The Manager Of Madden's Hill
Willie Howarth loved baseball. He loved it
all the more because he was a cripple. The game
was more beautiful and wonderful to him because
he would never be able to play it. For Willie
had been born with one leg shorter than the other;
he could not run and at 11 years of age it was
all he could do to walk with a crutch.
Nevertheless Willie knew more about baseball
than any other boy on Madden's Hill. An uncle
of his had once been a ballplayer and he had
taught Willie the fine points of the game. And
this uncle's ballplayer friends, who occasionally
visited him, had imparted to Willie the vernacular
of the game. So that Willie's knowledge of players
and play, and particularly of the strange talk,
the wild and whirling words on the lips of the real
baseball men, made him the envy of every boy on
Madden's Hill, and a mine of information. Willie
never missed attending the games played on the
lots, and he could tell why they were won or lost.
Willie suffered considerable pain, mostly at
night, and this had given him a habit of lying
awake in the dark hours, grieving over that
crooked leg that forever shut him out of the heritage
of youth. He had kept his secret well; he was
accounted shy because he was quiet and had never
been able to mingle with the boys in their activity.
No one except his mother dreamed of the fire and
hunger and pain within his breast. His school-
mates called him ``Daddy.'' It was a name given
for his bent shoulders, his labored gait and his
thoughtful face, too old for his years. And no
one, not even his mother, guessed how that name
hurt Willie.
It was a source of growing unhappiness with
Willie that the Madden's Hill boys were always
beaten by the other teams of the town. He really
came to lose his sadness over his own misfortune
in pondering on the wretched play of the Madden's
Hill baseball club. He had all a boy's
pride in the locality where he lived. And when
the Bogg's Farm team administered a crushing
defeat to Madden's Hill, Willie grew desperate.
Monday he met Lane Griffith, the captain of
the Madden's Hill nine.
``Hello, Daddy,'' said Lane. He was a big,
aggressive boy, and in a way had a fondness for
Willie.
``Lane, you got an orful trimmin' up on the
Boggs. What 'd you wanter let them country jakes
beat you for?''
``Aw, Daddy, they was lucky. Umpire had hay-
seed in his eyes! Robbed us! He couldn't see
straight. We'll trim them down here Saturday.''
``No, you won't--not without team work. Lane,
you've got to have a manager.''
``Durn it! Where 're we goin' to get one?''
Lane blurted out.
``You can sign me. I can't play, but I know the
game. Let me coach the boys.''
The idea seemed to strike Capt. Griffith
favorably. He prevailed upon all the boys living on
Madden's Hill to come out for practice after
school. Then he presented them to the managing
coach. The boys were inclined to poke fun at
Daddy Howarth and ridicule him; but the idea
was a novel one and they were in such a state of
subjection from many beatings that they welcomed
any change. Willie sat on a bench improvised
from a soap box and put them through a
drill of batting and fielding. The next day in his
coaching he included bunting and sliding. He
played his men in different positions and for three
more days he drove them unmercifully.
When Saturday came, the day for the game
with Bogg's Farm, a wild protest went up from
the boys. Willie experienced his first bitterness
as a manager. Out of forty aspirants for the
Madden's Hill team he could choose but nine to
play the game. And as a conscientious manager
he could use no favorites. Willie picked the best
players and assigned them to positions that, in
his judgment, were the best suited to them. Bob
Irvine wanted to play first base and he was down
for right field. Sam Wickhart thought he was the
fastest fielder, and Willie had him slated to catch.
Tom Lindsay's feelings were hurt because he was
not to play in the infield. Eddie Curtis suffered
a fall in pride when he discovered he was not down
to play second base. Jake Thomas, Tay-Tay
Mohler and Brick Grace all wanted to pitch. The
manager had chosen Frank Price for that
important position, and Frank's one ambition was
to be a shortstop.
So there was a deadlock. For a while there
seemed no possibility of a game. Willie sat on the
bench, the center of a crowd of discontented,
quarreling boys. Some were jealous, some were
outraged, some tried to pacify and persuade the
others. All were noisy. Lane Griffith stood by
his manager and stoutly declared the players
should play the positions to which they had been
assigned or not at all. And he was entering into
a hot argument with Tom Lindsay when the
Bogg's Farm team arrogantly put in an appearance.
The way that team from the country walked out
upon the field made a great difference. The spirit
of Madden's Hill roused to battle. The game began
swiftly and went on wildly. It ended almost
before the Hill boys realized it had commenced.
