The Cast-Off

ROFESSIONAL baseball, much less the bush-league variety, had never been the goal of Jack Pennington’s ambition; but a seemingly inherent distaste for Virgil and higher mathematics, combined with superior acquired skill in the art of warping a horsehide covered sphere over a rubber pentagon had lighted the beacon of destiny.

The wrath of an irate parent fanned the torch. For, on learning that his only son, for whose educational advancement he had spent money cheerfully and with an open hand, had been dropped a year at college, old Gardiner Pennington, rich alarm-clock manufacturer, escaped by a narrow margin indeed an apoplectic stroke that might have been fatal.

The ensuing interview between father and son was of a most unpleasant nature. Placing the blame for the boy’s failure wholly upon baseball, Pennington, Senior, made the grim announcement that no more money should be wasted in sending him to college; either he could enter the clock factory as an unskilled workman at eight dollars a week and learn the business from the bottom up, or get out and hustle for himself.

Although in some degree he was like his gentle, refined mother, whom he could barely remember, Jack was a Pennington at bottom, having inherited sufficient of the spirit which had enabled Gardiner Penning ton to fight his way upward from a poor inventor at twenty-three to become a wealthy manufacturer at fifty.

If the boy regretted his hasty choice of the latter alternative, he was not the sort to let it become known.

Directly following the game in which he had pitched for his college against the “Indians” of the Big League, but lately arrived North after Spring training in a more balmy clime, Pennington had been approached by the manager of the professionals, who, secretly in need of twirlers, had offered him a try-out.

But the college pitcher had laughed at Dugan’s overtures, turning him down flatly.

Cast upon his own resources, following the break with his father, the young man had bethought himself of Dugan’s offer, not, however, with even the remotest idea of taking up baseball as a permanent career.

Seldom has a raw cub so quickly obtained his opening in fast company. The season had been cold and wet and, with his entire firing staff carrying lame arms swathed in flannels, Dugan sent the collegian on to the mound three days after Pennington joined the team.

Pitted against the Gazelles, the youngster surely had his work “cut out for him,” but perfect support in the early periods pulled him out of the bad holes without serious damage being done. As his natural nervousness wore off and his confidence returned, he settled down into his best form and held the Gazelles runless and almost hitless in the last six innings.

Pennington had chosen to appear on the batting order under a fictitious name, but there were baseball reporters who had seen him pitch before and his subterfuge was unavailing. Nearly every printed report of the game mentioned him as a well-known college pitcher and gave his right name.

He could well imagine the feelings of his father. “He will be about as proud of me,” thought Pennington, “as if I had been caught red-handed cracking a safe!”

S A Big League pitcher, Pennington’s career was brief. He had fancied that success in the first game would settle everything, but, to his surprise, he found his position still far from assured. Dugan took care to impress upon him the fact that support of the hair-lifting variety alone had saved him from being slaughtered early in the game, and assured him that his swift “chin-wiper,” on which he relied for a strike-out ball, would be pie for real batters when they got wise to it.

Nor were Pennington’s team-mates more friendly and encouraging. Some of the sore-arm brigade of flingers sneered at him openly; others ignored him; not a man of them had a cheerful word for him. The Indians were reputed to be the biggest bunch of grouches in the business.

Whether or not they conspired to throw him down, he had his troubles next time he was sent to the firing-line. In direct contrast to the first occasion, his backing was of the most wretched order. The day was cold and marrow-piercing, but a succession of seemingly bone-headed plays behind him made the youngster hot enough.

Deciding that he must rely on himself, he whipped the ball over with savage fierceness, using his high in-shoot for almost every strike-ball pitched. For a time, the surest hitters of the opposing team were as helpless before his speed as back-lot players might have been. The spectators were with him, and up to the eighth inning it looked as if he would get away with it.

Then something happened! He felt—and heard—a snap in his shoulder! A stabbing pain shot the length of his arm to his finger-tips and he turned sick and faint. After that he could swing his arm only with the most excruciating agony, but he was foolish enough to try to continue. When three long hits had given the enemy two runs, he walked out of the box, holding his right shoulder with his left hand.

“Yellow!” was Dugan’s only comment. Not one of the Indians seemed willing to believe there was anything the matter with his arm.

Hoping it would come round, Pennington held on for a few days, but it continued practically useless. Although the pain gradually subsided, there was a lameness that hurt like a knife-thrust whenever he attempted to lift his hand above his head. He could not pitch, even for batting practise, and finally, telling him in the most insulting manner that the trouble was with his heart, Dugan dropped him. Although he longed to hit the sneering manager, he held his hand.

