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 could hold Sutton. I know Anson. You have his contract; he has promised me. He'll play with Chicago."

Next day the Chicago team went out to the grounds for its first field practice. Anson was there. He wore a high hat and was immaculately clothed with up-to-date trousers, vest and a Prince Albert coat. So far as personal appearance went he might have been President of the National League, or of the Nation itself. He was, however, apparently still obdurate in his determination not to play at Chicago. He stood around, watching the practice for a little while, and then he said to me:

"Toss me one, Al."

"What? With those togs on? Not any. Take off your hat and coat and get into the game."

He stood around for a few minutes longer, his face alight with the spirit of the sport, and then he peeled off his statesman's wardrobe and took his place. I fired him a few and said:

"Now, Anse, come to-morrow in uniform." And he did, and remained with the Chicago Club for twenty-one years thereafter as manager, captain and player. Such was Adrian C. Anson, one of the greatest ball players that ever lived—and a man whose word was always as good as his bond. How we won the pennant for Chicago that year, the first of the National League, is part of the recorded history of the game.

The disciplining of a Base Ball team presents problems not to be met elsewhere, I think. The manufacturer, the merchant, the farmer—every employer of