“Yes,” he says, winkin’, “but the signals we use now and the signals we’re goin’ to use when the season opens up is two different things.”
“Oh! Deep stuff, eh!” says I. “Well, if that’s the way you’re workin’ it you’d ought not to be scared of outsiders swipin’ information. Leave as many of ’em as wants to come and look us over, and the more bum dope they take back home, the easier we’ll beat ’em when we meet ’em.”
“But I don’t want nobody to even know my lineup,” says Mr. Grant, “not till the boys runs out on the field for the openin’ game. If they don’t know who we got or what we got or our battin’ order or nothin’, they can’t prepare for us, can they?”
“Ain’t they no reporters along?” I ast him.
“I wouldn’t have ’em,” says Mr. Grant. “I don’t want to have no advance news get out about this club. Takin’ your enemies by su’prise is more’n half the battle.”
“Yes,” says I, “but after the first day they won’t be no more su’prise. The whole country’ll know who we are.”
“But we’ll be leadin’ the league,” he says. “They can’t take that away from us.”
“Not for twenty-four hours,” says I.
By this time, Carmody’d took his men back to their practice. I wanted to see ’em in action and made a move to go over to where they was at, but the Old Boy flagged me.
“They’ll be through in five minutes,” he says. “You must be wore out with your long trip, so let’s you and I walk back to the hotel and set and rest till the boys comes in. I want you to be fresh tomorrow.”
So we come away together and the last thing I seen at the grounds was Whiskers. He had the gate open far enough so’s his head could stick out and he could see the whole length o’ the main street. They wasn’t a chance for a spy to catch him off guard, unless the spy used unfair tactics and snuck up from some other direction.
“What do you think of our club?” says Mr. Grant.
“I don’t know nothin’ about it,” I says. “Most o’ them boys is strangers to me.”
“But ain’t they nice lookin’ boys?” he says.
“Sure,” says I, “but some o’ the best ball players I ever seen was homelier than muskrats.”
“But their bein’ homely didn’t make ’em good ball players,” says he.
“No,” I says, “but it helped ’em keep in the pink. They couldn’t go girl-crazy and stay out all hours o’ the night dancin’; they wasn’t no girls that’d dance with ’em or be seen with ’em. And they couldn’t lay against the mahogany all evenin’, because all bars has got mirrors back o’ them, and if a man didn’t never open his eyes they’d think you’d fell asleep and throw you out.”
“Your arguments may be all right for some teams,” says Mr. Grant, “but they don’t hold as far as we’re concerned. Bein’ handsome won’t hurt my boys, because they can’t run round nights or drink neither one.”
“Why not?” I ast him.
“Because they’s a club rule against it,” he says.
“Oh!” I says. “O’ course that makes it different. How’d you ever happen to think o’ makin’ a rule like that? I bet when the other club owners hears about it, they’ll follow suit and thank you for originatin’ the idear.”
“I hope they do follow suit,” he says. “It’s one o’ my ambitions to perjure baseball of its evils.”
“I wish you luck,” says I.
“And another one,” he says, “is to win the pennant, and between you and I, I believe I’m goin’ to realize it.”
“What year?” I says.
“This year,” says my boss.
“Well,” I says, “I’m new in the league and I don’t know what it takes to win. But from what I seen of your club and from what I read about Chicago and St. Louis and some o’ the rest, I’d say you had to strengthen some.”
“I’m afraid you’re pessimistical, Warner,” he says. “I’ve got the winnin’ combination—yourself and Carmody and Fulton and Wade and Boles and Boyle for experience and balance, and those youngsters o’ mine for speed and spirit. We’ll take the League off’n their feet.”
“What does Carmody think about it?”
“The same as me,” he says. “And he’s a great manager.”
“He must be,” says I.
Well, when the crowd come in, Jimmy Boyle chased up to the clerk o’ the hotel and had it fixed for me to room with him.
“They had me paired with one o’ the kids,” he says, “but I got to have somebody to laugh with. This is goin’ to be the greatest season you ever went through. I don’t know what I’ll hit, but I bet I giggle .380.”
“What is they to laugh at?” I says.
“What ain’t they to laugh at?” says Jimmy. “Wait till you get acquainted with the old man! Wait till you’ve saw our gang in action! Wait till you watch Carmody managin’! Dutch Schaefer couldn’t of got up a better club than this.”
“What have we got, outside o’ you and the other fellas I know?” I ast him.
“Say, if I told you, you wouldn’t believe it,” says Jimmy. “In the first place, there’s old Grant. If he ain’t got no relatives the county’d ought to look after him. He’s goin’ to keep us a secret till the season opens and then we’re goin’ to win the first game by su’prise. And somebody tipped him off that the club that wins the first game has got the best chance for the pennant. O’ course they’s eight clubs in the league and four o’ them’ll prob’ly win their first games, but he never thought o’ that. And besides, the only chance we got o’ winnin’ the first game or any other game is to have the other club look at us and die laughin’.”
“Ain’t they no stuff in