With his stuffed traveling-bag beside him, Pennington sat in the waiting-room of the big Union Station and wondered whither he would go and to what he could next turn his hand. As a self-sustaining hustler he had made a very poor start in deed, and things were not looking very bright.

He was sitting there, head down, when a hand fell on his shoulder and a familiar voice sounded in his ears:

“On my word it’s Pen—old Pen! What are you doing here looking like a man who doesn’t know where the next meal or a bed is coming from?”

It was Harvey Whipple, second pitcher of the Varsity, who had profited much by Pennington’s coaching. Pen rose and shook hands with him heartily.

“You came near hitting the spike on the head that time, Whipple,” he confessed; “I was wondering where I’d go and what I’d do to earn my salt.”

“Great Scott!” said Whipple. “Last I heard of you, you were one of the star slant-slingers of the Indians. You don’t mean to say?”

Pennington told him the truth, briefly. “It’s the pick and shovel for mine, I reckon,” he concluded. “Decency won’t let me go home, and I doubt if my esteemed dad would have anything to do with me now if I did.”

“Well, that’s what I call rotten hard luck,” sympathized Whipple. “I’m up against it, too. I’m pitching for Sahagan in the Mountain League; bush baseball, but good money. I’ll pick up enough to pay my way through college next year, but of course I’m off the Varsity for good. They’re baseball crazy in Sahagan. Tail-enders last year, they’re ready at any expense to make a hot fight for first place this season. They’ve got a local man as manager and he’s no good—don’t know his business. Last night the directors held a meeting and decided to hire another manager. We lay off to-day, and they’ve sent me down here to see if I can’t get a line on a good man who can be hired to manage Cæsar’s ghost! you’re the man!”

He pounced on Pennington, grabbing him by both shoulders; but the cast-off looked doubtful and shook his head.

“I tell you you’re the man!” repeated Whipple. “You can do it; you can hold down the job and it’s better than wielding a spade! It was your work, more than that of the coach, that put the Varsity in form. They’ll take any man I recommend and the pay’ll be good. As manager of the Sahagans you’ll have plenty of rope.”

“To hang myself with!” laughed Pennington.

Then he became sober and considered while Whipple brought his most eloquent and convincing powers of persuasion into play. After a time Pennington laughed again. “All right,” he agreed, “I’ll take a crack at it, but it’s likely I’ll ruin your reputation as a manager-picker.”

NDER Jack Pennington, known in Sahagan as John Morgan, the former tail-enders of the Mountain League made a wonderful record that season. To begin with, the new manager found the club wofully lacking in team-work and badly disrupted by dissension and jealousies among the players, who had scarcely been controlled or directed at all by the former authority. Cliques were broken up without delay and the trouble-makers were soon given to understand that the youngster who had taken them in hand would stand for none of their foolishness.

The places of two or three incompetents were filled as soon as good players could be secured, and the chief disturber of harmony, failing to heed a second warning, was fired, even though he was the idol of the bleachers.

In short order boozing and shirking among the Sahagans was a thing of the past, and, having discovered that it was necessary, every man was hustling to hold his job. Regular daily practise, when possible, became imperative and the man who failed to show up for it or was tardy had to furnish a mighty good excuse.

The ruling hand of iron was hidden to some extent by a silken glove, but every one knew what that glove contained. Nor did Pen make the mistake of becoming over-chummy with any of the players, decent fellows though some of them were. With Whipple, even, he was no more friendly than with the others.

Having made a study of inside baseball, Pennington knew its effectiveness, and by never-ceasing drilling he hammered it into his team. In defense, as well as in batting and base-running, he taught them to work together like a machine, of which he, in uniform, either on the bench or the coaching line, was always the controlling power.

Nevertheless he took care not to rob them wholly of their individuality and the courage to think for themselves and take the initiative in sudden emergencies. He always had a word of commendation for the player who, of his own accord, gave proof that he had a head on his shoulders when it was needed. Deliberate “grand-standing” was not tolerated, yet the youngsters were encouraged to “try for everything,” and the one who made a sensational play without attempt at effect was sure of proper praise. An excusable error never evoked a growl or even a look of disapproval.

And so, before long, every Sahagan player came to entertain for his manager, not only respect, but a feeling bordering on affection.

