Then, in the middle of August, everything happened at once. Charley Wade broke an ankle, Carmody’s right arm went dead, and the girl had a brawl with Aunt Julia.
We was in Indianapolis. We’d just got through carryin’ Charley into the clubhouse when a boy come down to the bench and handed me a telegram. It says I was to come at once; she must see me.
“Carmody,” I says, “I got to run down to Dayton tonight.”
“What for?” he says.
“Somebody wants me,” I told him.
“Not as bad as I do,” he says.
“Well,” says I, “it’s somebody that makes more difference than you do.”
“I’ll talk to you after the game,” he says. It was our last bats and it didn’t take ’em long to get us out.
“Now,” says Carmody, “you can go to Dayton tonight if you’ll promise to be back in time to play tomorrow.”
“I can’t make no promise,” I says.
“Then you can’t go,” says Carmody.
“What’s the matter with you?” I says. “Can’t you stick a pitcher or one o’ them kids in right field for one day?”
“You ain’t goin’ to play right field no more,” he says.
“I ain’t goin’ to play nowheres else,” says I. “Do you think I’m goin’ to catch in Charley’s place?”
“No,” he says. “I’m goin’ to put Boyle back there.”
“And me go to first?” I says.
“No,” says Carmody. “I’m goin’ there nyself and you’re goin’ to take my place at shortstop.”
“You’re maudlin,” I says. “I signed a contract to play right field and that’s where I’m goin’ to stick. I’m awkward enough out there; I’d be a holy show on the infield. Besides, you never played first base in your life and one o’ the pitchers or that big Griffin kid could do as good as you. What’s the use o’ breakin’ up your whole combination just because one fella’s hurt?”
“We couldn’t make no change that’d be for the worse,” says Carmody. “But I’ll come clean with you and tell you where I’m at. I’m gettin’ $1,800 a month for this job. But my contract says I got to play the whole season out or he can cut $2,500 off’n my year’s salary.”
“Well,” I says, “what’s the difference if you play first base or stay where you’re at?”
“I can’t stay where I’m at,” he says. “My souper’s deader’n that place we trained. She quit on me in the seventh innin’ today. I couldn’t stand on the foul line and throw to fair ground.”
“You hurt it in action, didn’t you?” I says.
“Yes, but he’s sore at me,” says Carmody, “on account of our swell showin’. And the way my contract reads, he could keep my dough if he wanted to.”
“But you’ll have to throw when you’re playin’ first base,” says I.
“No, I won’t,” he says. “You watch me and see. If I’ve got the ball and they’s a play to make anywheres, you’ll see the old pill slip right out o’ my hand and lay there on the ground.”
“But I don’t see why you should pick on me,” I says. “Boles or Red Fulton or one o’ them kids could do a whole lot better job o’ shortstoppin’ than me.”
“Boles and Fulton is bad enough where they’re at,” he says, “without wishin’ a new bunch o’ trouble on ’em. You’ve played there and you’d know what you was doin’ even if you couldn’t stoop over or cover no ground. Besides,” he says, “old Grant wants you to tackle it.”
“When was you talkin’ to him?” I says. “You ain’t seen him since Charley got hurt and your arm went.”
“That’s more secrets,” says Carmody. “Between you and I, my arm’s been bad a long w’ile and I had the hunch it was goin’ to do just what it done. So I told him a little story a couple o’ weeks ago. I told him I wasn’t satisfied with the way Boyle was playin’ first base and I told him I was a pretty good first sacker myself and thought I’d move over there. So he ast me who’d play shortstop and I told him you’d make the best man and he says he thought so, too, but your contract read that you’d only play right field. So I told him maybe he could coax you to switch.”
“It must be hard for you to shave with all that cheek,” I says. “You can go and tell him now that you ast me would I play shortstop and I told you No, I wouldn’t. So that’s settled, and now I’m goin’ to catch a train. If I can get back tomorrow I will. And if I do get back, I’ll be in right field.”
I left him bawlin’ me out, but I knowed he couldn’t do nothin’ to me. I had as much on him as he had on me.
I run into a flood in Dayton, but it was salt water this time. The girl cried for two hours after I got there and couldn’t quit long enough to tell me what it was about. I finally made like I was goin’ away disgusted. Then she come through.
They wasn’t goin’ to be no $2,500 from Aunt Julia. Aunt Julia’d fell in love with a G.A.R. that hadn’t did nothin’ since ’65 but celebrate his team’s victory. So Ethel, instead o’ usin’ her head, lost it, and ast Aunt Julia what she meant by tyin’ up with a bird twenty years older than herself that hadn’t shaved since Grant took Richmond. So they broke up in a riot and all bets was off.
“Well,” I says, “maybe she’ll get over it.”
“No, she won’t,” says Ethel, “and even if she did, I wouldn’t take her old money.”
“Any high-class bank would give you new money for it,” I says.
“It ain’t no time for jokin’,” she says. “Everything’s all over. We can’t get married this year; maybe not for ten years; maybe never.”
“I don’t have to pay all them debts right away,”
