``Rube! Rube! Rube!'' he yelled.

Then and there Hurtle got the name that was
to cling to him all his baseball days.

McCall went back to the plate, red in the face,
mad as a hornet, and he sidestepped every time
Rube pitched a ball. He never even ticked one
and retired in disgust, limping and swearing.
Ashwell was next. He did not show much alacrity.
On Rube's first pitch down went Ashwell flat
in the dust. The ball whipped the hair of his
head. Rube was wild and I began to get worried.
Ashwell hit a couple of measly punks, but when
he assayed a bunt the gang yelled derisively at
him.

``What's he got?'' The old familiar cry of
batters when facing a new pitcher!

Stringer went up, bold and formidable. That
was what made him the great hitter he was. He
loved to bat; he would have faced anybody; he
would have faced even a cannon. New curves
were a fascination to him. And speed for him,
in his own words, was ``apple pie.'' In this
instance, surprise was in store for Stringer. Rube
shot up the straight one, then the wide curve, then
the drop. Stringer missed them all, struck out,