Within three weeks after Pennington took command Sahagan climbed out of the tail-end position and in a few weeks more she was fighting for second place. There were only four teams in the league and, though Ashburg, at the top, had obtained a flying start and a good lead early in the season, the ambitious “Comets,” as one newspaper jocosely dubbed the former tail-enders, had great hopes of beating the Champs out in the final lap of the race.

Not, however, until Sahagan had fought her way into second position and won two games out of a series of three on the home grounds of the leaders did the self-satisfied Ashburgers awaken to the danger. And even then, with a fairly good margin of safety, they failed to regard the peril as menacing.

Singularly enough, it was his pitching staff that gave Manager Pennington his greatest cause for worriment. He had found it practically impossible to get hold of good twirlers in the middle of the season and so, doing the next best, he had spent all the time possible coaching those he had. Rowan’s long swing, persisted in with men on bases, had enabled runners to steal on him almost at will. In time he was taught to cut it down to a snappier delivery, but this he acquired at the expense of control. The pitcher who is liberal with passes seldom wins pennants.

Coppinger was erratic and, though he often did brilliant work for a number of innings, he could rarely be depended on to hold down a hitting team throughout an entire game. Whipple seemed to be a wonder; besides winning the most of his own games, he was often able, when the enemy had them “on the run,” to step in and save games for his fellow twirlers. He became the joy of the fans and the pride of every Sahagan baseball enthusiast.

In coaching, Pennington pitched a great deal himself. He was compelled, mostly, to use an underhand ball or a side-arm swing, for that “kink” clung obstinately to his shoulder. Nevertheless in time he began to perceive that he was gradually working it out; but, though he occasionally tried an overhand throw, he was cautious not to put snap and steam into it.

However, he slowly developed an elusive underhand rise and something resembling a “fade-away.” Recalling the experience of Mathewson, who, after seemingly doing his arm permanent injury, had acquired a new style of delivery and a new batter-baffling twist, Pen began to think it possible his pitching days might not be ended.

Toward the close of the season, after the Comets had set all Sahagan delirious by tying Ashburg and then beating the Champs in a twelve-inning game for the lead, Pennington, fearing for Whipple’s overworked arm, went on to the slab himself in the final innings of two games when his regular pitchers were being slaughtered. He saved one game, the other being lost through no fault of his.

FULL week before the season ended Sahagan had the championship practically nailed and the proud little city figuratively belonged to the ballplayers. It was then that the team directors suggested that the manager should try to arrange for a game with the Big League Indians. The year before, Ashburg had secured such a game, but now, proving what bad losers they were, the citizens of that place were giving their team such poor support that doubtless the necessary guarantee would not be forthcoming.

It was Sahagan’s opportunity and, as John Morgan, manager of the Comets, Pennington proceeded to get into communication with Bill Dugan. The Indians, having played off the most of their double-headers, found themselves hopelessly sandwiched in the middle of the second division. They were able and willing to play in Sahagan on a certain date, although the guarantee they asked, rain or shine, made it a risk for the bushers and would leave them only the small end of the finances under the most favorable circumstances. Nevertheless, as is often the case with such places, Sahagan, as a city, fancying it had the fastest team outside the Big Leagues, wanted the game and got it.

Although the grounds were the roomiest in the Northern League, the crowd that poured in through the gates that bright September day packed every available foot of seating space and made it necessary to rope off the field.

The Indians came in on the one-o’clock train, had dinner and, wearing their suits, rode out to the park in a barge. They were naturally mildly amused by the yells of some whooping youngsters who jeeringly prophesied that the Comets would take their scalps. The bushers were practising on the field and Dugan immediately called for their manager. He was surprised when Pennington, in a Sahagan uniform, responded.

“Hullo!” grinned Dugan, after relieving himself of a mouthful of tobacco-juice. “So you’re playin’ with this bunch o’ tall grass wonders. How’s the heart these days? I wanter see your manager.”

“I’m the manager,” replied Pen, again fighting a fierce desire to plant a bunch of fives on that sneering mouth.

“Huh! You?” grunted Dugan “The manager’s name’s Morgan.”

“That’s the name I’m known by here.”

“Oh, I see,” said the Big League man slowly. “Same old game; swell ideas, fam’ly pride an’ that rot, eh? Didn’t make you special pop’ler with my men while you stayed. Hear you’ve gut a wiz by the name o’ Whipple. Goin’ t’ pitch him t’-day?”

“He’ll start the game.”

