The Rube's Pennant

``Fellows, it's this way. You've got to win
today's game. It's the last of the season and
means the pennant for Worcester. One more
hard scrap and we're done! Of all the up-hill
fights any bunch ever made to land the flag, our
has been the best. You're the best team I ever
managed, the gamest gang of ball players that
ever stepped in spikes. We've played in the
hardest kind of luck all season, except that short
trip we called the Rube's Honeymoon. We got a
bad start, and sore arms and busted fingers, all
kinds of injuries, every accident calculated to hurt
a team's chances, came our way. But in spite of
it all we got the lead and we've held it, and today
we're still a few points ahead of Buffalo.''

I paused to catch my breath, and looked round
on the grim, tired faces of my players. They
made a stern group. The close of the season
found them almost played out. What a hard
chance it was, after their extraordinary efforts,
to bring the issue of the pennant down to this last
game!

``If we lose today, Buffalo, with three games
more to play at home, will pull the bunting,'' I
went on. ``But they're not going to win! I'm
putting it up to you that way. I know Spears is
all in; Raddy's arm is gone; Ash is playing on
one leg; you're all crippled. But you've got one
more game in you, I know. These last few weeks
the Rube has been pitching out of turn and he's
about all in, too. He's kept us in the lead. If he
wins today it'll be Rube's Pennant. But that
might apply to all of you. Now, shall we talk
over the play today? Any tricks to pull off? Any
inside work?''

``Con, you're pretty much upset an' nervous,''
replied Spears, soberly. ``It ain't no wonder.
This has been one corker of a season. I want to
suggest that you let me run the team today. I've
talked over the play with the fellers. We ain't
goin' to lose this game, Con. Buffalo has been
comin' with a rush lately, an' they're confident.
But we've been holdin' in, restin' up as much as
we dared an' still keep our lead. Mebbee it'll
surprise you to know we've bet every dollar we could
get hold of on this game. Why, Buffalo money is
everywhere.''

``All right, Spears, I'll turn the team over to
you. We've got the banner crowd of the year out
there right now, a great crowd to play before.
I'm more fussed up over this game than any I
remember. But I have a sort of blind faith in
my team. . . . I guess that's all I want to say.''

Spears led the silent players out of the dressing
room and I followed; and while they began to
toss balls to and fro, to limber up cold, dead arms,
I sat on the bench.

The Bisons were prancing about the diamond,
and their swaggering assurance was not conducive
to hope for the Worcesters. I wondered
how many of that vast, noisy audience, intent on
the day's sport, even had a thought of what pain
and toil it meant to my players. The Buffalo men
were in good shape; they had been lucky; they
were at the top of their stride, and that made all
the difference.

At any rate, there were a few faithful little
women in the grand stand--Milly and Nan and
Rose Stringer and Kate Bogart--who sat with
compressed lips and hoped and prayed for that
game to begin and end.

The gong called off the practice, and Spears,
taking the field, yelled gruff encouragement to his
men. Umpire Carter brushed off the plate and
tossed a white ball to Rube and called: ``Play!''
The bleachers set up an exultant, satisfied shout
and sat down to wait.

Schultz toed the plate and watched the Rube
pitch a couple. There seemed to be no diminution
of the great pitcher's speed and both balls cut the
plate. Schultz clipped the next one down the third-
base Line. Bogart trapped it close to the bag, and
got it away underhand, beating the speedy runner
by a nose. It was a pretty play to start with, and
the spectators were not close-mouthed in
appreciation. The short, stocky Carl ambled up to
bat, and I heard him call the Rube something. It
was not a friendly contest, this deciding game
between Buffalo and Worcester.

``Bing one close to his swelled nut!'' growled
Spears to the Rube.

Carl chopped a bouncing grounder through
short and Ash was after it like a tiger, but it was
a hit. The Buffalo contingent opened up. Then
Manning faced the Rube, and he, too, vented
sarcasm. It might not have been heard by the slow,
imperturbable pitcher for all the notice he took.
Carl edged off first, slid back twice, got a third
start, and on the Rube's pitch was off for second
base with the lead that always made him dangerous.
Manning swung vainly, and Gregg snapped
a throw to Mullaney. Ball and runner got to the
bag apparently simultaneously; the umpire called
Carl out, and the crowd uttered a quick roar of
delight.

