“It’s no more’n natural,” I says. “The home club’s been goin’ bad and you can’t expect the whole population to fight for a look at ’em.”
“Yes,” says Carey; “but it ain’t only here. It’s everywheres. We didn’t hardly draw our breath at St. Louis and the receipts o’ that last doubleheader at home with Pittsburgh wouldn’t buy enough shavin’ soap to lather a gnat. All over the circuit it’s the same way, and in the other leagues too. It’s a off year, maybe; or maybe they’s reasons for it that we ain’t doped out.”
“Well,” I says, “the war’s hurt business, for one thing, and people ain’t got no money to spend on box seats. And then golf’s gettin’ better all the wile. A man’d naturally rather do some exercisin’ himself than watch somebody else do it. Besides that, automobiles has got so cheap that pretty near everybody can buy ’em, and the people that owns ’em takes their friends out in the country instead o’ comin’ to the ball yard. And besides that,” I says, “they’s too much baseball and the people’s sick of it.”
Hawley come in and set down with us wile I was still talkin’ yet.
“What’s the argument?” he says.
“We was tryin’ to figure out why we can’t get a quorum out to the games no more,” says Carey.
“Well,” says Hawley, “you know the real reason, don’t you?”
“No,” says Carey; “but I bet we’re goin’ to hear it. I bet you’ll say it’s on account o’ the Gulf Stream.”
“Where do you get that noise?” says Hawley. “If you want to know the real reason, the war’s the real reason.”
“That’s what I was sayin’,” says I. “The war’s hurt business and people ain’t got no money to blow on baseball.”
“That shows you don’t know nothin’ about it,” says Hawley.
“Then I got you tied,” I says, “because you just sprung the same thing yourself.”
“No such a thing!” says Hawley. “You’re talkin’ about the war hurtin’ business and I’m talkin’ about the war hurtin’ baseball.”
“What’s the difference?” I says.
“All the difference in the world,” says Hawley. “If everybody was makin’ twicet as much money durin’ the war as they made before the war started yet, the baseball crowds wouldn’t be no bigger than they have been.”
“Come acrost with the answer,” says Carey. “The strain’s somethin’ awful.”
“Well, boys,” says Hawley, “they ain’t nobody in this country that ain’t pullin’ for one side or the other in this here war. Is that right or wrong?”
“Which do you say it is?” says Carey.
“I say it’s right because I know it’s right,” says Hawley.
“Well then,” says Carey, “don’t ask us boobs.”
“No matter what a man says about he bein’ neutral,” says Hawley, “you can bet that down in his heart he’s either for the Dutchmen or the Alleys; I don’t care if he’s Woodruff Wilson or Bill Klem. We all got our favorites.”
“Who’s yours?” I says.
“Don’t you tell!” says Carey. “It wouldn’t be fair to the other side.”
“I don’t mind tellin’,” says Hawley. “I’d be a fine stiff to pull for the Dutchmen after all King George done for my old man.”
“What did he do for him?” says Carey.
“Well, it’s a long story,” says Hawley.
“That’s all right,” says Carey. “They’s only one game tomorrow.”
“I’ll give it to you some other time,” Hawley says.
“I hope you don’t forget it,” says Carey.
“Forget it!” says Hawley. “When your old man’s honored by the royalties you ain’t liable to forget it.”
“No,” says Carey; “but you could try.”
“Here!” I says. “I’m waitin’ to find out how the war cuts down the attendance.”
“I’m comin’ to that,” says Hawley. “When you figure it out they couldn’t nothin’ be simpler.”
“It does sound simple, now it’s been explained,” says Carey.
“It ain’t been explained to me,” I says.
“You’re in too big a hurry,” Hawley says. “If you wouldn’t interrupt a man all the wile you might learn somethin’. You admit they ain’t nobody that’s neutral. Well then, you can’t expect people that’s for the Alleys to come out to the ball park and pull for a club that’s mostly Dutchmen, and you can’t expect Dutchmen to patronize a club that’s got a lot o’ fellas with English and French names.”
“Wait a minute!” says Carey. “I s’pose they ain’t no Germans here in Cincinnati, is they?”
“Sure!” says Hawley. “The place is ran over with ’em.”
“Then,” says Carey, “why don’t they break all records for attendance at this park, with Heine Groh and Fritz Mollwitz and Count Von Kolnitz and Wagner and Schneider and Herzog on the ball club?”
“Because they’s others on the team that offsets ’em,” says Hawley. “We’ll say they’s a Dutchman comes out to the game to holler for some o’ them boys you mentioned. We’ll say that Groh kicks a ground ball and leaves three runs score and puts the club behind. And then we’ll say that Clarke comes up in the ninth innin’ and wins the game for Cincinnati with a home run. That makes the Dutchman look like a rummy, don’t it? Or we’ll say Schneider starts to pitch a game and gets knocked out, and then Dale comes in and they can’t foul him. Your German friend wishes he had of stayed home and washed part o’ the dashhound.”
“Yes,” says Carey; “but wouldn’t he want to come to the game again the next day in hopes he’d get his chancet to holler?”
“No,” says Hawley; “because, whatever happened, they’d be somethin’ about it he wouldn’t like. If the Reds win the Alleys on the club’d feel just as good as the Dutchmen, and that’d make him sore. And if they lost he’d be glad on account o’ the Alleys; but he’d feel sorry for the Germans.”
“Then they’s only one thing for Garry Herrmann to do,” I says: “he should ought to trade off all his Alleys for Dutch.”
“That’d help the attendance at home,” says Hawley; “but when his club played in Boston who’d go out to see ’em?”
“Everybody that could borrow a brick,” says Carey.
“Accordin’ to your dope,” I
