“I’d certainly stick with the fraternity,” says Hagedorn. “If I didn’t, I’d be a traitor.”
“If I make you out a contract for $6,000, will you sign it?” I ast him.
“Sure,” he says. “I always told you I’d sign for my price.”
“Well, Bill,” I says, “I won’t give you the contract. I’d hate to think I’d made a traitor out o’ you.”
“I don’t want no contract anyway,” says Bill. “I’m through. I’m goin’ into business.”
“What business?” I says.
“Somethin’ pretty good,” he says. “I and a friend o’ mine’s goin’ in partners in a garage.”
“That’s a great idear!” says I. “You won’t have no competition, and it won’t cost nothin’ to start, and besides that, it’s a game you know more about than any other, unless it’s dressmakin’.”
“My friend knows all about it,” says Bill, “and I can pick it up from him.”
“You better stick to pickin’ up low throws,” I says. “It takes years to learn the mechanism of a car when you don’t know nothin’ to start, not even what makes the front wheels run. But o’ course you won’t be the only one in the garage business that has to learn, and so long as it’s other people’s cars you wreck while you’re learnin’, why what’s the difference!”
“They’s good money in a garage,” says Bill.
“I know it, and a whole lot of it’s mine,” I says. “They’s good money in any business like that—smugglin’ or counterfeitin’ or snatchin’ purses. But it must be hell on a man’s conscience, even worse’n drawin’ $6,000 per annum for takin’ a six months’ nap on the old ball field.”
The first thing Mr. Edwards ast me when he got back from the South was what was the latest dope on Hagedorn.
“He’s surprised me,” I says. “I thought he’d give in long before this. But nothin’ doin’.”
“What will we do about it?” says the boss.
“Mr. Edwards,” I says, “you’re the man that’s payin’ me my money, and it’s my business to look out for your interests. If Hagedorn had of kept away from here all winter, if we hadn’t heard nothin’ from him from the day he first turned down the contract, I’d say give him his $6,000. But him comin’ round here once a week shows that he needs us as much as we need him, and that he’ll stand for the cut if he’s got to. Besides, he’s showed a mighty poor opinion o’ me by expectin’ me to believe all that junk about him goin’ into business, and so on—stuff that was old in the Noah’s Ark League. He couldn’t earn a dime a day in anything outside o’ baseball. If he had a factory that made shells out o’ lake water, he’d be bankrupt in a month. Now they’s probably four better first basemen than him in the league, but I doubt if more’n one o’ them’s drawin’ $6,000. O’ course with him on the ball club it looks like we’d be somewheres up in the race, and we ain’t got a chance with a busher playin’ the position.
“If it was a case o’ givin’ him his dough or gettin’ along without him, I’d rather see him get the money even if it’s a holdup. But if I’m any judge of a ball player, he’ll come round here on his hands and knees the day before we start for the Springs, and he’ll sign at whatever price you offer him.”
“It’s a shame,” says Mr. Edwards, “when everything else looks so good for us, to have to be worryin’ about a man like him, that loafed on us all last summer and that I’d get rid of in a minute if I had somebody in his place. I suppose they’s no chance o’ tradin’ for a first baseman at this stage.”
“Oh, yes, they’s a chance,” I says. “I suppose Matty’d let us have Chase if we’d give up our pitchin’ staff and half a dozen infielders and $40,000 or $50,000 in cash. Then we’d have Chase and nothin’ with him.”
“Maybe young Lahey’ll surprise us,” says the boss.
“It won’t hurt us to hope,” I says, “but from what I can learn Bill Doyle was mad at you when he recommended him. And besides,” I says, “Lahey’s a left-hand hitter, and that’d mean five o’ them in the game every day. We’d be a setup for fellas like Schupp and Smith and Tyler. Take Hagedorn, and he can murder a left-hander even when he ain’t hittin’ his weight against a regular pitcher.”
“Well, all we can do is wait,” says Mr. Edwards.
“And I don’t think it’ll be long,” I says.
But when the night come for us to start South, Hagedorn was still a holdout, though he did show one more sign o’ weakenin’. He was down to the station to shake hands with the boys and see us off, and he looked like he was ready to cry. I called him off to one side.
“Would you like to be goin’ along, Bill?” I ast him.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he says.
“Why don’t you take your medicine and hop aboard?” I says. “Your missus can pack up your stuff and send it after you.”
“I’ll go if you say the word,” he says.
“You’re the one that must do the talkin’,” says I.
“Why couldn’t I go along without signin’?” he says. “Maybe the old man would meet my figure when he seen how hard I’d work to get in shape.”
“No,” says I; “this ain’t no charity excursion we’re runnin’. We pay nobody’s fare that ain’t signed up and a member o’ this ball club. If you want to sign at $4,000, they’s a contract right there in my grip. If you don’t, why you can spend the rest o’ the winter countin’ snowflakes and cursin’ the coal trust.”
“Well,” he says, “I’ll freeze to death before I’ll be robbed; starve to death, too, before I’ll let old Edwards bull me out o’ what’s comin’ to me.”
“I’m sorry,