They did not know how they had won but they
gave Daddy Howarth credit for it. They had a
bonfire that night to celebrate the victory and
they talked baseball until their parents became
alarmed and hunted them up.
Madden's Hill practiced all that next week and
on Saturday beat the Seventh Ward team. In
four more weeks they had added half a dozen more
victories to their record. Their reputation went
abroad. They got uniforms, and baseball shoes
with spikes, and bats and balls and gloves. They
got a mask, but Sam Wickhart refused to catch
with it.
``Sam, one of these days you'll be stoppin' a
high inshoot with your eye,'' sagely remarked
Daddy Howarth. ``An' then where'll I get a
catcher for the Natchez game?''
Natchez was the one name on the lips of every
Madden's Hill boy. For Natchez had the great
team of the town and, roused by the growing
repute of the Hill club, had condescended to arrange
a game. When that game was scheduled for July
Fourth Daddy Howarth set to driving his men.
Early and late he had them out. This manager, in
keeping with all other famous managers, believed
that batting was the thing which won games. He
developed a hard-hitting team. He kept everlastingly
at them to hit and run, hit and run.
On the Saturday before the Fourth, Madden's
Hill had a game to play that did not worry
Daddy and he left his team in charge of the captain.
``Fellers, I'm goin' down to the Round House
to see Natchez play. I'll size up their game,''
said Daddy.
When he returned he was glad to find that his
team had won its ninth straight victory, but he
was not communicative in regard to the playing of
the Natchez club. He appeared more than usually
thoughtful.
The Fourth fell on Tuesday. Daddy had the
boys out Monday and he let them take only a
short, sharp practice. Then he sent them home.
In his own mind, Daddy did not have much hope
of beating Natchez. He had been greatly
impressed by their playing, and one inning toward
the close of the Round House game they had
astonished him with the way they suddenly seemed
to break loose and deluge their opponents in a
flood of hits and runs. He could not understand
this streak of theirs--for they did the same thing
every time they played--and he was too good a
baseball student to call it luck.
He had never wanted anything in his life, not
even to have two good legs, as much as he wanted
to beat Natchez. For the Madden's Hill boys had
come to believe him infallible. He was their idol.
They imagined they had only to hit and run, to
fight and never give up, and Daddy would make
them win. There was not a boy on the team who
believed that Natchez had a chance. They had
grown proud and tenacious of their dearly won
reputation. First of all, Daddy thought of his
team and their loyalty to him; then he thought of
the glory lately come to Madden's Hill, and lastly
of what it meant to him to have risen from a lonely
watcher of the game--a cripple who could not even
carry a bat--to manager of the famous Hill team.
It might go hard with the boys to lose this game,
but it would break his heart.
From time out of mind there had always been
rivalry between Madden's Hill and Natchez. And
there is no rivalry so bitter as that between boys.
So Daddy, as he lay awake at night planning the
system of play he wanted to use, left out of all
account any possibility of a peaceful game. It
was comforting to think that if it came to a fight
Sam and Lane could hold their own with Bo
Stranathan and Slugger Blandy.
In the managing of his players Daddy observed
strict discipline. It was no unusual thing for him
to fine them. On practice days and off the field
they implicitly obeyed him. During actual play,
however, they had evinced a tendency to jump
over the traces. It had been his order for them
not to report at the field Tuesday until 2 o'clock.
He found it extremely difficult to curb his own
inclination to start before the set time. And only
the stern duty of a man to be an example to his
players kept Daddy at home.
He lived near the ball grounds, yet on this day,
as he hobbled along on his crutch, he thought the
distance interminably long, and for the first time
in weeks the old sickening resentment at his useless
leg knocked at his heart. Manfully Daddy
refused admittance to that old gloomy visitor.
He found comfort and forgetfulness in the thought
that no strong and swift-legged boy of his
acquaintance could do what he could do.
Upon arriving at the field Daddy was amazed
to see such a large crowd. It appeared that all
the boys and girls in the whole town were in
attendance, and, besides, there was a sprinkling of
grown-up people interspersed here and there
around the diamond. Applause greeted Daddy's
appearance and members of his team escorted him
to the soap-box bench.
