Cut loose, now, and back him up.''

I had to grab a bat and pound on the wall to
stop the uproar.

``Did you mutts hear what I said? Well, it goes.
Not a word, now. I'm handling this team. We're
in bad, I know, but it's my judgment to pitch Hurtle,
rube or no rube, and it's up to you to back
us. That's the baseball of it.''

Grumbling and muttering, they passed out of
the dressing room. I knew ball players. If Hurtle
should happen to show good form they would
turn in a flash. Rube tagged reluctantly in their
rear. He looked like a man in a trance. I wanted
to speak encouragingly to him, but Raddy told me
to keep quiet.

It was inspiring to see my team practice that
afternoon. There had come a subtle change. I
foresaw one of those baseball climaxes that can
be felt and seen, but not explained. Whether it
was a hint of the hoped-for brace, or only another
flash of form before the final let-down, I had no
means to tell. But I was on edge.

Carter, the umpire, called out the batteries, and
I sent my team into the field. When that long,
lanky, awkward rustic started for the pitcher's