“Just one o’ them,” says Boyle. “They’s a boy named Steele that must of took his name from his right arm. He can whizz ’em through there faster’n Johnson. He could win with any club in the world but our’n.”
“Who’s the other pitchers?” I ast him.
“They ain’t none,” says Boyle, “none that counts. All told, we got three right-handers and three cockeyes, but outside o’ Steele, I’d go up there and catch any one o’ them without a mask or glove or protector or nothin’. When the balls they throw don’t hit the screen on the fly they’ll hit the fence on the first hop.”
“Where’d he get ’em all?” says I.
“He must of bought ’em off’n Pawnee Bill,” says Jimmy.
“We seem to be long on catchers,” I says.
“Wade and Fulton and myself,” says Jimmy, “but some of us is goin’ to get switched before the season’s a week old. As I say, when Steele ain’t pitchin’ the club don’t need no catcher, and it sure does need other things. Carmody’s playin’ short and Boles is the first sacker and you’ll be somewheres in the outfield. That only leaves four positions without nobody to fill ’em. So I and Red and Charley’s wonderin’ which one of us’ll be elected first. I wouldn’t mind tacklin’ right field; they’s some short fences in the league. But Carmody’s just crazy enough to stick me at third base where a man don’t have time to duck.”
“You lay off’n right field,” I says. “I got a lien on that bird.”
“You’ll play where Carmody puts you,” says Jimmy.
“You’re delirious,” says I. “You ain’t seen my contract. I signed to play right field and nowheres else, and you couldn’t get me out o’ there with a habeas corpus.”
“Mr. Fox, eh?” says Boyle.
“You know it,” I says, “and between you and I, they’s a reason. I’d just as soon tell you because they ain’t no danger o’ you spillin’ it. My right knee slipped out on me last August, and when it went, it went for good. All the doctors I seen give me the same advice—to get out o’ baseball. And I had my mind all made up to quit when old Grant stepped in with his offer. I took it, knowin’ all the w’ile that it was grand larceny.”
“Don’t you worry about that,” says Jimmy. “They’ll be only one guy on this club that ain’t a burglar. That’s young Steele. The rest of us, includin’ the M.G.R., is a bunch o’ bandits. But I’m not frettin’ over it. I figure that if he wasn’t givin’ me this dough somebody else’d be gettin’ it, maybe somebody without as much license to it as me. If they wasn’t nobody dependin’ on me I might feel ashamed. But when you got a wife and two kids, and an old bug comes along and slips you a contract for three times what you’re worth, it’d be cheatin’ your folks to not take it.”
“I ain’t got no folks,” I says.
“But you can’t never tell,” says Boyle.
“I can tell,” I says, “if you’ll listen. I met a little lady the middle o’ last July. The first week in August we got engaged. And the second week in August Mr. Knee blowed out. So when Grant come after me, along in September, I begin to believe in angels. But I ain’t never felt right about it.”
“How bad is the old dog?” says Jimmy. “Can you run on it at all?”
“I can run on it,” I says, “but I can’t get up no speed. And I don’t know when she’s goin’ to slip again. I can’t start quick. And I’m scared to stoop.”
“You won’t need to stoop; not with our pitchers,” says Jimmy. “All that’ll come out your way is line drives or high boys over the wall.”
“And if I turn sudden, I’m gone,” says I.
“That’s easy,” says Boyle. “Rest your spine against them boards and do all your runnin’ to’rds the infield. You won’t be the first outfielder that played that system.”
“Carmody’ll wise up to me,” I says.
“You should worry your head off about Carmody,” says Boyle. “He’s pretendin’ to take his job serious, but down in his heart he knows he’s a thief. He’s got just as much right to manage a ball club as that girl o’ yours. You just stick it out and draw the old check every first and fifteenth, and remember that you got plenty o’ company. Even if your two legs was cut off at the waist you’d be worth five times as much as some of us.”
“Careful there, Jim,” I says.
“You can hit, can’t you?” he says. “And you can catch fly balls, and you can throw. There’s three things you can do, and that’s three more things than most of our gang can do. No, I’ll take that back. They’s one thing they can all do.”
“What’s that?” I ast him.
“Eat,” says Jimmy, “and if you don’t believe it come down in the dinin’ room. The doors is supposed to open for supper at five thirty, but after the first day we was here, the manager seen that the only way to save the doors was to keep ’em open all the w’ile. All the other ball clubs I was ever with talked about their hittin’ and their bad luck, and all that. But this bunch don’t talk nothin’ but meats and groceries, and when they ain’t talkin’ about ’em it’s because they got so many o’ them in their mouth that they can’t talk. The kid that was roomin’ with me put what he couldn’t eat in his pockets or inside his shirt, and after every meal he’d come straight to the room and unload on top o’ the bureau. And if I went near his storehouse to brush my hair or look in the glass, he’d growl like a dog. He had himself trained so’s he wouldn’t sleep more’n three hours in a row. He’d go to bed at nine and