Dugan grinned again. “That’s a safe way t’ put it, but we won’t be too hard on the boy. I want t’ see him work. Is he any good?”

“He’s reckoned the best pitcher in the Northern League.”

“If there’s the makin’s of a real pitcher in him, mebbe I’ll give him a try-out.”

“Not with my encouragement!” said Pennington. “I shall tell him just what kind of a dirty deal he’ll be likely to get.”

“Sore head!” said Dugan. “If you’d had the goods you’d be on my staff now. You’re a quitter.”

HEN it came time for the Indians to practise they did so in a careless, perfunctory way; yet they scooped up grounders and drives and flies with a listless ease in strong contrast to the tense eagerness of the less experienced locals. Center field was packed back of the ropes when the umpire announced the batteries and called “Play!”

It had been necessary to agree upon a special rule that a hit into the crowd should give the batter only two bases. The Indians growled over this, but it was their habit to growl at anything.

In Pennington’s final words to his players he had mainly sought to impress upon them the conviction that their Big League opponents were not so formidable as they seemed and could be beaten by teams that had never been heard of. He did not warn them particularly against getting nervous, for he knew that, with youngsters, the fear of nervousness frequently brings about the result that is dreaded. As far as possible, he instructed Whipple concerning the peculiarities and failings of the batters who would face him.

“Watch the bench, Whip!” he said. “I’ll tip you off when it’s necessary.”

“Pug” Flaherty, the battle-scarred right-fielder of the Indians, sauntered confidently forth from the bench, grinning at the youthful pitcher of the bushers, who, despite his attempt at unconcern, was plainly on edge and anxious. Pug “had an eye” and was the best waiter on the team, therefore Pennington had instructed Whipple to bend them over at once, and the youngster proceeded to do so. The first one dipped a corner, but Flaherty let it pass.

“Stri-i-ke!” cried the umpire, flinging up his hand.

The bleachers barked and the batter grinned still more tolerantly. He was still grinning when the second one came slanting down across his chest on the inside and he fouled it.

“Strike tuh!” was the arbitrator’s call, which was drowned by another shout from the crowd.

A warning sign from the bench led the too eager twirler to take more time. Like most young slabmen, Whipple was inclined to pitch too fast when nervous.

With the standing two strikes and no balls, the wise fans expected the pitcher to “waste one.” If Flaherty also looked for this, he, nevertheless, held himself prepared for anything, gripping his club and crouching a bit like a monkey ready to spring. The fielders, as well as Whipple, saw the catcher’s signal for an in-shoot and it seemed that every man was swinging toward third when the sphere left the pitcher’s fingers. There was a ringing crack of leather meeting woodland the ball went humming on a line toward left field.

Had Grozman, the short-stop, failed to heed the back-stop’s signal, and had he not been moving in the proper direction when the ball was hit, he would have failed to reach that whistling drive by six feet at least. As it was, he shot forward, leaping into the air, and pulled the smoker down, bringing a shrill, wild yell of joy from the uprisen spectators.

That initial play of the game justified Pennington for the weary days he had spent drilling his sometimes rebellious players in defensive team-work. Not yet, however, were the visitors to realize that the bushers were trained in the science of baseball as played higher up.

“Hard luck, Pug,” said Mat Buckley, the following batsman, as Flaherty came growling back from first, to which he had raced. “That lucky stab killed a sure two-bagger.”

“That duck out there must carry a rabbit’s-foot,” said Pug. “He’s easy, Buck; puts ’em all over. Knock the cover off!”

Whipple remembered Pennington’s statement that Buckley’s weakness could be found with a low ball close to his knees, but he failed to keep the first one close enough, and it was well that the outfielders were playing deep. The batter smashed out what looked like a hit into the crowd beyond the center fielder but that guardian of the middle section made a marvelous running catch with his back turned directly toward the home plate. Well on the way to second, with the roaring of the crowd in his cars, Buckley stopped and swore.

“Them guys is loaded down with horseshoes!” he said as he repassed the coacher.

With two gone, the spectators howled for the locals to get Luchow, next in order. The little German was particularly clever at advancing runners, but now, with sacks untenanted, it was his duty to get safely down the first stretch if he could. Whipple, pitching cautiously, presently found the count was “strike one and ball three,” the batter having fouled the only one to come over. Then the youngster remembered Pennington’s statement that Luchow always “took one” when it stood that way, hoping to get a walk. Straight over the heart of the pan hummed the ball, and the second strike was called.