The next pitch to Manning was a strike. Rube
was not wasting any balls, a point I noted with
mingled fear and satisfaction. For he might have
felt that he had no strength to spare that day and
so could not try to work the batters. Again he
swung, and Manning rapped a long line fly over
McCall. As the little left fielder turned at the
sound of the hit and sprinted out, his lameness
was certainly not in evidence. He was the swiftest
runner in the league and always when he got
going the crowd rose in wild clamor to watch him.
Mac took that fly right off the foul flag in deep
left, and the bleachers dinned their pleasure.

The teams changed positions. ``Fellers,'' said
Spears, savagely, ``we may be a bunged-up lot of
stiffs, but, say! We can hit! If you love your
old captain--sting the ball!''

Vane, the Bison pitcher, surely had his work
cut out for him. For one sympathetic moment I
saw his part through his eyes. My Worcester
veterans, long used to being under fire, were
relentlessly bent on taking that game. It showed
in many ways, particularly in their silence,
because they were seldom a silent team. McCall
hesitated a moment over his bats. Then, as he
picked up the lightest one, I saw his jaw set, and
I knew he intended to bunt. He was lame, yet he
meant to beat out an infield hit. He went up
scowling.

Vane had an old head, and he had a varied
assortment of balls. For Mac he used an under
hand curve, rising at the plate and curving in to
the left-hander. Mac stepped back and let it go.

``That's the place, Bo,'' cried the Buffalo
infielders. ``Keep 'em close on the Crab.'' Eager and
fierce as McCall was, he let pitch after pitch go
by till he had three balls and two strikes. Still
the heady Vane sent up another pitch similar to
the others. Mac stepped forward in the box,
dropped his bat on the ball, and leaped down the
line toward first base. Vane came rushing in for
the bunt, got it and threw. But as the speeding
ball neared the baseman, Mac stretched out into
the air and shot for the bag. By a fraction of a
second he beat the ball. It was one of his demon-
slides. He knew that the chances favored his being
crippled; we all knew that some day Mac
would slide recklessly once too often. But that,
too, is all in the game and in the spirit of a great
player.

``We're on,'' said Spears; ``now keep with
him.''

By that the captain meant that Mac would go
down, and Ashwell would hit with the run.

When Vane pitched, little McCall was flitting
toward second. The Bison shortstop started for
the bag, and Ash hit square through his tracks.
A rolling cheer burst from the bleachers, and
swelled till McCall overran third base and was
thrown back by the coacher. Stringer hurried
forward with his big bat.

``Oh! My!'' yelled a fan, and he voiced my
sentiments exactly. Here we would score, and be
one run closer to that dearly bought pennant.

How well my men worked together! As the
pitcher let the ball go, Ash was digging for
second and Mac was shooting plateward. They
played on the chance of Stringer's hitting.
Stringer swung, the bat cracked, we heard a thud
somewhere, and then Manning, half knocked over,
was fumbling for the ball. He had knocked down
a terrific drive with his mitt, and he got the ball
in time to put Stringer out. But Mac scored and
Ash drew a throw to third base and beat it. He
had a bad ankle, but no one noticed it in that
daring run.

``Watch me paste one!'' said Captain Spears,
as he spat several yards. He batted out a fly so
long and high and far that, slow as he was, he had
nearly run to second base when Carl made the
catch. Ash easily scored on the throw-in. Then
Bogart sent one skipping over second, and Treadwell,
scooping it on the run, completed a play that
showed why he was considered the star of the
Bison infield.

``Two runs, fellers!'' said Spears. ``That's
some! Push 'em over, Rube.''

The second inning somewhat quickened the
pace. Even the Rube worked a little faster. Ellis
lined to Cairns in right; Treadwell fouled two
balls and had a called strike, and was out; McKnight
hit a low fly over short, then Bud Wiler
sent one between Spears and Mullaney. Spears
went for it while the Rube with giant strides ran
to cover first base. Between them they got Bud,
but it was only because he was heavy and slow
on his feet.

In our half of that inning Mullaney, Gregg and
Cairns went out in one, two, three order.

With Pannell up, I saw that the Rube held in
on his speed, or else he was tiring. Pannell hit
the second slow ball for two bases. Vane sacrificed,
and then the redoubtable Schultz came up.
He appeared to be in no hurry to bat. Then I
saw that the foxy Buffalo players were working
to tire the Rube. They had the situation figured.
But they were no wiser than old Spears.