Daddy cast a sharp eye over the Natchez players
practicing on the field. Bo Stranathan had
out his strongest team. They were not a prepossessing
nine. They wore soiled uniforms that did
not match in cut or color. But they pranced and
swaggered and strutted! They were boastful and
boisterous. It was a trial for any Madden's Hill
boy just to watch them.
``Wot a swelled bunch!'' exclaimed Tom Lindsay.
``Fellers, if Slugger Blandy tries to pull any
stunt on me today he'll get a swelleder nut,''
growled Lane Griffith.
``T-t-t-t-t-te-te-tell him t-t-t-to keep out of
m-m-m-my way an' not b-b-b-b-bl-block me,''
stuttered Tay-Tay Mohler.
``We're a-goin' to skin 'em,'' said Eddie Curtis.
``Cheese it, you kids, till we git in the game,''
ordered Daddy. ``Now, Madden's Hill, hang
round an' listen. I had to sign articles with
Natchez--had to let them have their umpire. So
we're up against it. But we'll hit this pitcher
Muckle Harris. He ain't got any steam. An' he
ain't got much nerve. Now every feller who goes
up to bat wants to talk to Muck. Call him a big
swelled stiff. Tell him he can't break a pane of
glass--tell him he can't put one over the pan--
tell him it he does you'll slam it down in the sand
bank. Bluff the whole team. Keep scrappy all
the time. See! That's my game today. This
Natchez bunch needs to be gone after. Holler at
the umpire. Act like you want to fight.''
Then Daddy sent his men out for practice.
``Boss, enny ground rules?'' inquired Bo
Stranathan. He was a big, bushy-haired boy with
a grin and protruding teeth. ``How many bases
on wild throws over first base an' hits over the
sand bank?''
``All you can get,'' replied Daddy, with a
magnanimous wave of hand.
``Huh! Lemmee see your ball?''
Daddy produced the ball that he had Lane had
made for the game.
``Huh! Watcher think? We ain 't goin' to play
with no mush ball like thet,'' protested Bo. ``We
play with a hard ball. Looka here! We'll trow
up the ball.''
Daddy remembered what he had heard about
the singular generosity of the Natchez team to
supply the balls for the games they played.
``We don't hev to pay nothin' fer them balls.
A man down at the Round House makes them for
us. They ain't no balls as good,'' explained Bo,
with pride.
However, as Bo did not appear eager to pass
over the balls for examination Daddy simply
reached out and took them. They were small,
perfectly round and as hard as bullets. They had no
covers. The yarn had been closely and tightly
wrapped and then stitched over with fine bees-
waxed thread. Daddy fancied he detected a
difference in the weight of the ball, but Bo took them
back before Daddy could be sure of that point.
``You don't have to fan about it. I know a ball
when I see one,'' observed Daddy. ``But we're
on our own grounds an' we'll use our own ball.
Thanks all the same to you, Stranathan.''
``Huh! All I gotta say is we'll play with my
ball er there won't be no game,'' said Bo suddenly.
Daddy shrewdly eyed the Natchez captain. Bo
did not look like a fellow wearing himself thin
from generosity. It struck Daddy that Bo's habit
of supplying the ball for the game might have
some relation to the fact that he always carried
along his own umpire. There was a strange
feature about this umpire business and it was that
Bo's man had earned a reputation for being
particularly fair. No boy ever had any real reason
to object to Umpire Gale's decisions. When Gale
umpired away from the Natchez grounds his close
decisions always favored the other team, rather
than his own. It all made Daddy keen and
thoughtful.
``Stranathan, up here on Madden's Hill we
know how to treat visitors. We'll play with your
ball. . . . Now keep your gang of rooters from
crowdin' on the diamond.''
``Boss, it's your grounds. Fire 'em off if they
don't suit you. . . . Come on, let's git in the
game. Watcher want--field er bat?''
``Field,'' replied Daddy briefly.
Billy Gale called ``Play,'' and the game began
with Slugger Blandy at bat. The formidable way
in which he swung his club did not appear to have
any effect on Frank Price or the player back of
him. Frank's most successful pitch was a slow,
tantalizing curve, and he used it. Blandy lunged
at the ball, missed it and grunted.
``Frank, you got his alley,'' called Lane.
Slugger fouled the next one high in the air
back of the plate. Sam Wickhart, the stocky
bowlegged catcher, was a fiend for running after
foul flies, and now he plunged into the crowd of
boys, knocking them right and left, and he caught
the ball. Whisner came up and hit safely over
Griffith, whereupon the Natchez supporters began
to howl. Kelly sent a grounder to Grace at short
stop. Daddy's weak player made a poor throw to
first base, so the runner was safe. Then Bo
Stranathan batted a stinging ball through the
infield, scoring Whisner.