“That puts you even with him, Whip,” laughed Bennett, the catcher. “Don’t lose him! Make him hit!”

“Put it across,” said Luchow, “and I’ll bust the stitches!”

But he bit vainly at a dizzy drop and the Comets received an ovation as they came cantering in from the field.

“Now it’s runs we want,” said Pennington, as the youngsters gathered at the bench, “and want them quick. They’ll be likely to come easier now than later, if those fellows get the idea that you can play and tighten up. Start us off, Collier, if you can.”

Dugan had sent in Tom Harris, his weakest pitcher, thinking him fully capable of holding the bushers down. The Sahagan manager told his players just what to expect from Harris, who had an arm that would not let him make frequent use of his once marvelously effective drop. Collier, the center-fielder, did not waste time tipping his cap to the cheering mob, but squared himself in the batter’s box and leaned against the first ball Harris warped across, driving it through an opening for a pretty single that redoubled the uproar.

Temple hastened to the plate with instructions to bunt, but Harris, hoping the over-confident runner would try to steal, “pitched out” twice. Then twice the ball was whipped to first to make Collier hug the bag. Pennington, fathoming the design and catching Temple’s eye for a flashing instant, unobtrusively signed for the bunt on the next one.

No mistake was made. Harris put a sizzler over; Temple dumped it toward third. Only by the sharpest kind of work did “Laughing Ham” Hunter scoop up that slow roller and get the batter in his last stride by a perfect throw to first.

HERE is a saying that “more games are lost on the third-base coaching line than anywhere else,” and Pennington hastened to take Coppinger’s place there. Some of the Indians were joshing Harris, and the pitcher did not seem greatly pleased over the success of Temple’s sacrifice. Giving his attention to Copley, who came next, he burned the ball across, a smoking white streak through the air. Twice Copley fouled; then he banged a grasser past Miner Samson, the first-sack guardian, who made an ineffective lunge at it.

Collier could run. He came over from second with the speed of a deer that is being peppered at by a sportsman with the buck fever. With a flourish of his arms, Pennington sent his man home.

Collier, crossing third, swung toward the plate without the slightest hesitation or let-up. Flaherty winged the ball to Creel, waiting at the registry station. It seemed to the upstanding, breathless crowd that the runner must be nipped. The ball, however, took a curve and came in wide, forcing Creel to reach for it in the wrong direction, and Collier, sliding spikes first, flung his body away from the catcher. Gripping the horsehide, Creel swung and lunged, but the umpire, squatting near by, spread out his hands, palms downward. On the throw in Copley cantered to second.

The spectators were simply a mob of popeyed, purple-faced, howling lunatics, and it seemed a marvel that some of them did not drop dead in the effort to split their throats. This was what they had come out to see; this was what they had told themselves they would see; yet all along, hidden in their hearts, there had been a fear that they would not see it.

The Indians were more amused than alarmed. Harris, although a trifle sore, felt no twinge of fear and he twisted his mug at Samson, who had flung him a jeer. On the bench Dugan shifted his quid, spat and said, “Hear the fools! They think one run wins this game!”

Badger, next hitter, knew what he wanted to do and Harris found the man would not bite at coaxers. With three balls called, the pitcher was forced to find the rubber. He did it, and the busher took a called strike. But if Harris thought the batter would wait again, he was deceived. The ball was close, but Badger, standing back, poked it skimming over the middle of the third hassock beyond the reach of Hunter’s yearning bare right.

Again idiocy seemed rampant in the crowd that watched Copley scurry home on that hit, which Badger, by great hustling, turned into a two-sacker.

Tom Harris was no longer undisturbed; in fancy he could hear Dugan calling him all sorts of a worthless bone-head, and he knew, even if he lived the inning through, there was something coming to him when he reached the bench. His team-mates were not jeering him good-naturedly now; they were asking what in a certain warm place was the matter with him. However, it was his anger, rather than fear of the batter, that led him to walk Eagan two minutes later.

It was time he pulled himself up and he pitched to Grozman with all the skill at his command, drawing a breath of relief when Sahagan’s short-stop popped up an in-field fly.

“I reckon the little squall is over,” commented Dugan, as Conroy walked into the batter’s box. “These tail-end bushers must be weak with the stick.”

