Smitty was in his berth, gettin’ his beauty sleep, when Fogarty clumb aboard that night. So they didn’t see each other till next mornin’. Smitty nailed me comin’ out o’ the Union Station in St. Louis.
“What’s that guy doin’ with us?” he says.
“Who do you mean?” I says.
“That big, ugly Mick,” says he.
“Ugly!” I says. “If I was you I wouldn’t call him ugly. He’s a big, handsome boy, and he looks handsomer’n ever alongside a homely wop like you.”
He never said a word. He turned away from me like as if I’d ast him for a hundred bucks. Red told me afterward that he come and sat with him in the dinin’ room at the hotel and ast if Fogarty was goin’ to be with us.
“Sure!” says Red. “I thought it was about time we was gettin’ a pitcher.”
“A pitcher!” says Smitty. “If they sold him to you for a pitcher you got cheated. He’s only a swell-headed pup that don’t think about nothin’ but the part in his hair.”
“Well,” says Red, “if I had hair as pretty as his’n I’d be proud of it too.”
That shut up Smitty and he left the table without finishin’ his Java; but he come to Red in the lobby an hour later and ast if he could work that afternoon! It took Red five minutes to come to. He hadn’t had no such request as that from nobody for pretty near three weeks, and Smitty was the last guy on earth he expected it from. You can bet he give his consent.
When our grips come I went to my room to take a nap and a shave; but I didn’t get no nap. My new roomy, Fogarty, followed me in and begin talkin’ right away.
“What kind o’ burg is Philly?” he says.
“Swell!” says I. “You can get anything you want there.”
“How about the female population?” he ast. “Lots o’ good lookers?”
“Well,” I says, “I guess there’s plenty o’ pretty girls; but I’m a married man and I ain’t got no time for ’em. If you’re after information on that subject you better ast Smitty.”
“Smitty!” he says. “What does he know about girls?”
“He must know how to grab ’em,” says I. “All the real dolls in the burg is bugs over him.”
“They must be a fine bunch!” says Fogarty. “It must be they never seen nobody.”
“Well,” I says, “they ain’t looked at nobody since they seen him.”
“I can’t figure it out,” he says.
“That’s easy,” says I. “In the first place he’s a fine-lookin’ boy, and in the second place he’s a swell pitcher.”
“Where do you get that stuff?” says Fogarty. “Don’t you think I know nothin’? If he’s fine-lookin’ I’m a snake. And if he’s a swell pitcher, why don’t they never start him?”
“He’s had a sore arm,” I says; “but he’s all OK now and Red’s goin’ to work him today.”
He left the room right after that and I didn’t see no more of him till we got out to the park; but Red tipped me that he’d came to him and ast if he could work the game. Red told him he was goin’ to start Smitty.
“Good night!” says Fogarty. “They’ll get a hundred runs.”
But, say, I never seen such a change in a man as they was in Smitty that afternoon. He warmed up with Pat first and was so fast that Pat couldn’t hardly keep his glove on. Then Red took him a while and was so pleased that he forgot to get sore when he catched one right on the meat hand.
Well, he didn’t shut ’em out—he hadn’t had no real work for a long time and he was hog wild; but, say, they couldn’t hit him with a shovel! Two blows was what they got, an’ we licked ’em, five to two. It was the first game we’d win since we left home; and all through it Fogarty was frothin’ at the mouth. Every little while he’d say: “He can’t keep it up—the lucky bum! He’s slippin’. Better let me warm up!” But Red didn’t pay no attention to him.
Maybe you think we didn’t feel good in that clubhouse—’specially me and Pat and Red! We was the only ones in on the secret. We’d decided not to ask no help from the other boys for fear they’d make it too raw. I felt the best of anybody, ’cause it was my scheme and I’d been scared that it wouldn’t work. It made me look good to myself and to Red too. Before we was dressed, Fogarty’d drew Red aside and got him to promise to pitch him next day.
I wasn’t sure yet that success was goin’ to be permanent. Still, it was up to I and Pat to go through with our end of it, and my job was to stick close to Fogarty all that evenin’ and keep goadin’ him. I braced him outside o’ the hotel after supper and ast him to take a walk.
“Grand game Smitty pitched today!” I says.
“What was grand about it?” says he. “Who couldn’t beat that bunch? He’d ought to of been ashamed of himself for lettin’ ’em score.”
“He only give ’em two hits,” says I.
“Sure!” says Fogarty. “And how was they goin’ to get hits when he didn’t throw nothin’ near the plate?”
“Well,” I says, “I don’t see no harm in a few walks so long’s a feller can get ’em over when he has to. It’s pretty hard for a guy with all that smoke to control it right along.”
“Yes,” he says; “but I claim it takes a lucky bird to give eight bases on balls and get away with the ball game. It don’t show no pitchin’ on his part; all it shows is that the other club’d ought to try some easier game than baseball. All they had to do was go up there without their bats and they’d of trimmed us; but they didn’t even make him pitch. It looked to
