Short Fiction

guess you know, Kate,” I said. “There is no use discussing it. You had better get back in your berth before Mr. Garrett sees you, because if you care for him you certainly do not want him to faint away.”

I left her then and got off the train, and if I never see her again I guess I will live through it.

I have been doing a lot of thinking yesterday and today on the train, and I have come to the conclusion that a girl is foolish to give up her freedom for any man, no matter how attractive she may think him at first. There is nobler work in the world for a girl besides being a drudge for her husband. As soon as I get home I believe I will make inquiries about how much it would cost to train to be a Red Cross nurse. Surely that is a nobler work than that of a housewife. Anyway, I certainly am through with the opposite sex for all time, and will be just as well satisfied if no man ever looks at me again.

Monday, September 4: I do not know why I am keeping up this diary, now that my trip is over. Just to pass the time, I guess. I thought this morning I would tear it all up, but then I happened to think that it contained my personal impressions of Yellowstone Park, which I will copy out some day and keep, and tear up the rest of it.

It is after supper and mother has gone out to the picture show. I would of gone with her only Don Kellogg is coming to see me. How he will laugh when I tell him about Kate and her “great catch.” I bet he will not believe me when I tell him she is actually engaged. He will say: “Is the poor guy blind or crazy or what?”

I would not of let Don know I was in town only I happened to remember I had lent him the book I wanted to read this week, so I phoned him as soon as I got home this morning and asked him would he send it to me.

“No,” was his reply; “but I will bring it to you.”

“You are the same old Don,” I said laughingly, “persistent as ever.”

I did not have the heart to tell him not to come. He is a dear, and it will be grand to see him after spending nearly a week in the kind of company I have been in.

Next time I take a trip I will pick my own company, and maybe, diary, it will be a honeymoon trip. Who knows?

The Holdout

Three people, not countin’ myself, think I’m the greatest guy in the world. One o’ them’s my first and last wife, another’s Mr. Edwards, and the other’s Bill Hagedorn.

It’d be hard to pick three that I’d rather have cordial. If a person is livin’ with their wife, it makes it kind o’ pleasant to have her like you. Mr. Edwards, o’ course, is the man I’m workin’ for, so it don’t hurt me at all to be his hero. And I’m glad to have Bill added to the list, because it means he’ll play the bag better for me this year than he’s done yet, and with a little pep on first base we’re liable to be bad news to George Stallin’s, Wilbert Robinson and John J. McGraw.

But listen: If Mr. Edwards ever got hold o’ the truth o’ the Hagedorn business, him and I’d be just as clubby as Lord George and the Kaiser. If he didn’t drop dead when he found it out, he’d slip me the tinware, contract or no contract, and I wouldn’t have the heart to fight it in the courts, because I admit I gave him a raw deal. My only alibi is that I left my feelin’s get the best o’ me, and that excuse wouldn’t be worth a dime with him; they’s no excuse that would be, where his pocketbook’s concerned, like in this case. He just simply hates money!

The worst of it is that Hagedorn didn’t deserve no consideration. I like to see a fella get all that’s comin’ to him, provided he goes after it in the right way and puts up a real fight. Hagedorn made a hog of himself and was tremblin’ all the time he did it. If he was as yellow on the ball field as when he’s makin’ a play for more dough, I’d take away his uniform and suspend him for life; he wouldn’t be no more use to me than a set of adenoids.

He’s just as game a ball player, though, as you’ll find. The minute he trots out there in the old orchard he’s a different guy, afraid o’ nothin’. All he’s lacked so far is ambish, and I figure he’ll show some o’ that this year. He’ll give me his best out o’ gratitude. If he don’t, it’ll mean his finish on the big time, family or no family.

It’s part o’ my agreement with Mr. Edwards that I stick on the job all the year round, goin’ to the league meetin’s with him in winter, helpin’ him sign up the boys, and so forth. Well, after we was through last fall, he called me up in the office and begin crabbin’ about finances.

“Frank,” he says, “we lost $18,000 this season. I pretty near wish I didn’t have no ball club.”

“You’ve pretty near got your wish,” I says. “If some o’ those bushers don’t come through next spring, or if we don’t swing a couple o’ deals between now and then, the clubs that play against us won’t even get good practice.”

“Bad as we are,” he says, “I bet we got the biggest salary list in the big leagues. It looks to me like not only one or two, but several of our men were bein’