But Pennington did not have a genuinely weak hitter on the list, having studied every one and coached them all to overcome their failings. Conroy had once felt that he could not hit a high ball, but now he picked out one level with his eyebrows and hit it a smash that should have left it marked with a dent. It was more of drive than a fly, yet it passed over the head of the center fielder, and would have been a homer save for the rule which made a hit into the crowd good for only two bases. Badger jogged home and Eagan and Conroy camped on third and second.

Bill Dugan discarded his chew of tobacco as if it tasted decidedly disagreeable.

“Kotman,” he said, rising and motioning for Harris to leave the slab, “go out there an’ stop this blazin’ foolishness! That has-been couldn’t hold down a bunch o’ batters from the Old Woman’s Home!”

The rejoicing crowd mercilessly laughed at Harris as the unfortunate twirler walked to the bench, his bronzed face having a putty-colored tinge. What Dugan said to Harris matters not, and, if it did, there are reasons why it could not be recorded.

“Spike” Bennett, the Sahagan catcher, stood back from the plate and leaned on his bat while Kotman, the star flinger of the Indians, limbered his wing a bit and got the range of the rubber by throwing a few to Creel. A few moments later Kotman was highly displeased by the behavior of Bennett, who met the second ball pitched to him and poled it to left for a clean single. The fielder tried to get Eagan by throwing to the pan and Bennett stretched his legs for second.

Creel, realizing he could not stop the score, wasted no time in shooting the sphere to Norris, who covered the cushion at the remote vertex of the diamond; but, after his usual manner when in haste, he threw to the wrong side of the hassock and Bennett, sliding, was safe. This attempt to catch Bennett might have let in another run had not Conroy lost his footing twenty feet from third. Before he could recover and get back to base the ball was there, and Hunter jammed down the lid of Pandora’s box by tagging the Sahaganite viciously.

UT of this pother had come four runs for the locals, and the crowd, though annoyed by Conroy’s bungle, was jubilant; more than one usually dignified citizen joined in whooping at the Indians as the disgruntled and growling Leaguers approached their bench. Dugan greeted his players with a sneering, snarling countenance.

“Quit this monkey-business now,” he said, “and git down to cases! You’ve been makin’ a holy show o’ yerselves! Buck up an’ choke off them howlin’ fools by makin' some runs! Git after that cub pitcher an’ hand him his!”

But Whipple, heartened and steadied by the lead his team had obtained, pitched well. He added to the joy of the assemblage by whiffing the first two men to face him in the second, although they were known to be the Indians’ most dreaded stickers. When “Miner” Samson followed with an easy high fly that was smothered, the crowd rose again and cheered the Comets collectively and individually.

Pennington took pains not to permit his players to become over-confident or careless.

“Don’t get the idea that we’ve clinched this game, boys,” he cautioned. “We’ll have to fight for it until the last man is down. Get more runs; we’re almost sure to need them.”

Kotman, however, soon gave evidence that he belonged in a different class from Harris; apparently he did not work for strike-outs, but his pitching was so baffling that Whipple, Collier and Temple popped to the infield or poled weak rollers into the diamond, not one of them coming within ten feet of reaching first.

The game had settled into a grim battle, with the Big Leaguers, no longer disdainful and careless, fighting every inch of the way and resorting to every artifice at their command.

Hunter, leading off in the third, “got a life” on an error and sought to shake Whip ple’s nerve by laughing at him from the sack; but when he tried to steal on the second ball pitched to Creel he was slaughtered by Bennett’s perfect throw and Grozman’s fearless covering of the anchorage. Then Creel fanned and Kotman drove a whistling liner straight into the unflinching hooks of Conroy.

“Some baseball!” commented a happy spectator.

Kotman continued his hitless career on the slab, mowing down the bushers in one-two-three order.

In the fourth, with the head of the list up, the Indians got after Whipple and, with one down and two on, had him wobbling. A double play, executed on a fly to center and a rifle-shot throw to the plate, stopped at least one run and allowed the choking spectators to get breath enough to howl.

Whipple was perspiring and shaky when he reached the bench. Pennington saw this and, hiding his anxiety, tried to chirk him up. Deep in his heart, the Sahagan manager was apprehensive of what might happen if a break came and the belligerent visitors started scoring. The young pitcher knew how bitterly sore the great crowd would be if, after such a favorable beginning, the Indians were to win, and he could not put that haunting, harassing thought aside.

When he came to bat with two out and Conroy on first, Whipple betrayed the condition of his nerves by slashing at three wide ones, not one of which could have been touched with a bat several inches over regulation length.

Fully as well as Pennington, Dugan seemed to understand that the time for the break had arrived.

