“You know what I’ve told you,” she says. “We won’t be married one minute before you’re out o’ debt.”
“Well,” I says, “it looks like they was no hurry about gettin’ a license. They ain’t goin’ to be no post-season money for us guys.”
“We’ll just have to wait then,” says the girl. “You’ll have to save every cent o’ your next year’s pay.”
“They ain’t goin’ to be no next year’s pay,” says I. “This league’ll be past history in another season. And I couldn’t carry bats anywheres else.”
The more we talked the bluer things looked and I guess I’d of been cryin’ myself in another minute if the big idear hadn’t came to me.
“Wait a minute!” I says. “They’s a chance that we can get out o’ this all right.”
“What’s the dope?” she ast me.
But I wouldn’t tell her; it wasn’t clear in my own mind yet and I didn’t want to say nothin’ till I’d schemed it out.
“I’m goin’ right back, back, back to Indiana,” I says. “You’ll get a wire from me tomorrow night. Maybe it’ll be good news and maybe it won’t. But you’ll know pretty near as soon as I do.”
I was up in Carmody’s room at seven o’clock the next mornin’. I ast him if he’d said anything to Mr. Grant about me refusin’ to play shortstop.
“No,” he says. “I was hopin’ you’d change your mind.”
“Maybe I will,” I says, “but not without he coaxes me.”
Carmody didn’t ask me what I was gettin’ at. He dressed and went downstairs to find the Old Boy. And at half-past eight, in the dinin’ room, the coaxin’ commenced.
“Warner,” says Mr. Grant, “Carmody’s thinkin’ about makin’ a few changes in the team.”
“Is that so?” I says. “What are they?”
“Well,” he says, “he ain’t satisfied with the way Boyle plays first base. And besides, now that Wade’s hurt, he thinks Boyle should ought to go back and catch again. And he wants to try first base himself. So that would leave shortstop open.”
“Maybe you could get a hold o’ some semipro shortstopper,” I says.
“I don’t want none,” he says. “I want a man that’s had big league experience. I believe that with Carmody on first base and a good man at shortstop we could finish seventh yet. What do you think?”
“Very likely,” I says, knowin’ that they wasn’t a chance in the world.
“I’d give a good deal to pull out o’ last place,” says he.
“Well,” I says, “I’ll see if I can’t think o’ some good shortstop that ain’t tied up.”
“You don’t have to try and think o’ one,” says Mr. Grant. “I’ve got one in mind.”
“Who’s that?” I says.
“Yourself,” he says. I pretended like I was too su’prised to speak.
“You can play the position, can’t you?” he ast.
“Sure,” says I. “That’s where I was born and brought up.”
“Well, then,” he says, rubbin’ his hands.
“Well, nothin’,” I says. “I’m signed as a right fielder.”
“We could make a new contract,” he says.
“But listen, Mr. Grant,” I says. “W’ile I know shortstop like a book, I don’t want to play it. It’s too hard. It keeps a man thinkin’ and workin’ every minute. One season at shortstop is pretty near as wearin’ as two in the outfield. That’s why I insisted on right field. I wanted to take things a little easier this year. That’s why I was willin’ to sign with $5,000.”
“What would you of wanted to play short?” he ast me.
“Oh,” I says, “I wouldn’t of thought of it for less than $9,000.”
He didn’t say nothin’ for a minute; a good long minute too. Finally he says:
“Well, Warner, they’s only about six more weeks to go. But I’m wild to get out o’ last place and I’ll spend some money to do it, though spendin’ money has been my chief business all season. I want to be fair with you, so if you’ll finish out the season at shortstop I’ll give you $2,500 extra.”
This time it was me that wanted to hug him. But I played safe. I considered and considered and considered and finally I give in.
“I’ll do it, Mr. Grant,” I says. “As a favor to you, I’ll do it.”
Out in the lobby Carmody was waitin’ for me.
“It’s fixed,” I says. “He’s a pretty good coaxer.”
“What did you get?” he ast me.
“A November weddin’,” says I.
I’d promised to wire Ethel by night, but the thing had been pulled a whole lot quicker’n I’d hoped for. I run right from Carmody to the telegraph office.
“All fixed,” I says in my message. “I got $2,500 extra.”
At lunch time her answer come back:
Good old boy. Did you hold somebody up?
Well, sir, believe me or not, I hadn’t thought of it that way before. But when I read her wire I had to admit to myself that she’d pretty near called the turn.
The less said about them last six weeks the better. I don’t know how many games we was beat, but five was what we win. I felt worst about poor Steele. There he was, workin’ his head off two to four games a week, worth four times as much as all the rest of us together, and drawin’ a salary o’ $400 a month. He’s with a real club this year and you watch him go!
They’ll always be a question in my mind about which was the biggest flivver, me at shortstop or Carmody at first base. I covered just as much ground as was under my shoes and if a ground ball didn’t hop up waist high when it come to me, it kept right on travelin’.
I didn’t take many plays at second base for the fear I’d get slid into. If I tagged anybody it was because they stuck out their hand and insisted on it. And I was so nervous all the w’ile that I couldn’t hardly foul