``Make 'em hit, Rube. Push 'em straight over.
Never mind the corners. We don't care for a
few runs. We'll hit this game out.''

Shultz flied to Mac, who made a beautiful throw
to the plate too late to catch Pannell. Carl
deliberately bunted to the right of the Rube and it
cost the big pitcher strenuous effort to catch his
man.

``We got the Rube waggin'!'' yelled a Buffalo
player.

Manning tripled down the left foul line--a hit
the bleachers called a screamer. When Ellis
came up, it looked like a tie score, and when the
Rube pitched it was plain that he was tired. The
Bisons yelled their assurance of this and the
audience settled into quiet. Ellis batted a
scorcher that looked good for a hit. But the fast
Ashwell was moving with the ball, and he plunged
lengthwise to get it square in his glove. The hit
had been so sharp that he had time to get up and
make the throw to beat the runner. The bleachers
thundered at the play.

``You're up, Rube,'' called Spears. ``Lam one
out of the lot!''

The Rube was an uncertain batter. There was
never any telling what he might do, for he had
spells of good and bad hitting. But when he did
get his bat on the ball it meant a chase for some
fielder. He went up swinging his huge club, and
he hit a fly that would have been an easy home run
for a fast man. But the best Rube could do was
to reach third base. This was certainly good
enough, as the bleachers loudly proclaimed, and
another tally for us seemed sure.

McCall bunted toward third, another of his
teasers. The Rube would surely have scored had
he started with the ball, but he did not try and
missed a chance. Wiler, of course, held the ball,
and Mac got to first without special effort. He
went down on the first pitch. Then Ash lined to
Carl. The Rube waited till the ball was caught
and started for home. The crowd screamed, the
Rube ran for all he was worth and Carl's throw
to the plate shot in low and true. Ellis blocked
the Rube and tagged him out.

It looked to the bleachers as if Ellis had been
unnecessarily rough, and they hissed and stormed
disapproval. As for me, I knew the Bisons were
losing no chance to wear out my pitcher. Stringer
fouled out with Mac on third, and it made him so
angry that he threw his bat toward the bench,
making some of the boys skip lively.

The next three innings, as far as scoring was
concerned, were all for Buffalo. But the Worcester
infield played magnificent ball, holding their
opponents to one run each inning.

That made the score 4 to 2 in favor of Buffalo.

In the last half of the sixth, with Ash on first
base and two men out, old Spears hit another of
his lofty flies, and this one went over the fence
and tied the score. How the bleachers roared!
It was full two minutes before they quieted down.
To make it all the more exciting, Bogart hit
safely, ran like a deer to third on Mullaney's
grounder, which Wiler knocked down, and scored
on a passed ball. Gregg ended the inning by
striking out.

``Get at the Rube!'' boomed Ellis, the Bison
captain. ``We'll have him up in the air soon. Get
in the game now, you stickers!''

Before I knew what had happened, the Bisons
had again tied the score. They were indomitable.
They grew stronger all the time. A stroke of
good luck now would clinch the game for them.
The Rube was beginning to labor in the box; Ashwell
was limping; Spears looked as if he would
drop any moment; McCall could scarcely walk.
But if the ball came his way he could still run.
Nevertheless, I never saw any finer fielding than
these cripped players executed that inning.

``Ash--Mac--can you hold out?'' I asked, when
they limped in. I received glances of scorn for
my question. Spears, however, was not sanguine.

``I'll stick pretty much if somethin' doesn't
happen,'' he said; ``but I'm all in. I'll need a
runner if I get to first this time.''

Spears lumbered down to first base on an
infield hit and the heavy Manning gave him the hip.
Old Spears went down, and I for one knew he
was out in more ways than that signified by
Carter's sharp: ``Out!''

The old war-horse gathered himself up slowly
and painfully, and with his arms folded and his
jaw protruding, he limped toward the umpire.

``Did you call me out?'' he asked, in a voice
plainly audible to any one on the field.

``Yes,'' snapped Carter.

``What for? I beat the ball, an' Mannin'
played dirty with me--gave me the hip.''

``I called you out.''

``But I wasn't out!''

``Shut up now! Get off the diamond!'' ordered
Carter, peremptorily.

``What? Me? Say, I'm captain of this team.
Can't I question a decision?''

