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. Ashwell hit a couple of measly punks, but when he
assayed a bunt the gang yelled derisively at him.

"What's he got?" The old familiar cry of batters when facing a new
pitcher!

Stringer went up, bold and formidable. That was what made him the
great hitter he was. He loved to bat; he would have faced anybody; he
would have faced even a cannon. New curves were a fascination to him.
And speed for him, in his own words, was "apple pie." In this
instance, surprise was in store for Stringer. Rube shot up the
straight one, then the wide curve, then the drop. Stringer missed them
all, struck out, fell down ignominiously. It was the first time he had
fanned that season and he looked dazed. We had to haul him away.

I called off the practice, somewhat worried about Rube's showing, and
undecided whether or not to try him in the game that day. So I went to
Radbourne, who had quietly watched Rube while on the field. Raddy was
an old pitcher and had seen the rise of a hundred stars. I told him
about the game at Rickettsville and what I thought of Rube, and frankly
asked his opinion.

"Con, you've made the find of your life," said Raddy, quietly and
deliberately.

This from Radbourne was not only comforting; it was relief, hope,
assurance. I avoided Spears, for it would hardly be possible for him
to regard the Rube favorably, and I kept under cover until time to show
up at the grounds.

Buffalo was on the ticket for that afternoon, and the Bisons were
leading the race and playing in topnotch form. I went into the
dressing room while the players were changing suits, because there was
a little unpleasantness that I wanted to spring on them before we got
on the field.

"Boys," I said, curtly, "Hurtle works today. Cut loose, now, and back
him up."

I had to grab a bat and pound on the wall to stop the uproar.

"Did you mutts hear what I said? Well, it goes. Not a word, now. I'm
handling this team. We're in bad, I know, but it's my judgment to
pitch Hurtle, rube or no rube, and it's up to you to back us. That's
the baseball of it."

Grumbling and muttering, they passed out of the dressing room. I knew
ball players. If Hurtle should happen to show good form they would
t