It was about the sixth inning that I suspected
the Rube of weakening. For that matter he had
not pitched anything resembling his usual brand
of baseball. But the Rube had developed into
such a wonder in the box that it took time for
his let-down to dawn upon me. Also it took a tip
from Raddy, who sat with me on the bench.
``Con, the Rube isn't himself today,'' said
Radbourne. ``His mind's not on the game. He seems
hurried and flustered, too. If he doesn't explode
presently, I'm a dub at callin' the turn.''
Raddy was the best judge of a pitcher's condition,
physical or mental, in the Eastern League.
It was a Saturday and we were on the road and
finishing up a series with the Rochesters. Each
team had won and lost a game, and, as I was
climbing close to the leaders in the pennant race,
I wanted the third and deciding game of that
Rochester series. The usual big Saturday crowd
was in attendance, noisy, demonstrative and
exacting.
In this sixth inning the first man up for
Rochester had flied to McCall. Then had come
the two plays significant of Rube's weakening.
He had hit one batter and walked another. This
was sufficient, considering the score was three
to one in our favor, to bring the audience to its
feet with a howling, stamping demand for runs.
``Spears is wise all right,'' said Raddy.
I watched the foxy old captain walk over to the
Rube and talk to him while he rested, a reassuring
hand on the pitcher's shoulder. The crowd yelled
its disapproval and Umpire Bates called out
sharply:
``Spears, get back to the bag!''
``Now, Mister Umpire, ain't I hurrin' all I
can?'' queried Spears as he leisurely ambled back
to first.
The Rube tossed a long, damp welt of hair back
from his big brow and nervously toed the rubber.
I noted that he seemed to forget the runners on
bases and delivered the ball without glancing at
either bag. Of course this resulted in a double
steal. The ball went wild--almost a wild pitch.
``Steady up, old man,'' called Gregg between
the yells of the bleachers. He held his mitt square
over the plate for the Rube to pitch to. Again
the long twirler took his swing, and again the
ball went wild. Clancy had the Rube in the hole
now and the situation began to grow serious.
The Rube did not take half his usual deliberation,
and of the next two pitches one of them was a
ball and the other a strike by grace of the
umpire's generosity. Clancy rapped the next one,
an absurdly slow pitch for the Rube to use, and
both runners scored to the shrill tune of the happy
bleachers.
I saw Spears shake his head and look toward
the bench. It was plain what that meant.
``Raddy, I ought to take the Rube out,'' I said,
``but whom can I put in? You worked yesterday--
Cairns' arm is sore. It's got to be nursed.
And Henderson, that ladies' man I just signed, is
not in uniform.''
``I'll go in,'' replied Raddy, instantly.
``Not on your life.'' I had as hard a time
keeping Radbourne from overworking as I had in
getting enough work out of some other players.
``I guess I'll let the Rube take his medicine. I
hate to lose this game, but if we have to, we can
stand it. I'm curious, anyway, to see what's the
matter with the Rube. Maybe he'll settle down
presently.''
I made no sign that I had noticed Spears'
appeal to the bench. And my aggressive players,
no doubt seeing the situation as I saw it, sang out
their various calls of cheer to the Rube and of
defiance to their antagonists. Clancy stole off
first base so far that the Rube, catching
somebody's warning too late, made a balk and the
umpire sent the runner on to second. The Rube
now plainly showed painful evidences of being
rattled.
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.
``Thank you, old chap,'' I replied. ``It wouldn't
have been like you to throw me down at this
stage. Whit, you're in trouble?''
``Yes.''
``Can I help you--in any way?'''
``I reckon not.''
``Don't be too sure of that. I'm a pretty wise
guy, if I do say it myself. I might be able to do
as much for you as you're going to do for me.''
The sight of his face convinced me that I had
taken a wrong tack. It also showed me how deep
Whit's trouble really was. I bade him good
night and went to my berth, where sleep did not
soon visit me. A saucy, sparkling-eyed woman
barred Whit Hurtle's baseball career at its
threshold.
Women are just as fatal to ball players as to
men in any other walk of life. I had seen a strong
athlete grow palsied just at a scornful slight. It's
a great world, and the women run it. So I lay
awake racking my brains to outwit a pretty
disorganizer; and I plotted for her sake. Married,
she would be out of mischief. For Whit's sake,
for Milly's sake, for mine, all of which collectively
meant for the sake of the pennant, this would be
the solution of the problem.
