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