my infielders snapped it up. No chances went to
the outfield. I sat there listening to my men, and
reveled in a moment that I had long prayed for.

``Now you're pitching some, Rube. Another
strike! Get him a board!'' called Ashwell.

``Ding 'em, Rube, ding 'em!'' came from Capt.
Spears.

``Speed? Oh-no!'' yelled Bogart at third
base.

``It's all off, Rube! It's all off--all off!''

So, with the wonderful pitching of an angry
rube, the Worcester team came into its own
again. I sat through it all without another word;
without giving a signal. In a way I realized the
awakening of the bleachers, and heard the pound
of feet and the crash, but it was the spirit of my
team that thrilled me. Next to that the work of
my new find absorbed me. I gloated over his easy,
deceiving swing. I rose out of my seat when he
threw that straight fast ball, swift as a bullet,
true as a plumb line. And when those hard-hitting,
sure bunting Bisons chopped in vain at the
wonderful drop, I choked back a wild yell. For
Rube meant the world to me that day.