I decided to take Milly into my confidence, and
finally on the strength of that I got to sleep. In
he morning I went to my hotel, had breakfast,
attended to my mail, and then boarded a car to go
out to Milly's house. She was waiting for me on
the porch, dressed as I liked to see her, in blue
and white, and she wore violets that matched the
color of her eyes.
``Hello, Connie. I haven't seen a morning
paper, but I know from your face that you lost
the Rochester series,'' said Milly, with a gay
laugh.
``I guess yes. The Rube blew up, and if we
don't play a pretty smooth game, young lady,
he'll never come down.''
Then I told her.
``Why, Connie, I knew long ago. Haven't you
seen the change in him before this?''
``What change?'' I asked blankly.
``You are a man. Well, he was a gawky,
slouchy, shy farmer boy when he came to us. Of
course the city life and popularity began to
influence him. Then he met Nan. She made the
Rube a worshipper. I first noticed a change in
his clothes. He blossomed out in a new suit,
white negligee, neat tie and a stylish straw hat.
Then it was evident he was making heroic struggles
to overcome his awkwardness. It was plain
he was studying and copying the other boys.
He's wonderfully improved, but still shy. He'll
always be shy. Connie, Whit's a fine fellow, too
good for Nan Brown.''
``But, Milly,'' I interrupted, ``the Rube's hard
hit. Why is he too good for her?''
``Nan is a natural-born flirt,'' Milly replied.
``She can't help it. I'm afraid Whit has a slim
chance. Nan may not see deep enough to learn
his fine qualities. I fancy Nan tired quickly of
him, though the one time I saw them together
she appeared to like him very well. This new
pitcher of yours, Henderson, is a handsome fellow
and smooth. Whit is losing to him. Nan likes
flash, flattery, excitement.''
``McCall told me the Rube had been down in
the mouth ever since Henderson joined the team.
Milly, I don't like Henderson a whole lot. He's
not in the Rube's class as a pitcher. What am I
going to do? Lose the pennant and a big slice
of purse money just for a pretty little flirt?''
``Oh, Connie, it's not so bad as that. Whit will
come around all right.''
``He won't unless we can pull some wires. I've
got to help him win Nan Brown. What do you
think of that for a manager's job? I guess maybe
winning pennants doesn't call for diplomatic
genius and cunning! But I'll hand them a few
tricks before I lose. My first move will be to give
Henderson his release.
I left Milly, as always, once more able to make
light of discouragements and difficulties.
Monday I gave Henderson his unconditional
release. He celebrated the occasion by verifying
certain rumors I had heard from other managers.
He got drunk. But he did not leave town, and I
heard that he was negotiating with Providence
for a place on that team.
Radbourne pitched one of his gilt-edged games
that afternoon against Hartford and we won.
And Milly sat in the grand stand, having contrived
by cleverness to get a seat next to Nan
Brown. Milly and I were playing a vastly deeper
game than baseball--a game with hearts. But we
were playing it with honest motive, for the good
of all concerned, we believed, and on the square.
I sneaked a look now and then up into the grand
stand. Milly and Nan appeared to be getting on
famously. It was certain that Nan was flushed
and excited, no doubt consciously proud of being
seen with my affianced. After the game I chanced
to meet them on their way out. Milly winked at
me, which was her sign that all was working
beautifully.
I hunted up the Rube and bundled him off to
the hotel to take dinner with me. At first he was
glum, but after a while he brightened up somewhat
to my persistent cheer and friendliness.
Then we went out on the hotel balcony to
smoke, and there I made my play.
``Whit, I'm pulling a stroke for you. Now listen
and don't be offended. I know what's put you off
your feed, because I was the same way when Milly
had me guessing. You've lost your head over
Nan Brown. That's not so terrible, though I
daresay you think it's a catastrophe. Because
you've quit. You've shown a yellow streak.
You've lain down.
``My boy, that isn't the way to win a girl.
