It was
perhaps not so much his marvelous speed and
unhittable curves that made the game one memorable
in the annals of pitching; it was his perfect
control in the placing of balls, in the cutting
of corners; in his absolute implacable mastery of
the situation. Buffalo was unable to find him at
all. The game was swift short, decisive, with
the score 5 to 0 in our favor. But the score did
not tell all of the Rube's work that morning. He
shut out Buffalo without a hit, or a scratch, the
first no-hit, no-run game of the year. He gave
no base on balls; not a Buffalo player got to first
base; only one fly went to the outfield.
For once I forgot Milly after a game, and I
hurried to find Morrisey, and carried him off to
have dinner with me.
``Your rube is a wonder, and that's a fact,'' he
said to me several times. ``Where on earth did
you get him? Connelly, he's my meat. Do you
understand? Can you let me have him right
now?''
``No, Morrisey, I've got the pennant to win
first. Then I'll sell him.''
``How much? Do you hear? How much?''
Morrisey hammered the table with his fist and
his eyes gleamed.
Carried away as I was by his vehemence, I was
yet able to calculate shrewdly, and I decided to
name a very high price, from which I could come
down and still make a splendid deal.
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