``Not mine. Spears, you're delaying the
game.''

``I tell you it was a rotten decision,'' yelled
Spears. The bleachers agreed with him.

Carter grew red in the face. He and Spears
had before then met in field squabbles, and he
showed it.

``Fifty dollars!''

``More! You cheap-skate you piker! More!''

``It's a hundred!''

``Put me out of the game!'' roared Spears.

``You bet! Hurry now--skedaddle!''

``Rob-b-ber!'' bawled Spears.

Then he labored slowly toward the bench, all
red, and yet with perspiration, his demeanor one
of outraged dignity. The great crowd, as one
man, stood up and yelled hoarsely at Carter, and
hissed and railed at him. When Spears got to
the bench he sat down beside me as if in pain, but
he was smiling.

``Con, I was all in, an' knowin' I couldn't play
any longer, thought I'd try to scare Carter. Say,
he was white in the face. If we play into a close
decision now, he'll give it to us.''

Bogart and Mullaney batted out in short order,
and once more the aggressive Bisons hurried in
for their turn. Spears sent Cairns to first base
and Jones to right. The Rube lobbed up his slow
ball. In that tight pinch he showed his splendid
nerve. Two Buffalo players, over-anxious,
popped up flies. The Rube kept on pitching the
slow curve until it was hit safely. Then heaving
his shoulders with all his might he got all
the motion possible into his swing and let drive.
He had almost all of his old speed, but it hurt
me to see him work with such desperate effort.
He struck Wiler out.

He came stooping into the bench, apparently
deaf to the stunning round of applause. Every
player on the team had a word for the Rube.
There was no quitting in that bunch, and if I ever
saw victory on the stern faces of ball players it
was in that moment.

``We haven't opened up yet. Mebbee this is
the innin'. If it ain't, the next is,'' said Spears.

With the weak end of the batting list up, there
seemed little hope of getting a run on Vane that
inning. He had so much confidence that he put
the ball over for Gregg, who hit out of the reach
of the infield. Again Vane sent up his straight
ball, no doubt expecting Cairns to hit into a
double play. But Cairns surprised Vane and
everybody else by poking a safety past first base.
The fans began to howl and pound and whistle.

The Rube strode to bat. The infield closed in
for a bunt, but the Rube had no orders for that
style of play. Spears had said nothing to him.
Vane lost his nonchalance and settled down. He
cut loose with all his speed. Rube stepped out,
suddenly whirled, then tried to dodge, but the ball
hit him fair in the back. Rube sagged in his
tracks, then straightened up, and walked slowly
to first base. Score 5 to 5, bases full, no outs,
McCall at bat. I sat dumb on the bench, thrilling
and shivering. McCall! Ashwell! Stringer to
bat!

``Play it safe! Hold the bags!'' yelled the
coacher.

McCall fairly spouted defiance as he faced
Vane.

``Pitch! It's all off! An' you know it!''

If Vane knew that, he showed no evidence of
it. His face was cold, unsmiling, rigid. He had
to pitch to McCall, the fastest man in the league;
to Ashwell, the best bunter; to Stringer, the
champion batter. It was a supreme test for a great
pitcher. There was only one kind of a ball that
McCall was not sure to hit, and that was a high
curve, in close. Vane threw it with all his power.
Carter called it a strike. Again Vane swung and
his arm fairly cracked. Mac fouled the ball. The
third was wide. Slowly, with lifting breast, Vane
got ready, whirled savagely and shot up the ball.
McCall struck out.

As the Buffalo players crowed and the audience
groaned it was worthy of note that little McCall
showed no temper. Yet he had failed to grasp a
great opportunity.

``Ash, I couldn't see 'em,'' he said, as he passed
to the bench. ``Speed, whew! look out for it.
He's been savin' up. Hit quick, an' you'll get
him.''

Ashwell bent over the plate and glowered at
Vane.

``Pitch! It's all off! An' you know it!'' he
hissed, using Mac's words.

Ashwell, too, was left-handed; he, too, was
extremely hard to pitch to; and if he had a weakness
that any of us ever discovered, it was a slow
curve and change of pace. But I doubted if Vane
would dare to use slow balls to Ash at that critical
moment. I had yet to learn something of Vane.
He gave Ash a slow, wide-sweeping sidewheeler,
that curved round over the plate. Ash always
took a strike, so this did not matter. Then Vane
used his deceptive change of pace, sending up a
curve that just missed Ash's bat as he swung.

