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The Redheaded Outfield
by
Three runs so quick it was hard to tell how they had come. Not in the major league could there have been faster work. And the ball had been fielded perfectly and thrown perfectly.
”There you are,” said Delaney, hoarsely. ”Can you beat it? If you’ve been wonderin’ how the cripped Stars won so many games just put what you’ve seen in your pipe and smoke it. Red Gilbat gets on–Reddy Clammer gets on–and then Reddie Ray drives them home or chases them home.”
The game went on, and though it did not exactly drag it slowed down considerably. Morrissey and Healy were retired on infield plays. And the sides changed. For the Grays, O’Brien made a scratch hit, went to second on Strickland’s sacrifice, stole third and scored on Mallory’s infield out. Wehying missed three strikes. In the Stars’ turn the three end players on the batting list were easily disposed of. In the third inning the clever Blake, aided by a base on balls and a hit following, tied the score, and once more struck fire and brimstone from the impatient bleachers. Providence was a town that had to have its team win.
”Git at ’em, Reds!” said Delaney gruffly.
”Batter up!” called Umpire Fuller, sharply.
”Where’s Red? Where’s the bug? Where’s the nut? Delaney, did you lock the gates? Look under the bench!” These and other remarks, not exactly elegant, attested to the mental processes of some of the Stars. Red Gilbat did not appear to be forthcoming. There was an anxious delay Capt. Healy searched for the missing player. Delaney did not say any more.
Suddenly a door under the grand stand opened and Red Gilbat appeared. He hurried for his bat and then up to the plate. And he never offered to hit one of the balls Wehying shot over. When Fuller had called the third strike Red hurried back to the door and disappeared.
”Somethin’ doin’,” whispered Delaney.
Lord Chesterfield Clammer paraded to the batter’s box and, after gradually surveying the field, as if picking out the exact place he meant to drive the ball, he stepped to the plate. Then a roar from the bleachers surprised him.
”Well, I’ll be dog-goned!” exclaimed Delaney. ”Red stole that sure as shootin’.”
Red Gilbat was pushing a brand-new baby carriage toward the batter’s box. There was a tittering in the grand stand; another roar from the bleachers. Clammer’s face turned as red as his hair. Gilbat shoved the baby carriage upon the plate, spread wide his long arms, made a short presentation speech and an elaborate bow, then backed away.
All eyes were centered on Clammer. If he had taken it right the incident might have passed without undue hilarity. But Clammer became absolutely wild with rage. It was well known that he was unmarried. Equally well was it seen that Gilbat had executed one of his famous tricks. Ball players were inclined to be dignified about the presentation of gifts upon the field, and Clammer, the dude, the swell, the lady’s man, the favorite of the baseball gods–in his own estimation– so far lost control of himself that he threw his bat at his retreating tormentor. Red jumped high and the bat skipped along the ground toward the bench. The players sidestepped and leaped and, of course, the bat cracked one of Delaney’s big shins. His eyes popped with pain, but he could not stop laughing. One by one the players lay down and rolled over and yelled. The superior Clammer was not overliked by his co- players.
From the grand stand floated the laughter of ladies and gentlemen. And from the bleachers– that throne of the biting, ironic, scornful fans– pealed up a howl of delight. It lasted for a full minute. Then, as quiet ensued, some boy blew a blast of one of those infernal little instruments of pipe and rubber balloon, and over the field wailed out a shrill, high-keyed cry, an excellent imitation of a baby. Whereupon the whole audience roared, and in discomfiture Reddy Clammer went in search of his bat.