“Start something now!” he rasped. “Here’s where you do it! Pound that pitcher’s head off!”

Maddern started it with a clean single. Samson rolled out a soggy bunt and, in his anxiety, Whipple fumbled the ball, being saved from a wild throw, perhaps, by Eagan’s yell for him to hold it. Hunter, laughing uproariously, pranced to the bat and banged the ball into the crowd, scoring Maddern.

“Get out back of the stand, Coppinger, and warm up!” ordered Pennington at once. “Hustle!”

The coachers were howling; the crowd was aghast; Whipple was shaking. There was some relief when Creel, eager to follow Hunter’s example, boosted a fly back of second and was out. This relief was temporary, however, for Kotman came on with a single to right, scoring Samson and Hunter.

Three tallies had been made and, with Whipple off his feet and the Indians hot on the warpath, everything seemed to promise that the game would be lost and won right there.

Pennington had no faith in the ability of Coppinger to check the rout, but he knew Whipple would be in no form to continue in the next inning and some one must pitch.

Instead of swinging on the ball, Flaherty bunted and Whipple interfered with the fielding of Temple, who might have got the man at first.

“It’s all over,” groaned the same spectator who, a short time before, had declared the game “some baseball.”

Buckley’s weakness was forgotten by the confused young twirler, who handed him one high on the inside. The batter smashed the ball on a dead line toward third and Temple forked it sensationally with his bare right hand, swinging in time to wing it to first for a double, Kotman being unable to get back to the sack.

HERE’S Morgan?” was the question as the Comets reached the bench, heedless of the relieved shouting of the gathering.

Pennington was not there.

Over behind the stand he had rushed at Coppinger, saying, “Give me that ball! I’m going to warm up myself. I’m going to pitch the rest of this game if I never pitch another! Go back and watch, Cop. Let me know when the inning ends, so I can start the sixth.”

Coppinger, who had felt no relish for the mauling he fully expected to receive, tellingly obeyed.

Pennington was not given much time to get his arm into condition, Kotman continuing as invulnerable as ever. The crowd knew another pitcher would be put in and there was a craning of necks when the locals trotted out once more. Pennington, walking to the slab, was received with surprise and uncertain applause.

“What’s this! what’s this!” whooped Hunter, standing with his hands on his hips and staring. “Can it be? Oh, say, now there will be sport!”

Dugan took a fresh chew of tobacco and settled himself on the bench, grinning. “You know what you c’n do with him,” he said. “His heart-valves are weak as rotten leather hinges.”

Pennington had spoken a moment with Bennett. He started off with his under hand rise and Luchow, biting at the same ball twice, cut two gashes in the air. Then he fouled a wide “roundhouse,” but this encouragement proved deceptive when, a moment later, he slashed inches beneath another rise ball and was out!

Seemingly utterly deaf to applause and paying strict attention to business, Penning ton took Norris in hand. He knew the man’s weakness for grandstanding and when, having missed once, the batter did a derisive jig-step in the box, Pen caught him off guard and whipped a straight one over for a called strike. Then came the lately acquired “fade-away” and Norris, his peacock feathers drooping, followed Luchow to the bench.

Maddern meant business and he fouled the ball four times. Still the grim young man on the slab continued to bend them over, Maddern eventually perished in the same manner as the two comrades who had preceded him.

The crowd hailed Pennington as Sheridan was greeted on his arrival at Winchester. Here was the man to save the day! They gave full token of their faith in him.

On the other hand, Dugan muttered, “He’ll blow up; he can’t help it.”

Pennington wanted more runs, but Kotman still “had the goods,” and delivered them.

The seventh opened with Samson making a ludicrously weak showing against the slants and headwork of the Sahagan slab-man, being likewise retired by the strike out route. But Hunter hit a grounder to Grozman, who booted it and instantly there was a commotion. Dugan himself was on the coaching-line now.

“Ah-yah! ah-yee!” howled the manager of the Indians. “Here he goes! He’s soft! He’s easy! He’s a quitter! Make him pitch! We’ll make a hundred now! Yow! Look out!”

The final cry was a warning to Hunter, who leaped back to the sack; but Pennington’s throw was so slow and faltering that the runner’s taunting laugh seemed almost justified. Again the pitcher threw to the sack, evidently trying to be quicker, but it seemed apparent that he could not catch a real player by that sort of a trick. Made bold, Hunter took a bigger lead.