You've got to scrap. Milly told me yesterday
how she had watched your love affairs with Nan,
and how she thought you had given up just when
things might have come your way. Nan is a little
flirt, but she's all right. What's more, she was
getting fond of you. Nan is meanest to the man
she likes best. The way to handle her, Whit, is
to master her. Play high and mighty. Get
tragical. Then grab her up in your arms. I tell
you, Whit, it'll all come your way if you only
keep your nerve. I'm your friend and so is Milly.
We're going out to her house presently--and Nan
will be there.''
The Rube drew a long, deep breath and held out
his hand. I sensed another stage in the evolution
of Whit Hurtle.
``I reckon I've taken baseball coachin','' he said
presently, ``an' I don't see why I can't take some
other kind. I'm only a rube, an' things come hard
for me, but I'm a-learnin'.''
It was about dark when we arrived at the house.
``Hello, Connie. You're late. Good evening,
Mr. Hurtle. Come right in. You've met Miss
Nan Brown? Oh, of course; how stupid of me!''
It was a trying moment for Milly and me. A
little pallor showed under the Rube's tan, but he
was more composed than I had expected. Nan
got up from the piano. She was all in white and
deliciously pretty. She gave a quick, glad start
of surprise. What a relief that was to my
troubled mind! Everything had depended upon
a real honest liking for Whit, and she had it.
More than once I had been proud of Milly's
cleverness, but this night as hostess and an
accomplice she won my everlasting admiration.
She contrived to give the impression that Whit
was a frequent visitor at her home and very
welcome. She brought out his best points, and in her
skillful hands he lost embarrassment and awkwardness.
Before the evening was over Nan regarded
Whit with different eyes, and she never
dreamed that everything had not come about
naturally. Then Milly somehow got me out on
the porch, leaving Nan and Whit together.
``Milly, you're a marvel, the best and sweetest
ever,'' I whispered. ``We're going to win. It's
a cinch.''
``Well, Connie, not that--exactly,'' she
whispered back demurely. ``But it looks hopeful.''
I could not help hearing what was said in the
parlor.
``Now I can roast you,'' Nan was saying, archly.
She had switched back to her favorite baseball
vernacular. ``You pitched a swell game last
Saturday in Rochester, didn't you? Not! You
had no steam, no control, and you couldn't have
curved a saucer.''
``Nan, what could you expect?'' was the cool
reply. ``You sat up in the stand with your handsome
friend. I reckon I couldn't pitch. I just
gave the game away.''
``Whit!--Whit!----''
Then I whispered to Milly that it might be
discreet for us to move a little way from the vicinity.
It was on the second day afterward that I got
a chance to talk to Nan. She reached the grounds
early, before Milly arrived, and I found her in the
grand stand. The Rube was down on the card to
pitch and when he started to warm up Nan said
confidently that he would shut out Hartford that
afternoon.
``I'm sorry, Nan, but you're way off. We'd do
well to win at all, let alone get a shutout.''
``You're a fine manager!'' she retorted, hotly.
``Why won't we win?''
``Well, the Rube's not in good form. The
Rube----''
``Stop calling him that horrid name.''
``Whit's not in shape. He's not right. He's
ill or something is wrong. I'm worried sick about
him.''
``Why--Mr. Connelly!'' exclaimed Nan. She
turned quickly toward me.
I crowded on full canvas of gloom to my already
long face.
``I 'm serious, Nan. The lad's off, somehow.
He's in magnificent physical trim, but he can't
keep his mind on the game. He has lost his head.
I've talked with him, reasoned with him, all to no
good. He only goes down deeper in the dumps.
Something is terribly wrong with him, and if he
doesn't brace, I'll have to release----''
Miss Nan Brown suddenly lost a little of her
rich bloom. ``Oh! you wouldn't--you couldn't
release him!''
``I'll have to if he doesn't brace. It means a
lot to me, Nan, for of course I can't win the pennant
this year without Whit being in shape. But
I believe I wouldn't mind the loss of that any
more than to see him fall down. The boy is a
magnificent pitcher. If he can only be brought
around he'll go to the big league next year and
develop into one of the greatest pitchers the game
has ever produced. But somehow or other he has
lost heart. He's quit. And I've done my best
for him. He's beyond me now. What a shame
it is! For he's the making of such a splendid
man outside of baseball. Milly thinks the world
of him. Well, well; there are disappointments--
we can't help them. There goes the gong. I must
leave you. Nan, I'll bet you a box of candy Whit
loses today. Is it a go?''
