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