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The Rube’s Honeymoon
by
”I reckon we’ll be in the lead tonight then,” he replied, ”for I’ll win them both.”
I was about to reply when Dave, the ground- keeper, called me to the door, saying there was a man to see me. I went out, and there stood Morrisey, manager of the Chicago American League team. We knew each other well and exchanged greetings.
”Con, I dropped off to see you about this new pitcher of yours, the one they call the Rube. I want to see him work. I’ve heard he’s pretty fast. How about it?”
”Wait–till you see him pitch,” I replied. I could scarcely get that much out, for Morrisey’s presence meant a great deal and I did not want to betray my elation.
”Any strings on him?” queried the big league manager, sharply.
”Well, Morrisey, not exactly. I can give you the first call. You’ll have to bid high, though. Just wait till you see him work.”
”I’m glad to hear that. My scout was over here watching him pitch and says he’s a wonder.”
What luck it was that Morrisey should have come upon this day! I could hardly contain myself. Almost I began to spend the money I would get for selling the Rube to the big league manager. We took seats in the grand stand, as Morrisey did not want to be seen by any players, and I stayed there with him until the gong sounded. There was a big attendance. I looked all over the stand for Nan, but she was lost in the gay crowd. But when I went down to the bench I saw her up in my private box with Milly. It took no second glance to see that Nan Brown was a bride and glorying in the fact.
Then, in the absorption of the game, I became oblivious to Milly and Nan; the noisy crowd; the giant fire-crackers and the smoke; to the presence of Morrisey; to all except the Rube and my team and their opponents. Fortunately for my hopes, the game opened with characteristic Worcester dash. Little McCall doubled, Ashwell drew his base on four wide pitches, and Stringer drove the ball over the right-field fence–three runs!
Three runs were enough to win that game. Of all the exhibitions of pitching with which the Rube had favored us, this one was the finest. It was perhaps not so much his marvelous speed and unhittable curves that made the game one memorable in the annals of pitching; it was his perfect control in the placing of balls, in the cutting of corners; in his absolute implacable mastery of the situation. Buffalo was unable to find him at all. The game was swift short, decisive, with the score 5 to 0 in our favor. But the score did not tell all of the Rube’s work that morning. He shut out Buffalo without a hit, or a scratch, the first no-hit, no-run game of the year. He gave no base on balls; not a Buffalo player got to first base; only one fly went to the outfield.
For once I forgot Milly after a game, and I hurried to find Morrisey, and carried him off to have dinner with me.
”Your rube is a wonder, and that’s a fact,” he said to me several times. ”Where on earth did you get him? Connelly, he’s my meat. Do you understand? Can you let me have him right now?”
”No, Morrisey, I’ve got the pennant to win first. Then I’ll sell him.”
”How much? Do you hear? How much?” Morrisey hammered the table with his fist and his eyes gleamed.
Carried away as I was by his vehemence, I was yet able to calculate shrewdly, and I decided to name a very high price, from which I could come down and still make a splendid deal.