``It is,'' replied Nan, with fire in her eyes.
``You go to Whit Hurtle and tell him I said if
he wins today's game I'll kiss him!''
I nearly broke my neck over benches and bats
getting to Whit with that message. He gulped
once.
Then he tightened his belt and shut out Hartford
with two scratch singles. It was a great
exhibition of pitching. I had no means to tell
whether or not the Rube got his reward that
night, but I was so happy that I hugged Milly
within an inch of her life.
But it turned out that I had been a little
premature in my elation. In two days the Rube went
down into the depths again, this time clear to
China, and Nan was sitting in the grand stand
with Henderson. The Rube lost his next game,
pitching like a schoolboy scared out of his wits.
Henderson followed Nan like a shadow, so that I
had no chance to talk to her. The Rube lost his
next game and then another. We were pushed
out of second place.
If we kept up that losing streak a little longer,
our hopes for the pennant were gone. I had
begun to despair of the Rube. For some occult
reason he scarcely spoke to me. Nan flirted worse
than ever. It seemed to me she flaunted her
conquest of Henderson in poor Whit's face.
The Providence ball team came to town and
promptly signed Henderson and announced him
for Saturday's game. Cairns won the first of the
series and Radbourne lost the second. It was
Rube's turn to pitch the Saturday game and I
resolved to make one more effort to put the love-
sick swain in something like his old fettle. So I
called upon Nan.
She was surprised to see me, but received me
graciously. I fancied her face was not quite so
glowing as usual. I came bluntly out with my
mission. She tried to freeze me but I would not
freeze. I was out to win or lose and not to be
lightly laughed aside or coldly denied. I played
to make her angry, knowing the real truth of her
feelings would show under stress.
For once in my life I became a knocker and said
some unpleasant things--albeit they were true--
about Henderson. She championed Henderson
royally, and when, as a last card, I compared
Whit's fine record with Henderson's, not only as
a ball player, but as a man, particularly in his
reverence for women, she flashed at me:
``What do you know about it? Mr. Henderson
asked me to marry him. Can a man do more to
show his respect? Your friend never so much
as hinted such honorable intentions. What's
more--he insulted me!'' The blaze in Nan's black
eyes softened with a film of tears. She looked
hurt. Her pride had encountered a fall.
``Oh, no, Nan, Whit couldn't insult a lady,'' I
protested.
``Couldn't he? That's all you know about him.
You know I--I promised to kiss him if he beat
Hartford that day. So when he came I--I did.
Then the big savage began to rave and he grabbed
me up in his arms. He smothered me; almost
crushed the life out of me. He frightened me
terribly. When I got away from him--the monster
stood there and coolly said I belonged to him. I
ran out of the room and wouldn't see him any
more. At first I might have forgiven him if he
had apologized--said he was sorry, but never a
word. Now I never will forgive him.''
I had to make a strenuous effort to conceal my
agitation. The Rube had most carefully taken
my fool advice in the matter of wooing a woman.
When I had got a hold upon myself, I turned
to Nan white-hot with eloquence. Now I was talking
not wholly for myself or the pennant, but for
this boy and girl who were at odds in that
strangest game of life--love.
What I said I never knew, but Nan lost her
resentment, and then her scorn and indifference.
Slowly she thawed and warmed to my reason,
praise, whatever it was, and when I stopped she
was again the radiant bewildering Nan of old.
``Take another message to Whit for me,'' she
said, audaciously. ``Tell him I adore ball players,
especially pitchers. Tell him I'm going to
the game today to choose the best one. If he loses
the game----''
She left the sentence unfinished. In my state
of mind I doubted not in the least that she meant
to marry the pitcher who won the game, and so
I told the Rube. He made one wild upheaval of
his arms and shoulders, like an erupting volcano,
which proved to me that he believed it, too.
When I got to the bench that afternoon I was
tired. There was a big crowd to see the game;
the weather was perfect; Milly sat up in the box
and waved her score card at me; Raddy and
Spears declared we had the game; the Rube
stalked to and fro like an implacable Indian chief
--but I was not happy in mind. Calamity
breathed in the very air.