``Play the batter! Play the batter!'' sharply
called Daddy from the bench.
Then Frank struck out Molloy and retired
Dundon on an easy fly.
``Fellers, git in the game now,'' ordered Daddy,
as his players eagerly trotted in. ``Say things to
that Muckle Harris! We'll walk through this
game like sand through a sieve.''
Bob Irvin ran to the plate waving his bat at
Harris.
``Put one over, you freckleface! I 've been dyin'
fer this chanst. You're on Madden's Hill now.''
Muckle evidently was not the kind of pitcher to
stand coolly under such bantering. Obviously he
was not used to it. His face grew red and his
hair waved up. Swinging hard, he threw the ball
straight at Bob's head. Quick as a cat, Bob
dropped flat.
``Never touched me!'' he chirped, jumping up
and pounding the plate with his bat. ``You couldn't
hit a barn door. Come on. I'll paste one a
mile!''
Bob did not get an opportunity to hit, for Harris
could not locate the plate and passed him to first
on four balls.
``Dump the first one,'' whispered Daddy in
Grace's ear. Then he gave Bob a signal to run
on the first pitch.
Grace tried to bunt the first ball, but he missed
it. His attempt, however, was so violent that he
fell over in front of the catcher, who could not
recover in time to throw, and Bob got to second
base. At this juncture, the Madden's Hill band
of loyal supporters opened up with a mingling
of shrill yells and whistles and jangling of tin
cans filled with pebbles. Grace hit the next ball
into second base and, while he was being thrown
out, Bob raced to third. With Sam Wickhart up
it looked good for a score, and the crowd yelled
louder. Sam was awkward yet efficient, and he
batted a long fly to right field. The fielder muffed
the ball. Bob scored, Sam reached second base,
and the crowd yelled still louder. Then Lane
struck out and Mohler hit to shortstop, retiring
the side.
Natchez scored a run on a hit, a base on balls,
and another error by Grace. Every time a ball
went toward Grace at short Daddy groaned. In
their half of the inning Madden's Hill made two
runs, increasing the score 3 to 2.
The Madden's Hill boys began to show the
strain of such a close contest. If Daddy had
voiced aloud his fear it would have been: ``They'll
blow up in a minnit!'' Frank Price alone was
slow and cool, and he pitched in masterly style.
Natchez could not beat him. On the other hand,
Madden's Hill hit Muck Harris hard, but superb
fielding kept runners off the bases. As Daddy's
team became more tense and excited Bo Stranathan's
players grew steadier and more arrogantly
confident. Daddy saw it with distress, and he
could not realize just where Natchez had license
for such confidence. Daddy watched the game
with the eyes of a hawk.
As the Natchez players trooped in for their
sixth inning at bat, Daddy observed a marked
change in their demeanor. Suddenly they seemed
to have been let loose; they were like a band of
Indians. Daddy saw everything. He did not miss
seeing Umpire Gale take a ball from his pocket
and toss it to Frank, and Daddy wondered if that
was the ball which had been in the play. Straightway,
however, he forgot that in the interest of the
game.
Bo Stranathan bawled: ``Wull, Injuns, hyar's
were we do 'em. We've jest ben loafin' along. Git
ready to tear the air, you rooters!''
Kelly hit a wonderfully swift ball through the
infield. Bo batted out a single. Malloy got up
in the way of one of Frank's pitches, and was
passed to first base. Then, as the Natchez crowd
opened up in shrill clamor, the impending disaster
fell. Dundon hit a bounder down into the infield.
The ball appeared to be endowed with life. It
bounded low, then high and, cracking into Grace's
hands, bounced out and rolled away. The runners
raced around the bases.
Pickens sent up a tremendous fly, the highest
ever batted on Madden's Hill. It went over Tom
Lindsay in center field, and Tom ran and ran.
The ball went so far up that Tom had time to
cover the ground, but he could not judge it. He
ran round in a little circle, with hands up in
bewilderment. And when the ball dropped it hit
him on the head and bounded away.
``Run, you Injun, run!'' bawled Bo. ``What'd
I tell you? We ain't got 'em goin', oh, no! Hittin'
'em on the head!''
