But when I had seen him throw one ball to his catcher I grew as keen as a fox on a scent.What speed he had! I got round closer to him and watched him with sharp, eager eyes.He was a giant.To be sure, he was lean, rawboned as a horse, but powerful.What won me at once was his natural, easy swing.He got the ball away with scarcely any effort.I wondered what he could do when he brought the motion of his body into play.
``Bub, what might be the pitcher's name?'' Iasked of a boy.
``Huh, mister, his name might be Dennis, but it ain't.Huh!'' replied this country youngster.
Evidently my question had thrown some implication upon this particular player.
``I reckon you be a stranger in these parts,''
said a pleasant old fellow.``His name's Hurtle --Whitaker Hurtle.Whit fer short.He hain't lost a gol-darned game this summer.No sir-ee!
Never pitched any before, nuther.''
Hurtle! What a remarkably fitting name!
Rickettsville chose the field and the game began.
Hurtle swung with his easy motion.The ball shot across like a white bullet.It was a strike, and so was the next, and the one succeeding.He could not throw anything but strikes, and it seemed the Spatsburg players could not make even a foul.
Outside of Hurtle's work the game meant little to me.And I was so fascinated by what I saw in him that I could hardly contain myself.After the first few innings I no longer tried to.I yelled with the Rickettsville rooters.The man was a wonder.A blind baseball manager could have seen that.He had a straight ball, shoulder high, level as a stretched string, and fast.He had a jump ball, which he evidently worked by putting on a little more steam, and it was the speediest thing I ever saw in the way of a shoot.He had a wide-sweeping outcurve, wide as the blade of a mowing scythe.And he had a drop--an unhittable drop.He did not use it often, for it made his catcher dig too hard into the dirt.But whenever he did I glowed all over.Once or twice he used an underhand motion and sent in a ball that fairly swooped up.It could not have been hit with a board.And best of all, dearest to the manager's heart, he had control.Every ball he threw went over the plate.He could not miss it.To him that plate was as big as a house.
What a find! Already I had visions of the long-looked-for brace of my team, and of the pennant, and the little cottage, and the happy light of a pair of blue eyes.What he meant to me, that country pitcher Hurtle! He shut out the Spatsburg team without a run or a hit or even a scratch.
Then I went after him.I collared him and his manager, and there, surrounded by the gaping players, I bought him and signed him before any of them knew exactly what I was about.I did not haggle.I asked the manager what he wanted and produced the cash; I asked Hurtle what he wanted, doubled his ridiculously modest demand, paid him in advance, and got his name to the contract.Then I breathed a long, deep breath; the first one for weeks.Something told me that with Hurtle's signature in my pocket I had the Eastern League pennant.Then I invited all concerned down to the Rickettsville hotel.
We made connections at the railroad junction and reached Worcester at midnight in time for a good sleep.I took the silent and backward pitcher to my hotel.In the morning we had breakfast together.I showed him about Worcester and then carried him off to the ball grounds.
I had ordered morning practice, and as morning practice is not conducive to the cheerfulness of ball players, I wanted to reach the dressing room a little late.When we arrived, all the players had dressed and were out on the field.I had some difficulty in fitting Hurtle with a uniform, and when I did get him dressed he resembled a two-legged giraffe decked out in white shirt, gray trousers and maroon stockings.
Spears, my veteran first baseman and captain of the team, was the first to see us.
``Sufferin' umpires!'' yelled Spears.``Here, you Micks! Look at this Con's got with him!''
What a yell burst from that sore and disgruntled bunch of ball tossers! My players were a grouchy set in practice anyway, and today they were in their meanest mood.
``Hey, beanpole!''
``Get on to the stilts!''
``Con, where did you find that?''
I cut short their chaffing with a sharp order for batting practice.
``Regular line-up, now no monkey biz,'' I went on.``Take two cracks and a bunt.Here, Hurtle,''
I said, drawing him toward the pitcher's box, ``don't pay any attention to their talk.That's only the fun of ball players.Go in now and practice a little.Lam a few over.''
Hurtle's big freckled hands closed nervously over the ball.I thought it best not to say more to him, for he had a rather wild look.I remembered my own stage fright upon my first appearance in fast company.Besides I knew what my amiable players would say to him.I had a secret hope and belief that presently they would yell upon the other side of the fence.
McCall, my speedy little left fielder, led off at bat.He was full of ginger, chipper as a squirrel, sarcastic as only a tried ball player can be.
``Put 'em over, Slats, put 'em over,'' he called, viciously swinging his ash.
Hurtle stood stiff and awkward in the box and seemed to be rolling something in his mouth.
Then he moved his arm.We all saw the ball dart down straight--that is, all of us except McCall, because if he had seen it he might have jumped out of the way.Crack! The ball hit him on the shin.
McCall shrieked.We all groaned.That crack hurt all of us.Any baseball player knows how it hurts to be hit on the shinbone.McCall waved his bat madly.
``Rube! Rube! Rube!'' he yelled.
Then and there Hurtle got the name that was to cling to him all his baseball days.
McCall went back to the plate, red in the face, mad as a hornet, and he sidestepped every time Rube pitched a ball.He never even ticked one and retired in disgust, limping and swearing.
Ashwell was next.He did not show much alacrity.
On Rube's first pitch down went Ashwell flat in the dust.The ball whipped the hair of his head.Rube was wild and I began to get worried.