Short Fiction

and not him.”

Well, I and Carey was only too glad to try and see what we could do. But it wasn’t no snap. We wrote about eight letters before we got one that looked good. Then we give it to the stenographer and had it wrote out on a typewriter and both of us signed it.

It was Carey’s idear that made the letter good. He stuck in somethin’ about the world’s serious money that our wives wasn’t goin’ to spend unless she took pity on a “boy who was so shy and modest that he was afraid to come right out and say that he had asked such a beautiful and handsome girl to become his bride.”

That’s prob’ly what got her, or maybe she couldn’t of held out much longer anyway. It was four days after we sent the letter that Cap heard from his missus again. We was in Cincinnati.

“We’ve won,” he says to us. “The old lady says that Dolly says she’ll give him another chance. But the old lady says it won’t do no good for Ike to write a letter. He’ll have to go out there.”

“Send him tonight,” says Carey.

“I’ll pay half his fare,” I says.

“I’ll pay the other half,” says Carey.

“No,” says Cap, “the club’ll pay his expenses. I’ll send him scoutin’.”

“Are you goin’ to send him tonight?”

“Sure,” says Cap. “But I’m goin’ to break the news to him right now. It’s time we win a ball game.”

So in the clubhouse, just before the game, Cap told him. And I certainly felt sorry for Rube Benton and Red Ames that afternoon! I and Carey was standin’ in front o’ the hotel that night when Ike come out with his suitcase.

“Sent home?” I says to him.

“No,” he says, “I’m goin’ scoutin’.”

“Where to?” I says. “Fort Wayne?”

“No, not exactly,” he says.

“Well,” says Carey, “have a good time.”

“I ain’t lookin’ for no good time,” says Ike. “I says I was goin’ scoutin’.”

“Well, then,” says Carey, “I hope you see somebody you like.”

“And you better have a drink before you go,” I says.

“Well,” says Ike, “they claim it helps a cold.”

Harmony

Even a baseball writer must sometimes work. Regretfully I yielded my seat in the P.G., walked past the section where Art Graham, Bill Cole, Lefty Parks and young Waldron were giving expert tonsorial treatment to “Sweet Adeline,” and flopped down beside Ryan, the manager.

“Well, Cap,” I said, “we’re due in Springfield in a little over an hour and I haven’t written a line.”

“Don’t let me stop you,” said Ryan.

“I want you to start me,” I said.

“Lord!” said Ryan. “You oughtn’t to have any trouble grinding out stuff these days, with the club in first place and young Waldron gone crazy. He’s worth a story any day.”

“That’s the trouble,” said I. “He’s been worked so much that there’s nothing more to say about him. Everybody in the country knows that he’s hitting .420, that he’s made nine home runs, twelve triples and twenty-some doubles, that he’s stolen twenty-five bases, and that he can play the piano and sing like Carus’. They’ve run his picture oftener than Billy Sunday and Mary Pickford put together. Of course, you might come through with how you got him.”

“Oh, that’s the mystery,” said Ryan.

“So I’ve heard you say,” I retorted. “But it wouldn’t be a mystery if you’d let me print it.”

“Well,” said Ryan, “if you’re really hard up I suppose I might as well come through. Only there’s really no mystery at all about it; it’s just what I consider the most remarkable piece of scouting ever done. I’ve been making a mystery of it just to have a little fun with Dick Hodges. You know he’s got the Jackson club and he’s still so sore about my stealing Waldron he’ll hardly speak to me.

“I’ll give you the dope if you want it, though it’s a boost for Art Graham, not me. There’s lots of people think the reason I’ve kept the thing a secret is because I’m modest.

“They give me credit for having found Waldron myself. But Graham is the bird that deserves the credit and I’ll admit that he almost had to get down on his knees to make me take his tip. Yes, sir, Art Graham was the scout, and now he’s sitting on the bench and the boy he recommended has got his place.”

“That sounds pretty good,” I said. “And how did Graham get wise?”

“I’m going to tell you. You’re in a hurry; so I’ll make it snappy.

“You weren’t with us last fall, were you? Well, we had a day off in Detroit, along late in the season. Graham’s got relatives in Jackson; so he asked me if he could spend the day there. I told him he could and asked him to keep his eyes peeled for good young pitchers, if he happened to go to the ball game. So he went to Jackson and the next morning he came back all excited. I asked him if he’d found me a pitcher and he said he hadn’t, but he’d seen the best natural hitter he’d ever looked at⁠—a kid named Waldron.

“ ‘Well,’ I said, ‘you’re the last one that ought to be recommending outfielders. If there’s one good enough to hold a regular job, it might be your job he’d get.’

“But Art said that didn’t make any difference to him⁠—he was looking out for the good of the club. Well, I didn’t see my way clear to asking the old man to dig up good money for an outfielder nobody’d ever heard of, when we were pretty well stocked with them, so I tried to stall Art; but he kept after me and kept after me till I agreed to stick in a draft for the kid just to keep Art quiet. So the draft went in and we got him. Then, as you know, Hodges tried to get him back, and that made me suspicious enough to hold on to him. Hodges