Bill dropped a slow, teasing ball down the third-
base line. Jake Thomas ran desperately for it,
and the ball appeared to strike his hands and run
up his arms and caress his nose and wrap itself
round his neck and then roll gently away. All the
while, the Natchez runners tore wildly about the
bases and the Natchez supporters screamed and
whistled. Muck Harris could not bat, yet he hit
the first ball and it shot like a bullet over the
infield. Then Slugger Blandy came to the plate.
he ball he sent out knocked Grace's leg from
under him as if it were a ten-pin. Whisner
popped a fly over Tay Tay Mohler's head. Now
Tay Tay was fat and slow, but he was a sure
catch. He got under the ball. It struck his hands
and jumped back twenty feet up into the air. It
was a strangely live ball. Kelly again hit to
shortstop, and the ball appeared to start slow,
to gather speed with every bound and at last to
dart low and shoot between Grace's legs.
``Haw! Haw!'' roared Bo. ``They've got a
hole at short. Hit fer the hole, fellers. Watch
me! Jest watch me!''
And he swung hard on the first pitch. The ball
glanced like a streak straight at Grace, took a
vicious jump, and seemed to flirt with the infielder's
hands, only to evade them.
Malloy fouled a pitch and the ball hit Sam
Wickhart square over the eye. Sam's eye popped out
and assumed the proportions and color of a huge
plum.
``Hey!'' yelled Blandy, the rival catcher. ``Air
you ketchin' with yer mug?''
Sam would not delay the game nor would he don
the mask.
Daddy sat hunched on his soap-box, and, as in
a hateful dream, he saw his famous team go to
pieces. He put his hands over his ears to shut out
some of the uproar. And he watched that little
yarn ball fly and shoot and bound and roll to
crush his fondest hopes. Not one of his players
appeared able to hold it. And Grace had holes
in his hands and legs and body. The ball went
right through him. He might as well have been
so much water. Instead of being a shortstop he
was simply a hole. After every hit Daddy saw
that ball more and more as something alive. It
sported with his infielders. It bounded like a
huge jack-rabbit, and went swifter and higher at
every bound. It was here, there, everywhere.
And it became an infernal ball. It became
endowed with a fiendish propensity to run up a
player's leg and all about him, as if trying to hide
in his pocket. Grace's efforts to find it were
heartbreaking to watch. Every time it bounded
out to center field, which was of frequent
occurrence, Tom would fall on it and hug it as if he
were trying to capture a fleeing squirrel. Tay
Tay Mohler could stop the ball, but that was no
great credit to him, for his hands took no part in
the achievement. Tay Tay was fat and the ball
seemed to like him. It boomed into his stomach
and banged against his stout legs. When Tay saw
it coming he dropped on his knees and valorously
sacrificed his anatomy to the cause of the game.
Daddy tried not to notice the scoring of runs
by his opponents. But he had to see them and he
had to count. Ten runs were as ten blows! After
that each run scored was like a stab in his heart.
The play went on, a terrible fusilade of wicked
ground balls that baffled any attempt to field them.
Then, with nineteen runs scored, Natchez appeared
to tire. Sam caught a foul fly, and Tay
Tay, by obtruding his wide person to the path of
infield hits, managed to stop them, and throw out
the runners.
Score--Natchez, 21; Madden Hill, 3.
Daddy's boys slouched and limped wearily in.
``Wot kind of a ball's that?'' panted Tom, as
he showed his head with a bruise as large as a
goose-egg.
``T-t-t-t-ta-ta-tay-tay-tay-tay----'' began Mohler,
in great excitement, but as he could not
finish what he wanted to say no one caught
his meaning.
Daddy's watchful eye had never left that
wonderful, infernal little yarn ball. Daddy was
crushed under defeat, but his baseball brains still
continued to work. He saw Umpire Gale leisurely
step into the pitcher's box, and leisurely pick up
the ball and start to make a motion to put it in
his pocket.
Suddenly fire flashed all over Daddy.
``Hyar! Don't hide that ball!'' he yelled, in
his piercing tenor.
He jumped up quickly, forgetting his crutch,
and fell headlong. Lane and Sam got him upright
and handed the crutch to him. Daddy began
to hobble out to the pitcher's box.
``Don't you hide that ball. See! I've got my
eye on this game. That ball was in play, an' you
can't use the other.''
Umpire Gale looked sheepish, and his eyes did
not meet Daddy's. Then Bo came trotting up.
