And the other member of my party
was Mrs. Hurtle, the Rube's wife, as saucy and
as sparkling-eyed as when she had been Nan
Brown. Today she wore a new tailor-made gown,
new bonnet, new gloves--she said she had decorated
herself in a manner befitting the wife of a
major league pitcher.
Morrisey's box was very comfortable, and, as
I was pleased to note, so situated that we had a
fine view of the field and stands, and yet were
comparatively secluded. The bleachers were filling.
Some of the Chicago players were on the
field tossing and batting balls; the Rube,
however, had not yet appeared.
A moment later a metallic sound was heard on
the stairs leading up into the box. I knew it for
baseball spiked shoes clanking on the wood.
The Rube, looking enormous in his uniform,
stalked into the box, knocking over two chairs as
he entered. He carried a fielder's glove in one
huge freckled hand, and a big black bat in the
other.
Nan, with much dignity and a very manifest
pride, introduced him to Mrs. Nelson.
There was a little chatting, and then, upon the
arrival of Manager Morrisey, we men retired to
the back of the box to talk baseball.
Chicago was in fourth place in the league race,
and had a fighting chance to beat Detroit out for
the third position. Philadelphia was scheduled
for that day, and Philadelphia had a great team.
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