-mouthed in appreciation. The short,
stocky Carl ambled up to bat, and I heard him call the Rube something.
It was not a friendly contest, this deciding game between Buffalo and
Worcester.

"Bing one close to his swelled nut!" growled Spears to the Rube.

Carl chopped a bouncing grounder through short and Ash was after it
like a tiger, but it was a hit. The Buffalo contingent opened up.
Then Manning faced the Rube, and he, too, vented sarcasm. It might not
have been heard by the slow, imperturbable pitcher for all the notice
he took. Carl edged off first, slid back twice, got a third start, and
on the Rube's pitch was off for second base with the lead that always
made him dangerous. Manning swung vainly, and Gregg snapped a throw to
Mullaney. Ball and runner got to the bag apparently simultaneously;
the umpire called Carl out, and the crowd uttered a quick roar of
delight.

The next pitch to Manning was a strike. Rube was not wasting any
balls, a point I noted with mingled fear and satisfaction. For he
might have felt that he had no strength to spare that day and so could
not try to work the batters. Again he swung, and Manning rapped a long
line fly over McCall. As the little left fielder turned at the sound
of the hit and sprinted out, his lameness was certainly not in
evidence. He was the swiftest runner in the league and always when he
got going the crowd rose in wild clamor to watch him. Mac took that fly
right off the foul flag in deep left, and the bleachers dinned their
pleasure.

The teams changed positions. "Fellers," said Spears, savagely, "we may
be a bunged-up lot of stiffs, but, say! We can hit! If you love your
old captain--sting the ball!"

Vane, the Bison pitcher, surely had his work cut out for him. For one
sympathetic moment I saw his part through his eyes. My Worcester
veterans, long used to being under fire, were relentlessly bent on
taking that game. It showed in many ways, particularly in their
silence, because they were seldom a silent team. McCall hesitated a
moment over his bats. Then, as he picked up the lightest one, I saw
his jaw set, and I knew he intended to bunt. He was lame, yet he meant
to beat out an infield hit. He went up scowling.

Vane had an old head, and he had a varied assortment of balls. For Mac
he used an under hand curve, rising at the plate and curving in to the
left-hander. Mac stepped back and let it go.

"That's the place, Bo," cried the Buf