``What's wrong, boss?'' he asked.
``Aw, nuthin'. You're tryin' to switch balls on
me. That's all. You can't pull off any stunts on
Madden's Hill.''
``Why, boss, thet ball's all right. What you
hollerin' about?''
``Sure that ball's all right,'' replied Daddy.
``It's a fine ball. An' we want a chanst to hit it!
See?''
Bo flared up and tried to bluster, but Daddy cut
him short.
``Give us our innin'--let us git a whack at that
ball, or I'll run you off Madden's Hill.''
Bo suddenly looked a little pale and sick.
``Course youse can git a whack at it,'' he said,
in a weak attempt to be natural and dignified.
Daddy tossed the ball to Harris, and as he
hobbled off the field he heard Bo calling out low
and cautiously to his players. Then Daddy was
certain he had discovered a trick. He called his
players around him.
``This game ain't over yet. It ain't any more'n
begun. I'll tell you what. Last innin' Bo's
umpire switched balls on us. That ball was lively.
An' they tried to switch back on me. But nix!
We're goin' to git a chanst to hit that lively ball,
An' they're goin' to git a dose of their own
medicine. Now, you dead ones--come back to life!
Show me some hittin' an' runnin'.''
``Daddy, you mean they run in a trick on us?''
demanded Lane, with flashing eyes.
``Funny about Natchez's strong finishes!''
replied Daddy, coolly, as he eyed his angry players.
They let out a roar, and then ran for the bats.
The crowd, quick to sense what was in the air,
thronged to the diamond and manifested alarming
signs of outbreak.
Sam Wickhart leaped to the plate and bandished
his club.
``Sam, let him pitch a couple,'' called Daddy
from the bench. ``Mebbe we'll git wise then.''
Harris had pitched only twice when the fact
became plain that he could not throw this ball
with the same speed as the other. The ball was
heavier; besides Harris was also growing tired.
The next pitch Sam hit far out over the center
fielder's head for a home run. It was a longer
hit than any Madden's Hill boy had ever made.
The crowd shrieked its delight. Sam crossed the
plate and then fell on the bench beside Daddy.
``Say! that ball nearly knocked the bat out of
my hands,'' panted Sam. ``It made the bat
spring!''
``Fellers, don't wait,'' ordered Daddy. ``Don't
give the umpire a chanst to roast us now. Slam
the first ball!''
The aggressive captain lined the ball at Bo
Stranathan. The Natchez shortstop had a fine
opportunity to make the catch, but he made an
inglorious muff. Tay Tay hurried to bat. Umpire
Gale called the first pitch a strike. Tay
slammed down his club. ``T-t-t-t-to-to-twasn't
over,'' he cried. ``T-t-t-tay----''
``Shut up,'' yelled Daddy. ``We want to git
this game over today.''
Tay Tay was fat and he was also strong, so that
when beef and muscle both went hard against the
ball it traveled. It looked as if it were going a
mile straight up. All the infielders ran to get
under it. They got into a tangle, into which the
ball descended. No one caught it, and thereupon
the Natchez players began to rail at one another.
Bo stormed at them, and they talked back to him.
Then when Tom Lindsay hit a little slow grounder
into the infield it seemed that a just retribution
had overtaken the great Natchez team.
Ordinarily this grounder of Tom's would have
been easy for a novice to field. But this peculiar
grounder, after it has hit the ground once, seemed
to wake up and feel lively. It lost its leisurely
action and began to have celerity. When it reached
Dundon it had the strange, jerky speed so
characteristic of the grounders that had confused the
Madden's Hill team. Dundon got his hands on
the ball and it would not stay in them. When
finally he trapped it Tom had crossed first base
and another runner had scored. Eddie Curtis
cracked another at Bo. The Natchez captain
dove for it, made a good stop, bounced after the
rolling ball, and then threw to Kelly at first. The
ball knocked Kelly's hands apart as if they had
been paper. Jake Thomas batted left handed and
he swung hard on a slow pitch and sent the ball
far into right field. Runners scored. Jake's hit
was a three-bagger. Then Frank Price hit up an
infield fly. Bo yelled for Dundon to take it and
Dundon yelled for Harris. They were all afraid
to try for it. It dropped safely while Jake ran
home.
