I landed in the forenoon. The clerk at the hotel told me the gang was all out to the grounds, practicin’. So I planted my baggage and washed up, and then set out on the porch, waitin’ for the boys to come back. The beanery was on the main street, but from the number o’ people that went past you’d of thought our trainin’ camp had been picked out by Robinson Caruso. About one bell I got sick o’ lookin’ at mud puddles and woke up the clerk again.
“What do you s’pose is keepin’ ’em so long?” I ast him.
“They don’t never show up till after four,” he says.
“Don’t they come back for lunch?” I ast.
“No,” he says. “You see the ball grounds is over a quarter of a mile from here and Mr. Grant, who’s the proprietor o’ the nine, figured it would wear his men out to make the trip four times a day.”
“So they don’t eat at noon?” I says.
“Oh, yes,” says the clerk. “We put up a nice lunch here and send it to ’em.”
“I hope you don’t send ’em nothin’ that’s hard to chew,” I says. After a w’ile I got up nerve enough to attemp’ the killin’ journey to the orchard.
It was an old fairgrounds or somethin’, just on the edge o’ what you’d call the town if you was good-natured. Waivers had been ast on a lot o’ the boards on the fence and they was plenty o’ places where a brewer could of walked through sideways. I was goin’ in at the gate because it was handiest, but I found it locked. I give it a kick and it was opened from inside by a barber hater.
“You can’t come in,” he says through the shrubbery.
“Why not?” says I.
“I’ve got orders,” he says.
“I don’t wonder,” I says. “You’re liable to get anything in them dragnets.”
“I’ll fix you if you try to come in,” he says.
“What’ll you do?” says I. “Tickle me to death with them plumes?”
“Mr. Grant don’t want no spies hangin’ round,” says Whiskers.
“O’ course not,” says I. “But I’m one of his ball players.”
“Oh, no, you ain’t,” says the Old Fox. “If you was you’d be wearin’ one o’ them get-ups with the knee pants and the spellin’ on the blouse.”
“Look here,” I says. “I don’t want to cut my way through the undergrowth; they’s too much danger of infection. You run along and tell Mr. Grant his star performer has arrived, and when you come back I’ll give you thirty-five cents to’rds a shave.”
So the old boy slammed the gate shut and locked her again and the minute it was locked I went to the nearest gap in the fence and eased in.
They was a game o’ ball goin’ on and I started over to where they was playin’ to see if I recognized anybody. But I hadn’t went more’n a step or two when Whiskers come dashin’ up to me with Mr. Grant followin’.
“This is the man!” yells Whiskers.
“And my suspicions was right or he wouldn’t of snuck in.”
Mr. Grant was gaspin’ too hard to talk at first; when he catched his breath he lit into me. “A spy, eh!” he says. “Tryin’ to learn our secrets, eh! That’s a fine job for a big man like you! Whose stool pigeon are you?” he says. “Stop the game!” he says to Whiskers. “Don’t let ’em show nothin’ in front o’ this sneak!”
But they wasn’t no need of him givin’ that order, because when the boys heard the rumpus they quit o’ their own accord and come runnin’ over to be in on it.
Leadin’ the pack was Jimmy Boyle, that I’d busted into the game with, out in Des Moines. I’d noticed from the box scores the summer before that they was a Boyle in this league, but I hadn’t never thought of it bein’ Jimmy. In fac’, till I seen him sprintin’ to’rds me, I’d forgot they was such a guy. It was nine years since I’d saw him.
“Hello, Buck!” he hollers.
“Buck!” says Mr. Grant. “You ain’t Buck Warner, are you?”
“That’s me,” I says, “and I guess if it hadn’t been for Jimmy recognizin’ me you’d of had me shot for a spy.”
The Old Boy looked like he was gettin’ ready to cry.
“I certainly owe you my apologies,” he says. “I don’t remember faces as good as I used to and besides, you’re dressed different than when you and me met.”
“Yes,” I says, “I’ve changed my clo’es twice since September.”
“I hope you’ll forgive me,” says Mr. Grant.
“I’ll think it over,” I says.
By this time the whole bunch was gathered round and I had a chance to see who was who. Outside o’ Jimmy Boyle they wasn’t only four out o’ more’n two dozen that I knowed by sight. One o’ the four, o’ course, was Billy Carmody. Him and I hadn’t never met; he’d always been in the American till he jumped. But I’d saw his picture of’en enough to spot him. Then they was Hi Boles that I’d knew in the Association. And they was Charley Wade that the Boston club had for w’ile, and Red Fulton, that had been with Philly. The rest o’ them was all strangers to me and most o’ them looked about as much like ball players as Mary Pickford.
I shook hands with Red and Charley and Jimmy and Hi Boles, and Mr. Grant introduced me to the gang.
“Now,” he says, “I wisht you’d shake with me to show you don’t bear no grudge. I wouldn’t of had this thing happen for the world.”
“I don’t blame you at all, sir,” I says. “A club owner’s got to be careful these days, because if other owners will go as far as stealin’ your ball players, they certainly wouldn’t hesitate at hirin’ spies to try and cop your club’s hit-and-run signs. But,” I says, “I think you’re foolish not to plug them holes in the fence. A scout with a strong glass could
