfare, every player for himself, no quarter asked or given!

      Chase fielded everything that came his way and threw perfectly to the bases, but even so, the players, especially Meade, vented their peculiar spleen on him as well as on others who made misplays. All of which did not affect Chase in the least. He was on his mettle; his blood was up.

      The faith Mac had shown in him would be justified; that he vowed with all the intensity of feeling of which he was capable. The gong sounded for the game to start, and Castorious held forth in this wise:

      “Fellows, I’ve got everything today. Speed—well say! It’s come back. And my floater—why, you can count the stitches! You stiffs get in the game. If you’re not a lot of cigar-signs, there won’t be anything to it.”

      Big and awkward as Cas was in citizen dress, in baseball harness he made an admirable figure. The crowds in the stands had heard of his threat to the Kentons—for of all gossip, that in baseball circles flies the swiftest—and were out in force and loud in enthusiasm. The bleachers idolized him.

      As the players went for their positions, Cas whispered a parting word to Chase: “When you see my floater go up, get on your toes!”

      The umpire called play, threw out a white ball, and stood in expectant posture.

      As Cas faced the first Kenton player he said in low voice: “Look out for your coco!” Then he doubled up like a contortionist and undoubled to finish his motion with an easy, graceful swing. With wonderful swiftness the white ball travelled straight for the batter’s head. Down he fell flat, jumped up with red face and yelled at Cas. The big pitcher smiled derisively, received the ball from the catcher, and with the same violent effort delivered another ball, but with not half the speed of the first. The batter had instinctively stepped back. The umpire called the ball a strike.

      “’Fraid to stand up, hey?” inquired Cas, in the same low, tantalizing voice. When he got the ball again, he faced the batter, slowly lifted his long left leg, and seemed to turn with a prodigious step toward third base, at the same instant delivering the ball to the plate. The ball evidently wanted to do anything but reach its destination. Slowly it sailed, soared, floated, for it was one of Cas’s floaters.

      The batter half swung his bat, pulled it back, then poked at the ball helplessly. The result was an easy grounder to Chase, who threw the runner out.

      It was soon manifest to Chase that Cas worked differently from any pitcher he had ever seen. Instead of trying to strike out any batters, Cas made them hit the ball. He never threw the same kind of a ball twice. He seemed to have a hundred different ways for the ball to go. But always he vented his scorn on his opponents in the low sarcasm which may have been heard by the umpire, but was inaudible to the audience.

      * * * *

      At the commencement of the third inning, neither side had yet scored. It was Chase’s first time up, and as he bent over the bats trying to pick out a suitable one, Cas said to him:

      “Say, Kid, this guy’ll be easy for you. Wait him out now. Let his curve ball go.

      Chase felt perfectly cool when he went up. The crowd gave him a great hand, which surprised but did not disconcert him. He stood square up to the plate, his left foot a little in advance. He watched the Kenton pitcher with keen eyes; he watched the motion, and he watched the ball as it sped towards him rather high and close to his face. He watched another, a wide curve, go by. The next was a strike, the next a ball, and then following, another strike. Chase had not moved a muscle.

      The bleachers yelled: “Good eye, old man! Hit her out now!”

      With three and two Chase lay back and hit the next one squarely. It rang off the bat, a beautiful liner that struck the right-field fence a few feet from the top. Chase reached third base, overran it, to be flung back by Cas.

      The crowd roared. Winters, the captain, came running out and sent Cas to the bench. Then he began to coach.

      “Look out, Chase! Hold your base on an infield hit! Play it safe! Play it safe! Here’s where we make a run, here’s where we make a run! Here’s where we make a run! Hey, there, pitcher, you’re up in the air already! Oh! What we won’t do to you! Steady, Chase, now you’re off. Hit it out, old man! That’s the eye! Make it good! Mugg’s Landing! Irish stew! Lace curtains! Ras-pa-tas! Oh my—” Bawling at the top of his voice, spitting tobacco juice everywhere, with wild eyes and sweaty face, Winters hopped up and down the coaching line. When Benny put up a little fly back of second, Winters started Chase for the plate and ran with him.