The Baseball MEGAPACK ®. Zane Grey
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she agreed; “terribly funny!”
The Colts finished the Chicago series and entrained for the East. The train had not pulled out of the Smoky City before Zimmer was seated beside Myrtle.
“Is this seat Mr. Clary’s?” he asked significantly.
“Why, no—”
“Oh! I thought maybe he had a lien on you.”
She giggled.
“That was too funny for words the other day, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. Lovely. How about dinner—won’t you eat with me this evening? The dining-car service is really good.”
“Thanks, I’ll be delighted.”
Purposely, Zimmer waited until the second call for dinner. Then he marched into the diner, very straight and very proud, with Myrtle on his arm. Clary was not there.
The car was crowded, and the car-manager sat them at a table built to accommodate four persons. And scarcely had they been seated when into the car walked Clary and Franklin—and seated themselves at the same table.
Zimmer glared at Clary and Clary smiled at Zimmer. Then the manager set himself out to monopolize the conversation. Repartee rolled from his tongue; every joke that was told reminded him of two other and better ones. Zimmer mooned in silence and vented his anger by stepping on his own pet corn under the table. Every few minutes Clary would turn vindictively to the big outfielder with a “Don’t you think so, Zim?” It was the Zim that got Charlie’s goat worse than the remarks.
And the climax came when the waiter handed Charlie checks for the quartet. Furiously, Zimmer paid them; the girl was watching. Then he escorted her back to the Pullman. They sank into their seats again.
“You don’t look very happy,” she remarked naively.
“I’m happy now, all right. But that boob Clary gave me a pain with his remarks while we were in the diner.”
“Why, Mr. Zimmer, I think he’s one of cleverest men I ever met.”
“Yeh! Clever—like a mule!”
The girl giggled. “I just laughed and laughed at what he said about—”
“Aw, say—for th’ love o’ mike, Miss Myrtle, let’s drop Clary for a while. Let’s talk about—us. We’ve got a whole evening together.”
As though in answer to Zimmer’s remark, Clary sauntered down the swaying aisle and stopped by their section.
“Hello, Myrt!”
“Hello!” Clary smiled easily, and Zimmer writhed at the familiar use of the given name.
“Listen, kiddo; you’re fond of set-back, ain’t you?”
“Crazy about it.”
“S’pose you an’ me, an’ Bull, an’ Zimmer have a little game?”
“Don’t feel like set-back,” growled
Charlie.
“G’wan. Don’t be a killjoy. Seems to me you’d like the sassiety even if you didn’t care about the game.”
About that time Myrtle managed to throw Charlie a glance from the corners of her eyes. She smiled—and when she smiled she dimpled. Charlie played!
He was Myrtle’s partner, and he played a miserable game, and they lost; and because they lost he became more grouchy, and they lost worse than ever. At ten o’clock he surlily excused himself, smoked sullenly for half an hour, and then retired with the girl’s care-free laughter—begotten of some quip from the irrepressible Clary—ringing in his ears.
That night Zimmer dreamed dreams—vivid, rich, delicious dreams which veered inevitably to the same finale—Clary prostrate on the ground, with Zimmer couchant over his body, strong fingers engaged in the delightful occupation of squeezing the last ounce of breath from the manager’s body. Always in the background was Myrtle—applauding.
For the first three days of the series at home Zimmer was about as happy as an ex- suitor at the wedding of the girl he wouldn’t suit; or happy as the husband of that same girl three years later when she meets the aforesaid ex-suitor. Clary was with the girl on all occasions, and it was not until desperation gripped him that Zimmer took the bull by the horns and begged the girl to take an old-time stroll with him in the park that evening. Desperation is the father of many events.
The park was receptive: it was cool, and filled with dark and cozy nooks. They passed a couple which found perfect oblivion in each other’s arms. Zimmer sighed a mighty sigh.
“Gee! Some guys is lucky!”
“Lucky?”
“Yeh. That chap back yonder for one instance.”
Darkness mercifully hid the flush which overspread the girl’s face.
“I wish I had a girl,” pursued Zimmer doggedly—even though his voice fairly quavered.
No answer.
“I’m in love,” he went on. “Are you?” very faintly. “Yes.”
A conversational impasse, which extended through an eon of fully five minutes.
“Guess who with?”
“How should I know?”
“You got a sixth sense, ain’t you?”
“Sixth sense?”
“Intooition?”
“Maybe.”
“You know who I’m in love with, all right.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You do so.”
“Who?”
“It’s—it’s—dog-gone it! It’s you!”
“Oh!”
They found themselves together on a bench. Possibly neither noticed in advance that their selected nook was very secluded. On the other hand, who can speak authoritatively of the mind of a man and a maid under like circumstances?
“I know,” he said with painful distinctness, after several valuable minutes had rolled into the past, “that when it comes to bein’ fitten for a classy kid like you, I ain’t such a shakes. But I—I—”
“You—what?”
“L-l-l-love y—’.”
“Oh!”
“I do.” Silence.
“I swear it.”
Ditto silence. She spoke. “Well?”
“Well—what?”
“Why don’t you—ask me?”
“Huh?”
“Why don’t you ask me—if I love you?”
“Oh! My Gawd!”
Ten minutes later a strangled, happy little voice came from the darkness:
“Oh! Charlie, ain’t we just too happy for anything.”
“Ain’t we—just!”
If Zimmer’s lips had not spoken the words, his radiant face would have given away the news to the members of the team the following morning. The antipathy to the man seemed to drop from the other members of the team like magic. They shook Zimmer’s hand until he fondly imagined that the bones would crack. The happy young couple was jollied to within an inch of their lives. And Zimmer strutted about like the one rooster in a hennery at sunrise.
It was none other than Clary who suggested that there wasn’t a bit of use waiting for the ceremony. Why not have it that