“Yes, sir,” I says; “and on their showin’ the last few months some o’ them would be overpaid if they drawed a dollar a day.”
“Well,” he says, “I’m goin’ to do some trimmin’. The boys’ll kick, I suppose, but I’m dependin’ on you to show ’em they deserve cuts.”
“That’s a nice little job for me,” I says. “It’s just as easy to convince a ball player that his pay ought to be trimmed as it is to score twelve runs off Alexander.”
“I’d just as leave pay good prices for good work,” he says, “but I’m not goin’ to maintain no pension bureau. These ridic’lous Federal League contracts have all run out, thank heavens, and from now on my ball club’ll be run on a sane basis. Look at Lefty Grant!” he says. “He got $7,000 and pitched pretty near eleven full games, winnin’ three o’ them. And look at Hagedorn! A $6,000 contract and no more life in him than a wet rag! What do you suppose ailed him?”
“Federalitis,” I says. “He was gettin’ soft money in the Federal, with no incentive to win and nobody to try and make him hustle.”
“A $6,000 salary,” says Mr. Edwards, “for a man that hit round .220 and played first base like he was bettin’ against us! Maybe we’d better just let loose of him.”
“If I was you,” I says, “I’d see what the recruits is like before gettin’ rid o’ Hagedorn. I’ll admit he’s been loafin’, but he’s a mighty good ball player when he tries.”
“Maybe it’ll wake him up to cut him,” says he. “I’m goin’ to send him a contract for $4,000.”
“Suit yourself,” says I. “He’ll holler like an Indian, but if he sees you’re in earnest I guess he’ll come round.”
“He lives here in town,” says Mr. Edwards. “I’ll have the girl call him up sometime and tell him I want to see him.”
So we discussed a few others that was gettin’ way more than they earned, and the boss says he wouldn’t play no favorites, but would cut ’em all from ten to forty percent. I knew they’d be plenty o’ trouble, but I didn’t care a whole lot. I figured that if everybody on the payroll quit the game and went to work it’d strengthen the team.
Well, Hagedorn accepted Mr. Edwards’ invitation to call and I was in the office when Bill come in.
“Mr. Hagedorn,” says the boss, “Manager Conley and myself’s been talkin’ things over and we come to the conclusion that several o’ you boys was earnin’ less than we paid you. What do you think about it?”
“Well,” says Hagedorn, “some o’ the boys maybe deserve cuts. But I don’t see how I come in on it.”
“Why not?” says Mr. Edwards. “The unofficial averages gives you a battin’ percentage o’ .220.”
“I can’t help what them dam scorers do to me,” says Bill. “I never did get fair treatment from the reporters.”
“But when you was in the league before,” says the boss, “you always hit up round .280, and it’s a cinch the scorers didn’t cheat you out o’ sixty points.”
“They’d cheat me out o’ my shirt if they had a chance,” Bill says. “But even if I did have a bad year with the wood, that ain’t no sign I won’t do all right next season.”
“That’s true enough,” says Mr. Edwards. “Anybody’s liable to have a battin’ slump. But Manager Conley and myself wasn’t thinkin’ about your hittin’ alone. We kind o’ thought that your work all round was below the standard; that you was sort o’ layin’ down on the job.”
Hagedorn began to whine.
“Mr. Edwards,” he says, “you got me entirely wrong. I wouldn’t lay down on nobody. I’ve give you my best every minute, and if I haven’t it was because things broke bad for me.”
“What things?” I ast him.
“Well,” he says, “for one thing, I felt rotten all summer. My legs was bad.”
“Well,” I says, “you can’t expect Mr. Edwards to pay $3,000 apiece for bad legs.”
“But they’re all right now,” he says. “I haven’t had a bit o’ trouble with ’em all fall. And I’m takin’ grand care o’ myself and next spring I’ll be as good as ever.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about your legs?” I ast him. “I’d of let you lay off. You certainly wasn’t helpin’ us much.”
“I’d of told you only I don’t like to quit,” he says. “And besides, my legs wasn’t the whole trouble.”
“What else was it?” I says.
“Well,” he says, “the Missus was sick and in the hospital, and I had to pay out a lot o’ money and it kept me worried.”
“When was she sick?” I ast him.
“Let’s see,” he says, “it was while we was on our last Eastern trip.”
“You never ast me to let you come home,” I says.
“No,” he says, “I didn’t know nothin’ at all about it till we got back.”
“That’s why you worried, I suppose,” says I, “and I guess your wife’s illness in September was what worried you in June and July.”
“She was sick on and off all season,” he says.
“I noticed,” says I, “that she done most of her sufferin’ in a grandstand seat. Her ailment,” I says, “was probably brought on by watchin’ you perform.”
“She’s full o’ nerve,” he says. “She wouldn’t miss a ball game if she was dyin’. And besides, her sickness wasn’t all of it.”
“Let’s hear the whole story at once,” I says. “The suspense is fierce.”
“Her folks kept botherin’ us,” says Hagedorn. “They live in Louisville, and they’re gettin’ old and they wanted that she should come down there and stay with ’em.”
“Couldn’t they come up here?” I ast him.
“No,” he says, “they got their own home and their own friends and everything down there.”
“Well,” I says, “that’d probably be the square thing for you to do, just pack up and move to Louisville and live with ’em.”
“We’d only be there in the winter,” he says.
“No,” says I, “I’ll fix it so’s you can be there all the year round.”
“What do
