The Zane Grey Megapack. Zane Grey

ringing for practice put an end to the trouble. The players filed out.

      Mittie-Maru plucked at Chase’s trousers and whispered, “You ought to’ve handed ’em one!”

      * * * *

      Chase’s work that afternoon was characterized by the same snap and dash which had won him the applause of the audience in the Kenton games. And he capped it with two timely hits that had much to do with Findlay’s victory. But three times during the game, to his consternation, Mac took him to task about certain plays. Chase ran hard back of second and knocked down a base-hit, but which he could not recover in time to throw the runner out. It was a splendid play, for which the stands gave him thundering applause. Nevertheless, as he came in to the bench Mac severely reprimanded him for not getting his man. “You’ve got to move faster ’n thet,” said the little manager testily. “You’re slow as an ice-wagon.”

      And after the game Mac came into the dressing-room, where Chase received a good share of his displeasure.

      “Didn’t you say you knew the game? Well, you’re very much on the pazaz today. Now the next time you hit up a fly-ball, don’t look to see where it’s goin’, but run! Keep on runnin’. Fielders muff flies occasionally, an’ someday runnin’ one out will win a game. An’ when you make a base-hit, don’t keep on runnin’ out to the foul-flag just because it’s a single. Always turn for second base, an’ take advantage of any little chance to get there. If you make any more dumb plays like thet, they’ll cost you five each. Got thet?”

      Chase was mystified, and in no happy frame of mind when he left the grounds. Evidently what the crowd thought good playing was quite removed from the manager’s consideration of such.

      “Hol’ on, Chase,” called Mittie-Maru from behind.

      Chase turned to see the little mascot trying to catch up with him. It suddenly dawned on Chase that the popular idol of the players had taken a fancy to him.

      “Say, Cas tol’ me to tell you to come to his room at the hotel after supper.”

      “I wonder what he wants. Did he say?”

      “No. But it’s to put you wise, all right, all right. Cas is a good feller. Me an’ him has been friends. I heard him say to Mac not to roast you the way he did. An’ I wants to put you wise to somethin’ myself. Mac’s stuck on you. He can’t keep a smile off his face when you walk up to the plate, an’ when you cut loose to peg one acrost, he just stutters. Oh! He’s stuck on you, all right, all right! ‘Boys, will you look at thet wing?’ he keeps sayin’. An’ when you come in he says you’re rotten to yer face. Don’t mind Mac’s roasts.”

      All of which bewildered Chase only the more. Mittie-Maru chattered about baseball and the players, but he was extremely reticent in regard to himself. This latter fact, in conjunction with his shabby appearance, made Chase think that all was not so well with the lad as it might have been. He found himself returning Mittie-Maru’s regard.

      “Good-bye,” said Mittie-Maru at a cross street. “I go down here. See you tomorrer.”

      * * * *

      After supper, Chase went to the hotel, and seeing that Cas was not among the players in the lobby, he found his room number and with no little curiosity mounted the stairs.

      “Come in,” said Cas, in answer to his knock.

      The big pitcher sat in his shirt sleeves blowing rings of smoke out of the open window.

      “Hello, Chase; was waiting for you. Have a cigar. Don’t smoke? Throw yourself ’round comfortable—but say, lock the door first. I don’t want anyone butting in.”

      Chase found considerable relief and pleasure in the friendly manner of Findlay’s star pitcher.

      “I want to have a talk with you, Chase. First, you won’t mind a couple of questions.”

      “Not at all. Fire away.”

      “You’re in dead earnest about this baseball business?”

      “I should say I am.”

      “You are dead set on making it a success?”

      “I’ve got to.”

      Chase told Cas briefly what depended on his efforts.

      “I thought as much. Well, you’ll find more than one fellow trying the same. Baseball is full of fellows taking care of mothers and fathers and orphans, too. People who pay to see the game and keep us fellows going don’t know just how much good they are doing. Well, Chase, it takes more than speed, a good eye, and a good arm and head to make success.”

      “How so?”

      “It’s learning how to get along with managers and players. I’ve been in the game ten years. Most every player who has been through the mill will let the youngster find out for himself, let him sink or swim. Even managers will not tell you everything. It’s baseball ethics. I’m overstepping it because—well, because I want to. I don’t mind saying that you’re the most promising youngster I ever saw. Mac is crazy about you. All the same, you won’t last two weeks on the Findlay team, or a season in fast company, unless you change.”

      “Change? How?”

      “Now, Chase, don’t get sore. You’re a little too soft for this business. You’re too nice. Lots of boys are that way, but they don’t keep so and stay in baseball. Do you understand me?”

      “No, I don’t.”

      “Well, baseball is a funny game. It’s like nothing else. You’ve noticed how different the players are off the field. They’ll treat you white away from the grounds, but once in uniform, lookout! When a professional puts on his uniform, he puts on his armor. And it’s got to be bulletproof and spike-proof. The players on your own team will get after you, abuse you, roast you, blame you for everything, make you miserable, and finally put you off the team. This may seem to you a mean thing. But it’s a way of the game. When a new player is signed, everybody gets after him, and if he makes a hit with the crowd, and particularly with the newspapers, the players get after him all the harder. In a way, that’s a kind of professional jealousy. But the main point I want to make clear to you is the aggressive spirit of the players who hold their own. On the field, ball-playing is a fight all the time. It’s good-natured and it’s bitter-earnest. Every man for himself! Survival of the fittest! Dog eat dog!”

      “Then I must talk back, strike back, fight back?”

      “Exactly. Else you will never succeed in this business. Now, don’t take a bad view of it. Baseball is all right; so are the players. The best thing is that the game is square—absolutely square. Once on the inside, you’ll find it peculiar, and you’ve got to adapt yourself.”

      “Tell me what to do.”

      “You must show your teeth, my boy, that’s all. The team is after your scalp. Apart from this peculiarity of the players to be eternally after someone, I’m sure they like you. Winters said you’d make a star if you had any sand. Thatcher said if you lasted you’d make his batting average look sick. One of them, I think, has it in for you just because he’s that sort of a guy. But I mention no names. I’m not a knocker, and let me tell you this—never knock any lad in the business. The thing for you to do, the sooner the better, is to walk into the dressing-room and take a punch at somebody. And then declare yourself strong. Say you’ll punch the block off who opens his trap to you again.”

      “And after that?”

      “You’ll find it different. They’ll all respect you; you’ll get on better for it. Then you’ll be one of us. Play hard, learn the game, keep sober—and return word for word, name for name, blow for blow. After a little, this chewing the rag becomes no more to you than the putting on of your uniform. It’s part of the game. It keeps the life and ginger in you.”

      “All right. If I must—I must,” replied Chase, and as he spoke the set of his jaw boded ill to someone.

      “Good.