The game began. McCall beat out a bunt; Ashwell
sacrificed and Stringer laced one of his beautiful
triples against the fence. Then he scored
on a high fly. Two runs! Worcester trotted out
into the field. The Rube was white with determination;
he had the speed of a bullet and perfect
control of his jump ball and drop. But Providence
hit and had the luck. Ashwell fumbled,
Gregg threw wild. Providence tied the score.
The game progressed, growing more and more
of a nightmare to me. It was not Worcester's
day. The umpire could not see straight; the boys
grumbled and fought among themselves; Spears
roasted the umpire and was sent to the bench;
Bogart tripped, hurting his sore ankle, and had
to be taken out. Henderson's slow, easy ball
baffled my players, and when he used speed they
lined it straight at a Providence fielder.
In the sixth, after a desperate rally, we crowded
the bases with only one out. Then Mullaney's
hard rap to left, seemingly good for three bases,
was pulled down by Stone with one hand. It was
a wonderful catch and he doubled up a runner at
second. Again in the seventh we had a chance
to score, only to fail on another double play, this
time by the infield.
When the Providence players were at bat their
luck not only held good but trebled and
quadrupled. The little Texas-league hits dropped
safely just out of reach of the infielders. My boys
had an off day in fielding. What horror that of
all days in a season this should be the one for
them to make errors!
But they were game, and the Rube was the
gamest of all. He did not seem to know what
hard luck was, or discouragement, or poor support.
He kept everlastingly hammering the ball
at those lucky Providence hitters. What speed he
had! The ball streaked in, and somebody would
shut his eyes and make a safety. But the Rube
pitched, on, tireless, irresistibly, hopeful, not
forgetting to call a word of cheer to his fielders.
It was one of those strange games that could
not be bettered by any labor or daring or skill.
I saw it was lost from the second inning, yet so
deeply was I concerned, so tantalizingly did the
plays reel themselves off, that I groveled there
on the bench unable to abide by my baseball sense.
The ninth inning proved beyond a shadow of
doubt how baseball fate, in common with other
fates, loved to balance the chances, to lift up one,
then the other, to lend a deceitful hope only to
dash it away.
Providence had almost three times enough to
win. The team let up in that inning or grew over-
confident or careless, and before we knew what
had happened some scratch hits, and bases on
balls, and errors, gave us three runs and left two
runners on bases. The disgusted bleachers came
out of their gloom and began to whistle and
thump. The Rube hit safely, sending another run
over the plate. McCall worked his old trick,
beating out a slow bunt.
Bases full, three runs to tie! With Ashwell up
and one out, the noise in the bleachers mounted
to a high-pitched, shrill, continuous sound. I got
up and yelled with all my might and could not
hear my voice. Ashwell was a dangerous man in
a pinch. The game was not lost yet. A hit,
anything to get Ash to first--and then Stringer!
Ash laughed at Henderson, taunted him, shook
his bat at him and dared him to put one over.
Henderson did not stand under fire. The ball he
pitched had no steam. Ash cracked it--square on
the line into the shortstop's hands. The bleachers
ceased yelling.
Then Stringer strode grimly to the plate. It
was a hundred to one, in that instance, that he
would lose the ball. The bleachers let out one
deafening roar, then hushed. I would rather have
had Stringer at the bat than any other player in
the world, and I thought of the Rube and Nan
and Milly--and hope would not die.
Stringer swung mightily on the first pitch and
struck the ball with a sharp, solid bing! It shot
toward center, low, level, exceedingly swift, and
like a dark streak went straight into the fielder's
hands. A rod to right or left would have made
it a home run. The crowd strangled a victorious
yell. I came out of my trance, for the game was
over and lost. It was the Rube's Waterloo.
I hurried him into the dressing room and kept
close to him. He looked like a man who had lost
the one thing worth while in his life. I turned a
deaf ear to my players, to everybody, and hustled
the Rube out and to the hotel. I wanted to be
near him that night.
To my amaze we met Milly and Nan as we
entered the lobby. Milly wore a sweet,
sympathetic smile. Nan shone more radiant than ever.
I simply stared. It was Milly who got us all
through the corridor into the parlor. I heard Nan
talking.
``Whit, you pitched a bad game but--'' there
was the old teasing, arch, coquettishness--``but
you are the best pitcher!''
``Nan!''
``Yes!''
_________
-THE END-
Zane Grey's short story: The Rube's Waterloo
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