The Zane Grey Megapack. Zane Grey

a lad as fast as you ought to make all these catchers crawl under the bench. Now, listen to me. To get away quick is the secret. It’s all in the start. Of course, depend some on coachin’, but use your head. Don’t take too big a lead off the base. Fool the pitcher an’ catcher. Make ’em think you ain’t goin’ down. Watch the pitcher an’ learn his motion. Then get your start just as he begins to move. Before he moves is the time, but it takes practice. Run like a deer, watch the baseman, an’ hit the dirt feet first an’ twist out of his way. But pick out the right time. Of course when you get the hit-an’-run sign you’ve got to go. Don’t take chances in a close game. I say, don’t as a rule. Sometimes a darin’ steal wins a game. But there’s time to take chances an’ times not to. Got thet?”

      “Mac, where’s the bat-sack?” asked one of the players, when they arrived at Wheeling.

      “Sure, I forgot it,” said Mac, blankly. “I’ll have to buy some bats.”

      “You ought to be in a bush-league,” said one.

      “How do you expect us to hit without our bats?” asked another.

      “Did you forget my sticks?” cried Thatcher, champion-hitter, utterly lost without his favorite bats.

      Player after player loomed up over the little manager and threatened him in a way that would have convinced outsiders he had actually stolen the bats. Mac threw up his hands and in wordless disgust climbed into the waiting bus.

      To Chase, riding to the hotel, having dinner, dressing for the game, and then a long bus-ride out to the island grounds were details of further enjoyment. Findlay was a great drawing-card, and the stands were crowded. Chase was surprised to hear players spoken of familiarly, as if they were members of the home team. “That’s Castorious, the great pitcher.” “There’s old man Hicks, but say! He can catch some.” “See, that’s good old Enoch, the coacher.” “Where’s the new shortstop? The papers say he’s a wonder.” Chase moved out of hearing then and began picking over the new bats Mac had bought. Enoch came up and looked them over, too.

      “Bum lot of sticks,” he commented. “Say, Chase, Wheeling is a swell town to play in. The fans here like a good game an’ don’t care who wins. The kids are bad, though. Look out for them. This’s a good ground to hit on. You ought to lambaste a couple today. If Finnegan pitches, you wait for his slow ball and hit it over the fence.”

      Findlay won the game 6 to 1. Castorious was invincible. Dude Thatcher hit one over the right-field fence, and Chase hit one over the left-field fence. The crowd cheered lustily after each of these long drives.

      When the players piled into the bus to ride back to the hotel, Chase saw them bundling up their heads in sweaters, and soon divined the cause. His enlightenment came in the shape of a swiftly flying pebble that struck his head and made him see stars. As the bus rolled out of the grounds Chase saw a long lane lined with small boys.

      “Whip up your horses, you yahoo!” yelled Cas.

      “We’re off!” shouted another. “Duck yer nuts! Low bridge! Down with yer noodles!”

      Then a shower of stones, mud, apples, and tin cans flew from all sides at the bus. The players fell on the floor and piled upon one another, in every way trying to hide their faces. Chase fell with them and squeezed down as well as he could to avoid the missiles. It was a veritable running of the gantlet and lasted till the plunging bus had passed the lines and distanced the pursuers. Then came the strenuous efforts imperative to untangle a dozen or more youths of supple bodies. Only the fortunate players who had been quick enough to throw themselves to the floor first had escaped bruises or splotched uniforms, and they were hardly better off because of the mashing they had received.

      “Gee! I got a lump on my head, all right,” said Chase.

      “Thet was sweet as ridin’ to slow music. Wait, wait till we strike Kenton.”

      * * * *

      That evening after supper, while Chase was sitting in front of the hotel, Cas whispered to him to look out for tricks. He spent the evening in and around the lobby and kept his eyes open. Nothing happened, and at ten o’clock he went upstairs to find his room. He unlocked the door and opened it, to be deluged by a flood of water from overhead. Next a bucket fell on him and almost knocked him down. Shivering and thoroughly drenched, he fumbled on the bureau, finally found matches and struck a light. A bucket, two sticks, and a string lay on the floor in a great pool of water.

      “One of the t-tricks,” muttered Chase, with chattering teeth.

      He locked his door, closed and fastened his transom, plugged the keyhole and then felt reasonably safe. For a long time there were mysterious goings on in that part of the hotel. Soft steps and subdued voices, snickerings, with occasionally a loud, angry noise, attested to the activity of those who were playing the tricks.

      Chase finally got to sleep and had a good night’s rest. In the morning as he came out from breakfast, he found most of his team assembled as usual in the lobby.

      “Hev a good night, Chase?” asked several.

      “Fine. Little wet, though, early in the evening,” replied Chase, joining in the general laugh.

      “Watch for Brill. Don’t miss it,” said somebody.

      Brill was one of the pitchers, a good player, quiet in his demeanor, and rather an unknown quantity. He was a slow, easy-going Virginian. Presently he appeared on the stairs, came down, and with pale face and deliberate steps he approached the players.

      “Mawnin’, boys,” he said, in his Southern drawl. “I shore hev somethin’ to say to yo’ all. I don’t mind about the ice-water, an’ I don’t mind about the piller somebody hit me with, but I tell yo’ all right hyar, the fellar who put thet there leap-frog in mah bed is goin’ to git licked!”

      But Brill never found out who put the leap-frog in his bed. Wild horses could not have dragged the secret from his comrades.

      * * * *

      That evening, when the players were sitting in front of the hotel with their chairs tipped back, a slight, shabbily dressed woman with a dark shawl over her head approached and timidly asked for Mr. Castorious.

      “Here I am, ma’am. What can I do for you?” replied the pitcher, rising.

      “My husband sent me, sir. Jim Ayers he is, sir, an’ used to work in Findlay, where he knew you,” she said in a low voice. “He wants to know if you’ll help him—lend him a little money. We’re bad in need, sir—an’ I’ve a baby. Jim, he’s been out of work an’ only got a job last week, an’ the second day he was run over by a team—”

      “I read it in the paper,” interrupted Cas. “Yes, I remember Jim.”

      “He said you’d remember him,” she went on eagerly. “Jim, he had friends in Ohio. He oughtn’t never to have left there. He hasn’t done well here—but Jim’s the best fellow—he’s been good to me—an’ never drinks except when he’s down on his luck.”

      Cas gently turned her toward the light. She was only a girl, pale, worn, sad.

      “Sure, I remember Jim,” said Cas, hurriedly. “Fine fellow, Jim was, when he left off drinking. I’ll lend Jim some money, Mrs. Ayers, if you’ll promise to spend it on yourself and your baby.”

      The young woman hesitated, then with a wan, grateful smile murmured, “Thank you, sir, I will.”

      “Now, you just go around the corner and wait.” Castorious led her a few steps toward the corner.

      When she had gotten out of sight he took a roll of bills from his pocket, and detaching one, put it in his hat. “Dig up,” he said, thrusting the hat under Mac’s snub nose.

      “Cas, you’re easy. You remember Ayers, don’t you?” replied Mac.

      “I do. He was strictly N.G., a booze fighter, an all-around scamp. I wouldn’t give him the price of a drink. But