``Take another message to Whit for me,'' she
said, audaciously. ``Tell him I adore ball players,
especially pitchers. Tell him I'm going to
the game today to choose the best one. If he loses
the game----''
She left the sentence unfinished. In my state
of mind I doubted not in the least that she meant
to marry the pitcher who won the game, and so
I told the Rube. He made one wild upheaval of
his arms and shoulders, like an erupting volcano,
which proved to me that he believed it, too.
When I got to the bench that afternoon I was
tired. There was a big crowd to see the game;
the weather was perfect; Milly sat up in the box
and waved her score card at me; Raddy and
Spears declared we had the game; the Rube
stalked to and fro like an implacable Indian chief
--but I was not happy in mind. Calamity
breathed in the very air.
The game began. McCall beat out a bunt; Ashwell
sacrificed and Stringer laced one of his beautiful
triples against the fence. Then he scored
on a high fly. Two runs! Worcester trotted out
into the field. The Rube was white with determination;
he had the speed of a bullet and perfect
control of his jump ball and drop. But Providence
hit and had the luck. Ashwell fumbled,
Gregg threw wild. Providence tied the score.
The game progressed, growing more and more
of a nightmare to me.
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