pair of blue eyes. What he meant to me, that
country pitcher Hurtle! He shut out the Spatsburg
team without a run or a hit or even a scratch.
Then I went after him. I collared him and his
manager, and there, surrounded by the gaping
players, I bought him and signed him before any
of them knew exactly what I was about. I did
not haggle. I asked the manager what he wanted
and produced the cash; I asked Hurtle what he
wanted, doubled his ridiculously modest demand,
paid him in advance, and got his name to the
contract. Then I breathed a long, deep breath; the
first one for weeks. Something told me that with
Hurtle's signature in my pocket I had the Eastern
League pennant. Then I invited all concerned
down to the Rickettsville hotel.

We made connections at the railroad junction
and reached Worcester at midnight in time for a
good sleep. I took the silent and backward
pitcher to my hotel. In the morning we had
breakfast together. I showed him about Worcester
and then carried him off to the ball grounds.

I had ordered morning practice, and as morning
practice is not conducive to the cheerfulness
of ball players, I wanted to reach the dressing
room a little late. When we arrived, all the players
had dressed and were out on the field. I had
some difficulty in fitting Hurtle with a uniform,