I and Pat went to a show. When we blowed back, about eleven, they was a noise like New Year’s Eve in the café. We went in to see what it was. They was a gang o’ fellers at one table with Smitty, and another bunch at another table with Fogarty. They was four or five empty quart bottles in front o’ each o’ them. They’d had five or six more pints than they could carry comfortable and was hollerin’ for more, but was broke. We got ’em both at one table and ast ’em to sing. Before they was halfway through the first verse o’ whatever it was, the night clerk horned in and stopped ’em. Then we took ’em out in the street and told ’em to finish it, but they was too many coppers round.
Most of us was roomin’ on the tenth floor and one o’ the boys talked the pair into racin’ upstairs instead of usin’ the elevator. They both fell down at the first landin’ and when they hit the floor they was all in. They’d of slept there for a week if we hadn’t of carried ’em to the elevator and got ’em up the rest o’ the way. Then what did we do but steer ’em both into Pat’s room and put ’em to bed together. They was no danger o’ them gettin’ wise till the next day; they was dead to the world. I and Pat slept in my room and we was up bright and early so’s not to miss nothin’. We walked in and found ’em both poundin’ their ear. It must of tooken us fifteen minutes to get ’em roused.
“Well, boys,” says Pat, “I’m glad to see you so friendly and lookin’ so fresh.”
They looked about as fresh as a old dray horse.
“How did you happen to be roomin’ together?” I says.
It wasn’t till then that they wised up. Smitty jumped out o’ bed like the hotel was afire.
“I’ll murder the guy that done this!” he hollered.
“What do you mean?” says Pat. “Don’t you know who you went to bed with?”
“You must of been in bad shape,” I says. “Fogarty was all right; he knowed what he was doin’.”
Fogarty wanted to deny it, but he couldn’t, ’cause if he had of he’d be admittin’ that the wine was too much for him. So he just had to shut up and take it.
“I was all right too,” says Smitty.
“Then what are you crabbin’ about?” says Pat.
They wasn’t no answer to that.
“I’m goin’ to ring for some ice water,” says Fogarty.
“Nobody never wants ice water at this time o’ the mornin’ unless they had a bad night,” I says. “You don’t hear Smitty askin’ for no ice water.”
Smitty’d of gave his right eye for a barrel of it, but he didn’t have the nerve to say so.
Well, we made Fogarty get up and we stuck in there while they was dressin’. Fogarty had to go to his own room to get a clean shirt and collar, and we could hear him ringin’ for water the minute he got in there. Fin’lly we took pity on Smitty and got him some too. He complained o’ headache, and I says:
“That’s a funny thing about Fogarty—no matter how much wine he laps up he don’t never have no headache the next mornin’.”
We didn’t hear no more complaints from Smitty. They both went down to breakfast and tried to eat somethin’, but it was hard work. And I noticed that neither o’ them bothered Red with requests to pitch that day.
They went to bed—separated—right after supper and was as good as ever the followin’ mornin’. I don’t s’pose neither o’ them had never drank no wine before, and, so far as I know, they didn’t tackle it again. They both wanted to pitch in Chi, but Red was anxious to try out some kids; so he told both o’ them, on the quiet, that they was the ones he was dependin’ on for the World’s Serious and he didn’t want to risk gettin’ ’em hurt.
Well, we wound up the season in Boston, and it was the next to the last day that we got into a awful jam! You remember readin’ about Davis, the infielder Red bought from the New England League? Well, he’d got married the week before he joined us—married a Boston girl. He’d left her with her folks while he went West with us and she stuck to home till we hit Boston on that last trip. She was goin’ to Philly with us to take in the serious.
Davis was a fast little cuss, not much bigger’n Maranville. Red had tried him out at short agin Pittsburgh and he’d looked good; but he was usin’ the reg’lars most o’ the time to keep ’em in shape for the big show. Davis had more nerve than any little feller I ever seen. He wouldn’t break ground for none o’ them Pittsburgh guys when they come into second base. In one o’ the games there big Honus had told him to keep out o’ the way or he’d get killed.
“It won’t be no big slob like you that’ll kill me!” says Davis.
Honus had a license to get sore at that, ’cause he was just slippin’ the kid a friendly warnin’; but it shows you what a game little devil Davis was.
Well, as I was sayin’, it was the next to the last day up in Boston that somethin’ come off that pretty near cost us the big money. Mayer was pitchin’ the game and we had the reg’lar club in agin ’em.
In one o’ the boxes, right down next to
