was the next, and the one succeeding. He could
not throw anything but strikes, and it seemed the
Spatsburg players could not make even a foul.

Outside of Hurtle's work the game meant little
to me. And I was so fascinated by what I saw in
him that I could hardly contain myself. After
the first few innings I no longer tried to. I yelled
with the Rickettsville rooters. The man was a
wonder. A blind baseball manager could have
seen that. He had a straight ball, shoulder high,
level as a stretched string, and fast. He had a
jump ball, which he evidently worked by putting
on a little more steam, and it was the speediest
thing I ever saw in the way of a shoot. He had a
wide-sweeping outcurve, wide as the blade of a
mowing scythe. And he had a drop--an unhittable
drop. He did not use it often, for it made
his catcher dig too hard into the dirt. But whenever
he did I glowed all over. Once or twice he
used an underhand motion and sent in a ball that
fairly swooped up. It could not have been hit
with a board. And best of all, dearest to the
manager's heart, he had control. Every ball he threw
went over the plate. He could not miss it. To
him that plate was as big as a house.

What a find! Already I had visions of the long-
looked-for brace of my team, and of the pennant,
and the little cottage, and the happy light of a