at once there came a difference in his running. It
was no longer beautiful. The grace was gone. It
was now fierce, violent. His momentum was running
him off his legs. He whirled around third
base and came hurtling down the homestretch.
His face was convulsed, his eyes were wild. His
arms and legs worked in a marvelous muscular
velocity. He seemed a demon--a flying streak.
He overtook and ran down the laboring Scott, who
had almost reached the plate.

The park seemed full of shrill, piercing strife.
It swelled, reached a highest pitch, sustained that
for a long moment, and then declined.

``My Gawd!'' exclaimed Delaney, as he fell
back. ``Wasn't that a finish? Didn't I tell you
to watch them redheads!''



THE RUBE


It was the most critical time I had yet
experienced in my career as a baseball manager.
And there was more than the usual reason why
I must pull the team out. A chance for a
business deal depended upon the good-will of the
stockholders of the Worcester club. On the