``Oh! A-h-h! hit!'' wailed the bleachers.

Vane doubled up like a contortionist, and shot
up a lightning-swift drop that fooled Ash
completely. Again the crowd groaned. Score tied,
bases full, two out, Stringer at bat!

``It's up to you, String,'' called Ash, stepping
aside.

Stringer did not call out to Vane. That was
not his way. He stood tense and alert, bat on his
shoulder, his powerful form braced, and he
waited. The outfielders trotted over toward right
field, and the infielders played deep, calling out
warnings and encouragement to the pitcher.
Stringer had no weakness, and Vane knew this.
Nevertheless he did not manifest any uneasiness,
and pitched the first ball without any extra
motion. Carter called it a strike. I saw Stringer
sink down slightly and grow tenser all over. I
believe that moment was longer for me than for
either the pitcher or the batter. Vane took his
time, watched the base runners, feinted to throw
to catch them, and then delivered the ball toward
the plate with the limit of his power.

Stringer hit the ball. As long as I live, I will
see that glancing low liner. Shultz, by a wonderful
play in deep center, blocked the ball and
thereby saved it from being a home run. But
when Stringer stopped on second base, all the
runners had scored.

A shrill, shrieking, high-pitched yell! The
bleachers threatened to destroy the stands and
also their throats in one long revel of baseball
madness.

Jones, batting in place of Spears, had gone
up and fouled out before the uproar had subsided.

``Fellers, I reckon I feel easier,'' said the Rube.
It was the only time I had ever heard him speak
to the players at such a stage

``Only six batters, Rube,'' called out Spears.
``Boys, it's a grand game, an' it's our'n!''

The Rube had enough that inning to dispose of
the lower half of the Buffalo list without any
alarming bids for a run. And in our half, Bogart
and Mullaney hit vicious ground balls that gave
Treadwell and Wiler opportunities for superb
plays. Carl, likewise, made a beautiful running
catch of Gregg's line fly. The Bisons were still
in the game, still capable of pulling it out at the
last moment.

When Shultz stalked up to the plate I shut my
eyes a moment, and so still was it that the field
and stands might have been empty. Yet, though
I tried, I could not keep my eyes closed. I opened
them to watch the Rube. I knew Spears felt the
same as I, for he was blowing like a porpoise and
muttering to himself: ``Mebee the Rube won't
last an' I've no one to put in!''

The Rube pitched with heavy, violent effort.
He had still enough speed to be dangerous. But
after the manner of ball players Shultz and the
coachers mocked him.

``Take all you can,'' called Ellis to Shultz.

Every pitch lessened the Rube's strength and
these wise opponents knew it. Likewise the Rube
himself knew, and never had he shown better head
work than in this inning. If he were to win, he
must be quick. So he wasted not a ball. The first
pitch and the second, delivered breast high and
fairly over the plate, beautiful balls to hit, Shultz
watched speed by. He swung hard on the third
and the crippled Ashwell dove for it in a cloud
of dust, got a hand in front of it, but uselessly,
for the hit was safe. The crowd cheered that
splendid effort.

Carl marched to bat, and he swung his club over
the plate as if he knew what to expect. ``Come
on, Rube!'' he shouted. Wearily, doggedly, the
Rube whirled, and whipped his arm. The ball
had all his old glancing speed and it was a strike.
The Rube was making a tremendous effort.
Again he got his body in convulsive motion--two
strikes! Shultz had made no move to run, nor
had Carl made any move to hit. These veterans
were waiting. The Rube had pitched five strikes
--could he last?

``Now, Carl!'' yelled Ellis, with startling
suddenness, as the Rube pitched again.

Crack! Carl placed that hit as safely through
short as if he had thrown it. McCall's little legs
twinkled as he dashed over the grass. He had to
head off that hit and he ran like a streak. Down
and forward he pitched, as if in one of his fierce
slides, and he got his body in front of the ball,
blocking it, and then he rolled over and over. But
he jumped up and lined the ball to Bogart, almost
catching Shultz at third-base. Then, as Mac tried
to walk, his lame leg buckled under him, and down
he went, and out.

``Call time,'' I called to Carter. ``McCall is
done. . . . Myers, you go to left an' for Lord's
sake play ball!''

