Hatin’ yourself, though, ain’t nothin’ against a ball player. Take most any real star and when the dialogue ain’t about him he’s bored to death, and if he has a bad day, pitchin’ or hittin’ or whatever it is he does, it’s plain tough luck or rotten umpirin’.
So Bull didn’t think none the less o’ Martin’s ability on account o’ the size of his chest, even if he did get good an’ sick o’ hearin’ nothin’ but Martin, Martin, Martin, all day and half the night.
Bull would of gave anything if Maggie and the rest o’ them had forgot their scheme to land the pet in the big menagerie. But they wasn’t a chance. When he’d rather of been hearin’ that she cared somethin’ about him, she was eggin’ him on to hurry up and think of a way to bring Brother to the attention o’ the real people.
In December Bull read in the paper that Ted Pierce, the manager o’ the Montgomery club, was in town. He made a date to meet him and find out just how good Martin was.
“He’s just good enough to of pretty near drove me wild,” Ted told him. “If we’re ten runs ahead and he comes up with the bases full, he’ll hit one from here to Nashville. Or if we’re fifteen runs behind in the last half o’ the ninth, with two out, it’s fifty to one that he’ll get to first base. But put him up to that plate when everything depends on him and you’d think he had paralysis o’ the arms. He’ll take three in the groove and then holler murder at the umps.”
“Plain yellow, eh?” says Bull.
“I don’t like to say that about nobody,” Ted says. “But if the old U.S. called for volunteers, I’d bet on Benedict Arnold to beat him to the front.”
“Ain’t they no chance of him gettin’ over it?” ast Bull.
“I’ve tried everything,” says Ted. “I’ve called him all the names I could think of. I’ve tried to jolly him too; I’ve told him the pitchers was all scared of him and all he’d have to do was swing that club. But he’s just as bad as when he broke in.”
“He’s a kid yet,” says Bull. “It may be just stage fright.”
“It may be,” says Ted. “He certainly is cocky enough most o’ the time; it’s only in a pinch that he loses it.”
“I’m a friend of his family,” says Bull. “I’d like awful well to see him move up.”
“You wouldn’t like it no better’n me,” says Ted. “I’d like to see him move anywheres. I’m sick o’ lookin’ at him. If you can sell him for any kind of a price, I’ll give you half of it.”
“You know I couldn’t sell him,” says Bull. “But if somebody else recommended him to somebody and I was ast about him, I’d do my best.”
“Well,” says Ted, “I ain’t goin’ to recommend him nowheres, unless it’s to a fella I got no use for. I’m goin’ to try him again in the spring, and if he don’t quit chokin’ to death every time he’s got a chance to be a hero, I’ll tie a can on him whether he’s a friend o’ yours or Woodrow Wilson’s.”
“Outside o’ that, he’s a good ball player, is he?” says Bull.
“They ain’t no man I ever seen with more natural advantages,” Ted told him. “His record shows that he hit .329 and stole thirty-two bases and fielded as good as any second baseman in the league. But he didn’t make none o’ those base hits when we’d of gave a thousand dollars apiece for ’em, and when he could of pulled a pitcher out of a hole with a swell piece o’ fieldin’ he simply booted the ball all over the infield.”
“They’s just the one hope for him, then,” says Bull, “and that’s to go out and get some o’ the old nervine.”
“If you can make him do that,” says Ted, “I’ll guarantee to sell him to any club you name.”
So Bull, that night, told Maggie that Martin was still shy of experience and needed at least another year in minor league ball before he could hope to stick up with the E-light. He figured that he could work on the kid all the rest o’ the winter and maybe succeed in stingin’ him enough with hot conversation to get that streak out of him.
But Maggie right away wanted to know where Bull’d got his information and Bull had to tell her.
“No wonder!” says Maggie. “Pierce never did have a good word for him. Him and all the rest o’ them’s jealous.”
“You’re mistaken,” says Bull. “Pierce wouldn’t like nothin’ better than to sell him for a good price.”
“All right,” says Maggie, “if you think I’m mistaken, that shows you don’t care nothin’ about me.”
So Bull didn’t have no answer to that swell argument only to beg her pardon and say she was probably right.
Well, it finally come to a kind of a showdown: Bull was either to see that Martin got his chance this spring or he’d have to worry along without Maggie. She didn’t come right out and say that the way I’ve put it, but she made it plain enough so’s they wasn’t much chance to misunderstand.
Bull kicked the sheets round for a few nights and then got his idear. O’ course the first thing was to pick a club that was tryin’ to build up, and if possible to pick one that had a manager who’d pay the right kind of attention to a kid. Bull chose Connie as the best bet. The next thing was to persuade Connie to give Martin his trial. Bull wanted to be perfectly square, as you’ll see by the deal he put through. He got a fella there in Montgomery with a good Irish name to write
