The Zane Grey Megapack. Zane Grey

head,” “sap-head,” “sponge-head,” “dead-head.” Then Mac came in and delivered himself.

      “Put the ball in your pocket! Put the ball in your pocket, didn’t you? Countin’ your money, wasn’t you? Thinkin’ about the girls you was with last night, hey? Thet play costs you five. See! Got thet? You’re fined. After this, when you get the ball an’ some runner is hittin’ up the dust, throw it. Got thet? Throw the ball! Don’t keep it! Throw it!”

      When the players’ shout of delight died away, Chase turned on the little manager.

      “What d’you want for fifteen cents—canary birds?” he yelled, in a voice that rattled the windows. He flung his bat down with a crash, and as it skipped along the bench more than one player fell over himself to get out of its way. “Didn’t I say I had to learn the game? Didn’t you say you’d show me? I never had that play before. I didn’t know what to do with the ball. What d’ you want, I say? Didn’t I accept nine chances today?”

      Mac looked dumfounded. This young lamb of his had suddenly roused into a lion.

      “Sure you needn’t holler about it. I was only tellin’ you.”

      Then he strode out amid a silence that showed the surprise of his players. Winters recovered first, and turned his round red face and began to bob and shake with laughter.

      “What—did he—want for fifteen cents—canary birds? Haw! Haw! Haw!” In another moment the other players were roaring with him.

      CHAPTER VIII

      ALONG THE RIVER

      Castorious blanked the Wheeling club next day, and the following day Speer won his game. Findlay players had returned to their old form and were getting into a fast stride, so the Chronicle said. “Three straight from Columbus” was the slogan! Mac had signed a new pitcher, a left-hander named Poke, from a nearby country village, and was going to develop him. He was also trying out a popular player from the high-school team.

      Mac had ordered morning practice for the Columbus series of games. The players hated morning practice, “drill” they called it, and presented themselves with visible displeasure. And when they were all on the grounds, Mac appeared with a bat over his shoulder and with his two new players in tow.

      Poke was long and lanky, a sunburned rustic who did not know what to do with his hands and feet.

      “Battin’ practice,” called out Mac, sharply, ordering Poke to the pitcher’s box.

      Poke peeled off his sweater, showing bare arms that must have had a long and intimate acquaintance with axe and rail-pile.

      “Better warm up first,” said Mac. It developed that Poke did not need any warming. When he got ready he wound himself up, and going through some remarkable twist that made him resemble a cartwheel, delivered the ball towards the plate. Thatcher just dodged in time to save his head.

      “Speed! Whew! Wow!” exclaimed the players.

      “Speed!” echoed Thatcher. “Wait till you, get up there!”

      Poke drove Thatcher away from the plate and struck Meade out. “Put ’em over,” said Benny, as he came up.

      The first ball delivered hit Benny on the foot, and roaring, he threw down his bat. “You Rube! You wild Indian! I’ll git you fer thet!”

      Enoch Winters was the next batter. “Say, you lean, hungry-lookin’ rubberneck, if you hit me!” warned Enoch, in his soft voice.

      Poke struck Enoch out and retired Chase on a little pop-up fly. Then Cas sauntered up with his wagon-tongue bat and a black scowl on his face.

      “Steady up, steady up,” said he. “Put ’em over. Don’t use all your steam.”

      “Mister, I ain’t commenced yit to throw hard,” replied Poke.

      “Wha-at?” yelled Cas. “Are you kidding me? Slam the ball! Break your arm, then!”

      The rustic whirled a little farther ’round, unwound himself a little quicker, and swung his arm. Cas made an ineffectual attempt to hit what looked like a white cord stretched between him and the pitcher. The next ball started the same way, but took an upward jump and shot under Cas’s chin.

      Cas, who had a mortal dread of being hit, fell back from the plate and glared at Poke.

      “You’ve got his alley, Poke!” cried the amiable players. “Keep ’em under his chin!” Cas retired in disgust as Mac came trotting up from the field, where he had been coaching the high-school player.

      “What’s he got?” asked Mac, eagerly.

      “What’s he got!” yelled nine voices in unison. “Oh! Nothing!”

      “Step up an’ take a turn,” said Mac to his new player. “No, don’t stand so far back. Here, let me show you. Gimme the bat.”

      Mac took a position well up to the plate and began illustrating his idea of the act of hitting.

      “You see, I get well back on my right foot, ready to step forward with my left. I’ll step just before he delivers the ball. I’ll keep my bat over my shoulder an’ hit a little late, so as to hit to right field. Thet’s best for the hit-an’-run game. Now, watch. See. Step an’ set; step an’ set. The advantage of gettin’ set this way is the pitcher can’t fool you, can’t hit you. You needn’t never be afraid of bein’ hit after you learn how to get set. No pitcher could hit me.” Then raising his voice, Mac shouted to Poke, “Hey, poke up a couple. Speed em over, now!”

      Poke evidently recognized the cardinal necessity of making an impression, for he went through more wonderful gyrations than ever. Then he lunged forward with the swing he used in getting the ball away. Nobody saw the ball.

      BUMB! A sound not unlike a suddenly struck base-drum electrified the watching players. Then the ball appeared rolling down from Mac’s shrinking person. The little manager seemed to be slowly settling to the ground. He turned an agonized face and uttered a long moan.

      “My ribs—I—my ribs!—he hit me,” gasped Mac.

      Chase, Poke, and the new man were the only persons who did not roll over and over on the ground. That incident put an end to the morning “drill.”

      After dressing, Chase decided to try to find Mittie-Maru. The mascot had not been at the last two games, and this fact determined him to seek the lad. So he passed down the street where he had often left Mittie, and asked questions on the way. Everybody knew the hunchback, but nobody knew where he lived.

      Chase went on until he passed the line of houses and got into the outskirts of the town, where carpenter-shops, oil refineries, and brick-yards abounded. Several workmen he questioned said they saw the boy almost every day, and that he kept on down the street toward the open country. Chase had about decided to give up his quest, when he came to the meadows and saw across them the green of a line of willows. This he knew marked a brook or river, along which a stroll would be pleasant.

      When he reached the river, he saw Mittie-Maru sitting on a log patiently holding a long crooked fishing pole. “Any luck?” he shouted.

      Mittie-Maru turned with a start, and seeing Chase cried out, “You ole son-of-a-gun! Trailed me, didn’t you? What yer doin’ out here?”

      “I’m looking for you, Mittie.”

      “What fer?”

      Chase leaped down the bank and seated himself on the log beside the boy. “Well, you haven’t been out to the grounds lately. Why?”

      “Aw! Nuthin’,” replied Mittie savagely.

      “See here, you can’t string me,” said Chase, earnestly. “Things aren’t right with you, Mittie, and you can’t bluff it out on me. So I’ve been hunting you. We’re going to be pards, you know.”

      “Are we?”

      Chase then