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“Sure I can. I’m not a quitter. I’m ready to go in,” replied Ashwell.

“Raddy, how about you?” I said, turning to my star twirler.

“Connelly, I’ve seen as fast a team in as bad a rut and yet pull out,” returned Radbourne. “We’re about due for the brace. When it comes –look out! As for me, well, my arm isn’t right, but it’s acting these warm days in a way that tells me it will be soon. It’s been worked too hard. Can’t you get another pitcher? I’m not knocking Herne or Cairns. They’re good for their turn, but we need a new man to help out. And he must be a crackerjack if we’re to get back to the lead.”

“Where on earth can I find such a pitcher?” I shouted, almost distracted.

“Well, that’s up to you,” replied Radbourne.

Up to me it certainly was, and I cudgeled my brains for inspiration. After I had given up in hopelessness it came in the shape of a notice I read in one of the papers. It was a brief mention of an amateur Worcester ball team being shut out in a game with a Rickettsville nine. Rickettsville played Sunday ball, which gave me an opportunity to look them over.

It took some train riding and then a journey by coach to get to Rickettsville. I mingled with the crowd of talking rustics. There was only one little “bleachers” and this was loaded to the danger point with the feminine adherents of the teams. Most of the crowd centered alongside and back of the catcher’s box. I edged in and got a position just behind the stone that served as home plate.

Hunting up a player in this way was no new thing to me. I was too wise to make myself known before I had sized up the merits of my man. So, before the players came upon the field I amused myself watching the rustic fans and listening to them. Then a roar announced the appearance of the Rickettsville team and their opponents, who wore the name of Spatsburg on their Canton flannel shirts. The uniforms of these country amateurs would have put a Philadelphia Mummer’s parade to the blush, at least for bright colors. But after one amused glance I got down to the stern business of the day, and that was to discover a pitcher, and failing that, baseball talent of any kind.

Never shall I forget my first glimpse of the Rickettsville twirler. He was far over six feet tall and as lean as a fence rail. He had a great shock of light hair, a sunburned, sharp-featured face, wide, sloping shoulders, and arms enormously long. He was about as graceful and had about as much of a baseball walk as a crippled cow.

“He’s a rube!” I ejaculated, in disgust and disappointment.

But when I had seen him throw one ball to his catcher I grew as keen as a fox on a scent. What speed he had! I got round closer to him and watched him with sharp, eager eyes. He was a giant. To be sure, he was lean, rawboned as a horse, but powerful. What won me at once was his natural, easy swing. He got the ball away with scarcely any effort. I wondered what he could do when he brought the motion of his body into play.

“Bub, what might be the pitcher’s name?” I asked of a boy.

“Huh, mister, his name might be Dennis, but it ain’t. Huh!” replied this country youngster. Evidently my question had thrown some implication upon this particular player.

“I reckon you be a stranger in these parts,” said a pleasant old fellow. “His name’s Hurtle –Whitaker Hurtle. Whit fer short. He hain’t lost a gol-darned game this summer. No sir-ee! Never pitched any before, nuther.”