Suddenly, as he seemed on the verge of pitching, Pennington pivoted like a flash and shot the ball straight and low into the hands of the waiting Eagan, who put it against Hunter, sliding.

“You’re out!” barked the umpire.

Tricked, Hunter rose from the dust, protesting. Dugan ran at the umpire fiercely, but was ordered back, the wildly shrieking crowd demanding that he should be put out. Abusive, the chagrined and exasperated manager of the Indians delayed the game until the umpire pulled his watch. Then Hunter, all the taunting merriment taken out of him, retired.

Creel fanned.

Although in no manner did he give expression to it, Pennington really had little hope of making further runs. He felt that the sole chance of winning lay in holding the enemy where they were. Still he kept his players keyed up and trying their hardest with the club.

Kotman, however, pitched like a man straining every nerve to win a Big League pennant and one after another the bushers, Pen included, bit the dust.

The eighth throughout was a wrangle, the Indians resorting to umpire-baiting and all sorts of bullying tactics, even though the exasperated spectators threatened to mob them. Nevertheless, Pennington, iron-nerved, permitted only three batters to face him.

N THE final half of that inning the second Sahaganite had melted away before Kotman’s wonderful skill when a messenger-boy found Pennington resting on the bench and handed him a Western Union envelope. The envelope bore the name of John Morgan, but Pen tore it open with a premonitory throb of apprehension.

The message stunned him:

At the bottom were the names of Gardiner Pennington’s attorneys.

“There goes Copley. Now hold ’em down, manager, and we’ll own Sahagan to-night!” It was the voice of Bennett in his ears.

Like a man dazed, Pennington rose, thrusting the crumpled message into the bosom of his woolen shirt. His father was dead and they had parted with bitter words. Like a man dazed, he walked on to the diamond and stood dully watching his companions throwing the ball. When it came to him he caught it mechanically, but he did not get ready to pitch until the umpire twice sharply called “Play!”

The spectators became vaguely aware that something had happened to the pitcher on whom they depended, and the cheering died away to a questioning hum which ran through the stand and over the bleachers. Bennett, removing his mask, walked out.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, gazing at Pen’s pale, drawn face. “Are you sick?”

“No,” was the husky answer, “I’m all right. Get your position, and signal.”

Luchow pounded a grasser to Grozman, who trapped it and threw the German out.

Pennington gave himself a shake and pitched to Norris, who smashed a long fly to center, where Collier made a wonderful catch against the ropes.

The pitcher did not hear the taunts of the coachers; he scarcely seemed to see Maddern at the plate. Bennett was forced to signal three times. Then Maddern, after watching two wide ones sail past, got one to his liking and wrenched a groan from the crowd with a clean single.

“He’s gone!” cried Dugan, again on the coaching-line. “He’s quit! Yellow! Yellow! His heart’s gone back on him. He never was no good.”

Behind Pennington’s back Maddern stole second and the spectators groaned again. Once more Bennett came out into the diamond.

“For the love of Mike pull yourself together!” he entreated. “Only one more man to get and the game’s ours!”

Pen nodded. “I’ll get him,” he promised.

But Samson was dangerous and Pennington felt himself unstrung. His first two to the miner were balls. With a mighty effort, he got one over and Samson smashed a grounder down the first base-line, foul by two inches.

“He’s gone!” howled Dugan again. “He’s quit! Yellow! Yellow!”

If Samson hit safely, Maddern would be almost certain to tie the score and, with the Sahagan pitcher shaken and Kotman going at his strongest, that meant defeat. Pennington realized it and got a firm grip on himself. He tried the underhand rise and Samson fouled over the top of the stand. That man could hit in a pinch and he was dangerous now.

Pennington tried a wide curve, but Samson leered at it as it sailed past. It was two and three now. Bennett was fearful, but the pitcher, his face set and grim, shook his head until he got the sign he wanted.

The call was for a high in-shoot, and Pennington, believing it was the last ball he would ever pitch, whipped across the overhand “chin-wiper” that had made him famous at college.

Samson missed it!

SHORT time later, as he was leaving the field, having escaped with some difficulty from the riotously rejoicing crowd that overran the diamond, Pennington encountered Bill Dugan.

The Big League manager looked the young man over.

“Say,” he said, “I’ll swaller it; you’re no quitter. Reckon I didn’t give ye a fair tryout and, if ye want the chanct, you shall have it now.”

“Thanks, Dugan,” replied Pennington without the slightest touch of animosity, “I’ve had a better offer.”