The Zane Grey Megapack. Zane Grey
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streak!”
Whatever Chase’s triple had to do with it, the fact was that the Findlay players suddenly recovered their batting form. For two weeks they had been hitting atrociously, as Mac said, and now every player seemed to find hits in his bat. Thatcher tore off three singles; Cas got two and a double; and the others hit in proportion.
Chase rapped another against the rightfield fence, hitting a painted advertisement that gave a pair of shoes to every player performing the feat; and to the delirious joy of the bleachers and stands, at his last time up, he put the ball over the fence for a home run.
It was a happy custom of the oil-men of Findlay, who devoted themselves to the game, to throw silver dollars out of the stand at the player making a home run. A bright shower of this kind completely bewildered Chase. He picked up ten, and Cas handed him seven more that had rolled in the dust.
“A suit of clothes goes with that hit, me boy,” sang out Cas.
It was plainly a day for Chase and Cas. The Kenton players were at the mercy of the growling pitcher. When they did connect with the ball, sharp fielding prevented safe hits. Chase had eleven chances, some difficult, one particularly being a hard bounder over second base, all of which he fielded perfectly. But on two occasions fast, tricky base-runners deceived him, bewildered him, so that instead of throwing the ball he held it. These plays gave Kenton the two lonely runs chalked up to their credit against seventeen for Findlay.
“Well, we’ll give you those tallies,” said Cas, swaggering off the field. He had more than kept his threat, for Kenton made but one safe hit.
“Wheeling tomorrow, boys,” he yelled in the dressing-room. “We’ll take three straight. Say! Did any of you cheapskates see my friend Chase hit today? Did you see him? Oh! I guess he didn’t put the wood on a few! I guess not! Over the fence and far away! That one is going yet!”
Chase was dumfounded to hear every player speak to him in glowing terms. He thought they had bitterly resented his arrival, and they had; yet here was each one warmly praising his work. And in the next breath they were fighting among themselves. Truly these young men were puzzles to Chase. He gave up trying to understand them.
A loud uproar caused him to turn. The players were holding their sides with laughter, and Cas was doing a Highland fling in the middle of the floor. Mac looked rather white and sick. This struck Chase as remarkable after the decisive victory, and he asked the nearest player what was wrong.
“Oh! Nuthin’ much! Mac only swallowed his cigar stub!”
It was true, as could be plainly seen from Mac’s expression. When the noise subsided he said:
“Sure, I did. Was it any wonder? Seein’ this dead bunch come back to life was enough to make me swallow my umbrella. Boys,” here a smile lighted up his smug face, “now we’ve got thet hole plugged at short, the pennant is ours. We’ve got ’em skinned to a frazzle!”
CHAPTER VII
MITTIE-MARU
“Chase, you hung bells on ’em yestiddy.”
Among the many greetings Chase received from the youngsters swarming out to the grounds to see their heroes whip Wheeling, this one struck him as most original and amusing. It was given him by Mittie-Maru, the diminutive hunchback who had constituted himself mascot of the team. Chase had heard of the boy and had seen him on the day before, but not to take any particular notice.
“Let me carry yer bat.”
Chase looked down upon a sad and strange little figure. Mittie-Maru did not much exceed a yard in height; he was all misshapen and twisted, with a large head, which was set deep into the hump on his shoulders. He was only a boy, yet he had an almost useless body and the face of an old man.
Chase hurriedly lifted his gaze, thinking with a pang of self-reproach how trifling was his crooked eye compared to the hideous deformity of this lad.
“Three straight from Wheelin’ is all we want,” went on Mittie-Maru. “We’ll skin the coal diggers all right, all right. An’ we’ll be out in front trailin’ a merry ‘Ha! Ha!’ fer Columbus. They’re leadin’ now, an’ of all the swelled bunches I ever seen! Put it to us fer three straight when they was here last. But we got a bad start. There I got sick an’ couldn’t report, an’ somehow the team can’t win without me. Yestiddy was my first day fer—I don’t know how long—since Columbus trimmed us.”
“What was the matter with you?” asked Chase.
“Aw! Nuthin’. Jest didn’t feel good,” replied the boy. “But I got out yestiddy, an’ see what you done to Kenton! Say, Chase, you takes mighty long steps. It ain’t much wonder you can cover ground.”
Chase modified his pace to suit that of his companion, and he wanted to take the bat, but Mittie-Maru carried it with such pride and conscious superiority over the envious small boys who trooped along with them that Chase could not bring himself to ask for it. As they entered the grounds and approached the door of the clubhouse, Mac came out. He wore a troubled look.
“Howdy, Mittie; howdy, Chase,” he said, in a loud voice. Then as he hurried by he whispered close to Chase’s ear, “Look out for yourself!”
This surprised Chase so that he hesitated. Mittie-Maru reached the dressing room first and turning to Chase he said; “Somethin’ doin’, all right, all right!” This was soon manifest, for as Chase crossed the threshold a chorus of yells met him.
“Here he is—now say it to his face!”
“Salver!”
“Jollier!”
“You mushy soft-soaper!”
Then terms of opprobrium fell about his ears so thickly that he could scarcely distinguish them. And he certainly could not understand why they were made. He went to his locker, opened it, took out his uniform, and began to undress. Mittie-Maru came and sat beside him. Chase looked about him to see Winters lacing up his shoes and taking no part in the vilification. Benny was drunk. Meade’s flushed face and thick speech showed that he, too, had been drinking. Even Havil made a sneering remark in Chase’s direction. Chase made note of the fact that Thatcher, Cas, and Speer—Speer was one of the pitchers—were not present.
“You’re a Molly!” yelled Meade. “Been makin’ up to the reporters, haven’t you? Fixin’ it all right for yourself, eh? Playin’ for the newspapers? Well you’ll last about a week with Findlay.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Chase.
“Go wan!” shouted the first base man.
“As if you hadn’t seen the Chronicle!”
“I haven’t,” said Chase.
“Flash it on him,” cried Meade.
Someone threw a newspaper at Chase, and upon opening it to the baseball page, he discovered his name in large letters. And he read an account of yesterday’s game, which, excepting to mention Cas’s fine pitching, made it seem that Chase had played the whole game himself. It was extravagant praise. Chase felt himself grew warm under it, and then guilty at the absence of mention of other players who were worthy of credit. “I don’t deserve all that,” said he to Meade, “and I don’t know how it came to be there.”
“You’ve been salvin’ the reporter, jollyin’ him.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“You’re a liar!”
A hot flame leaped to life inside Chase. He had never been called that name. Quickly he sprang up, feeling the blood in his face. Then as he looked at Meade, he remembered the fellow’s condition, and what he owed to Mac, and others far away, with the quieting affect that he sat down without a word.
A moment later, Benny swaggered up to him and shook a fist in his face.
“I’m a-goin’ t’ take a bing at yer one skylight an’ shut ’t