With the heavy batters up the excitement
increased. A continuous scream and incessant
rattle of tin cans made it impossible to hear what
the umpire called out. But that was not important,
for he seldom had a chance to call either ball
or strike. Harris had lost his speed and nearly
every ball he pitched was hit by the Madden's
Hill boys. Irvine cracked one down between short
and third. Bo and Pickens ran for it and collided
while the ball jauntily skipped out to left field
and, deftly evading Bell, went on and on. Bob
reached third. Grace hit another at Dundon, who
appeared actually to stop it four times before he
could pick it up, and then he was too late. The
doughty bow-legged Sam, with his huge black eye,
hung over the plate and howled at Muckle. In
the din no one heard what he said, but evidently
Muck divined it. For he roused to the spirit of
a pitcher who would die of shame if he could not
fool a one-eyed batter. But Sam swooped down
and upon the first ball and drove it back toward
the pitcher. Muck could not get out of the way
and the ball made his leg buckle under him. Then
that hit glanced off to begin a marvelous exhibition
of high and erratic bounding about the infield.
Daddy hunched over his soap-box bench and
hugged himself. He was farsighted and he saw
victory. Again he watched the queer antics of that
little yarn ball, but now with different feelings.
Every hit seemed to lift him to the skies. He kept
silent, though every time the ball fooled a Natchez
player Daddy wanted to yell. And when it started
for Bo and, as if in revenge, bounded wickeder at
every bounce to skip off the grass and make Bo
look ridiculous, then Daddy experienced the
happiest moments of his baseball career. Every time
a tally crossed the plate he would chalk it down
on his soap box.
But when Madden's Hill scored the nineteenth
run without a player being put out, then Daddy
lost count. He gave himself up to revel. He sat
motionless and silent; nevertheless his whole
internal being was in the state of wild tumult. It
was as if he was being rewarded in joy for all
the misery he had suffered because he was a cripple.
He could never play baseball. but he had
baseball brains. He had been too wise for the
tricky Stranathan. He was the coach and manager
and general of the great Madden's Hill nine.
If ever he had to lie awake at night again he would
not mourn over his lameness; he would have something
to think about. To him would be given the
glory of beating the invincible Natchez team. So
Daddy felt the last bitterness leave him. And he
watched that strange little yarn ball, with its
wonderful skips and darts and curves. The longer
the game progressed and the wearier Harris
grew, the harder the Madden's Hill boys batted
the ball and the crazier it bounced at Bo and his
sick players. Finally, Tay Tay Mohler hit a teasing
grounder down to Bo.
Then it was as if the ball, realizing a climax,
made ready for a final spurt. When Bo reached
for the ball it was somewhere else. Dundon could
not locate it. And Kelly, rushing down to the
chase, fell all over himself and his teammates
trying to grasp the illusive ball, and all the time Tay
Tay was running. He never stopped. But as he
was heavy and fat he did not make fast time on
the bases. Frantically the outfielders ran in to
head off the bouncing ball, and when they had
succeeded Tay Tay had performed the remarkable
feat of making a home run on a ball batted into
the infield.
That broke Natchez's spirit. They quit. They
hurried for their bats. Only Bo remained behind
a moment to try to get his yarn ball. But Sam
had pounced upon it and given it safely to Daddy.
Bo made one sullen demand for it.
``Funny about them fast finishes of yours!'' said
Daddy scornfully. ``Say! the ball's our'n. The
winnin' team gits the ball. Go home an' look up
the rules of the game!''
Bo slouched off the field to a shrill hooting and
tin canning.
``Fellers, what was the score?'' asked Daddy.
Nobody knew the exact number of runs made
by Madden's Hill.
``Gimme a knife, somebody,'' said the manager.
When it had been produced Daddy laid down
the yarn ball and cut into it. The blade entered
readily for a inch and then stopped. Daddy cut
all around the ball, and removed the cover of
tightly wrapped yarn. Inside was a solid ball of
India rubber.
``Say! it ain't so funny now--how that ball
bounced,'' remarked Daddy.
``Wot you think of that!'' exclaimed Tom, feeling
the lump on his head.
``T-t-t-t-t-t-t-ta-tr----'' began Tay Tay Mohler.
``Say it! Say it!'' interrupted Daddy.
``Ta-ta-ta-tr-trimmed them wa-wa-wa-wa-with
their own b-b-b-b-b-ba-ba-ball,'' finished Tay.
-THE END-
Zane Grey's short story: The Manager Of Madden's Hill
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