``Why won't we win?''
``Well, the Rube's not in good form. The
Rube----''
``Stop calling him that horrid name.''
``Whit's not in shape. He's not right. He's
ill or something is wrong. I'm worried sick about
him.''
``Why--Mr. Connelly!'' exclaimed Nan. She
turned quickly toward me.
I crowded on full canvas of gloom to my already
long face.
``I 'm serious, Nan. The lad's off, somehow.
He's in magnificent physical trim, but he can't
keep his mind on the game. He has lost his head.
I've talked with him, reasoned with him, all to no
good. He only goes down deeper in the dumps.
Something is terribly wrong with him, and if he
doesn't brace, I'll have to release----''
Miss Nan Brown suddenly lost a little of her
rich bloom. ``Oh! you wouldn't--you couldn't
release him!''
``I'll have to if he doesn't brace. It means a
lot to me, Nan, for of course I can't win the pennant
this year without Whit being in shape. But
I believe I wouldn't mind the loss of that any
more than to see him fall down. The boy is a
magnificent pitcher. If he can only be brought
around he'll go to the big league next year and
develop into one of the greatest pitchers the game
has ever produced. But somehow or other he has
lost heart. He's quit. And I've done my best
for him. He's beyond me now.
Pages:
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118