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He could not locate the plate without slowing up and when he did that a Rochester player walloped the ball. Pretty soon he pitched as if he did not care, and but for the fast fielding of the team behind him the Rochesters would have scored more than the eight runs it got. When the Rube came in to the bench I asked him if he was sick and at first he said he was and then that he was not. So I let him pitch the remaining innings, as the game was lost anyhow, and we walked off the field a badly beaten team.

That night we had to hurry from the hotel to catch a train for Worcester and we had dinner in the dining-car. Several of my players’ wives had come over from Worcester to meet us, and were in the dining-car when I entered. I observed a pretty girl sitting at one of the tables with my new pitcher, Henderson.

”Say, Mac,” I said to McCall, who was with me, ”is Henderson married?”

”Naw, but he looks like he wanted to be. He was in the grand stand today with that girl.”

”Who is she? Oh! a little peach!”

A second glance at Henderson’s companion brought this compliment from me involuntarily.

”Con, you’ll get it as bad as the rest of this mushy bunch of ball players. We’re all stuck on that kid. But since Henderson came she’s been a frost to all of us. An’ it’s put the Rube in the dumps.”

”Who’s the girl?”

”That’s Nan Brown. She lives in Worcester an’ is the craziest girl fan I ever seen. Flirt! Well, she’s got them all beat. Somebody introduced the Rube to her. He has been mooney ever since.”

That was enough to whet my curiosity, and I favored Miss Brown with more than one glance during dinner. When we returned to the parlor car I took advantage of the opportunity and remarked to Henderson that he might introduce his manager. He complied, but not with amiable grace.

So I chatted with Nan Brown, and studied her. She was a pretty, laughing, coquettish little minx and quite baseball mad. I had met many girl fans, but none so enthusiastic as Nan. But she was wholesome and sincere, and I liked her.

Before turning in I sat down beside the Rube. He was very quiet and his face did not encourage company. But that did not stop me.

”Hello, Whit; have a smoke before you go to bed?” I asked cheerfully.

He scarcely heard me and made no move to take the proffered cigar. All at once it struck me that the rustic simplicity which had characterized him had vanished.

”Whit, old fellow, what was wrong today?” I asked, quietly, with my hand on his arm.

”Mr. Connelly, I want my release, I want to go back to Rickettsville,” he replied hurriedly.

For the space of a few seconds I did some tall thinking. The situation suddenly became grave. I saw the pennant for the Worcesters fading, dimming.

”You want to go home?” I began slowly. ”Why, Whit, I can’t keep you. I wouldn’t try if you didn’t want to stay. But I’ll tell you confidentially, if you leave me at this stage I’m ruined.”

”How’s that?” he inquired, keenly looking at me.

”Well, I can’t win the pennant without you. If I do win it there’s a big bonus for me. I can buy the house I want and get married this fall if I capture the flag. You’ve met Milly. You can imagine what your pitching means to me this year. That’s all.”

He averted his face and looked out of the window. His big jaw quivered.

”If it’s that–why, I’ll stay, I reckon,” he said huskily.

That moment bound Whit Hurtle and Frank Connelly into a far closer relation than the one between player and manager. I sat silent for a while, listening to the drowsy talk of the other players and the rush and roar of the train as it sped on into the night.