Stringer and Bogart hurried to Mac and, lifting
him up and supporting him between them
with his arms around their shoulders, they led
him off amid cheers from the stands. Mac was
white with pain.

``Naw, I won't go off the field. Leave me on
the bench,'' he said. ``Fight 'em now. It's our
game. Never mind a couple of runs.''

The boys ran back to their positions and Carter
called play. Perhaps a little delay had been helpful
to the Rube. Slowly he stepped into the box
and watched Shultz at third and Carl at second.
There was not much probability of his throwing
to catch them off the base, but enough of a
possibility to make them careful, so he held them
close.

The Rube pitched a strike to Manning, then
another. That made eight strikes square over the
plate that inning. What magnificent control! It
was equaled by the implacable patience of those
veteran Bisons. Manning hit the next ball as
hard as Carl had hit his. But Mullaney plunged
down, came up with the ball, feinted to fool Carl,
then let drive to Gregg to catch the fleeting Shultz.
The throw went wide, but Gregg got it, and, leaping
lengthwise, tagged Shultz out a yard from the
plate.

One out. Two runners on bases. The bleachers
rose and split their throats. Would the inning
never end?

Spears kept telling himself: ``They'll score,
but we'll win. It's our game!''

I had a sickening fear that the strange confidence
that obsessed the Worcester players had
been blind, unreasoning vanity.

``Carl will steal,'' muttered Spears. ``He
can't be stopped.''

Spears had called the play. The Rube tried to
hold the little base-stealer close to second, but,
after one attempt, wisely turned to his hard task
of making the Bisons hit and hit quickly. Ellis
let the ball pass; Gregg made a perfect throw to
third; Bogart caught the ball and moved like a
flash, but Carl slid under his hands to the bag.
Manning ran down to second. The Rube pitched
again, and this was his tenth ball over the plate.
Even the Buffalo players evinced eloquent appreciation
of the Rube's defence at this last stand.

Then Ellis sent a clean hit to right, scoring both
Carl and Manning. I breathed easier, for it
seemed with those two runners in, the Rube had a
better chance. Treadwell also took those two
runners in, the Rube had a way those Bisons
waited. They had their reward, for the Rube's
speed left him. When he pitched again the ball
had control, but no shoot. Treadwell hit it with
all his strength. Like a huge cat Ashwell pounced
upon it, ran over second base, forcing Ellis, and
his speedy snap to first almost caught Treadwell.

Score 8 to 7. Two out. Runner on first. One
run to tie.

In my hazy, dimmed vision I saw the Rube's
pennant waving from the flag-pole.

``It's our game!'' howled Spears in my ear,
for the noise from the stands was deafening.
``It's our pennant!''

The formidable batting strength of the Bisons
had been met, not without disaster, but without
defeat. McKnight came up for Buffalo and the
Rube took his weary swing. The batter made a
terrific lunge and hit the ball with a solid crack
It lined for center.

Suddenly electrified into action, I leaped up.
That hit! It froze me with horror. It was a
home-run. I saw Stringer fly toward left center.
He ran like something wild. I saw the heavy
Treadwell lumbering round the bases. I saw Ashwell
run out into center field.

``Ah-h!'' The whole audience relieved its
terror in that expulsion of suspended breath.
Stringer had leaped high to knock down the ball,
saving a sure home-run and the game. He recovered
himself, dashed back for the ball and shot
it to Ash.

When Ash turned toward the plate, Treadwell
was rounding third base. A tie score appeared
inevitable. I saw Ash's arm whip and the ball
shoot forward, leveled, glancing, beautiful in its
flight. The crowd saw it, and the silence broke
to a yell that rose and rose as the ball sped in.
That yell swelled to a splitting shriek, and
Treadwell slid in the dust, and the ball shot into
Gregg's hands all at the same instant.

Carter waved both arms upwards. It was the
umpire's action when his decision went against
the base-runner. The audience rolled up one great
stenorian cry.

``Out!''

I collapsed and sank back upon the bench. My
confused senses received a dull roar of pounding
feet and dinning voices as the herald of victory.
I felt myself thinking how pleased Milly would be.
I had a distinct picture in my mind of a white
cottage on a hill, no longer a dream, but a reality,
made possible for me by the Rube's winning of
the pennant.

_________
-THE END-
Zane Grey's short story: The Rube's Pennant

GO TO TOP OF SCREEN