One day in July our Rochester club, leader in the Eastern League, had returned to the hotel after winning a double-header from the Syracuse club.For some occult reason there was to be a lay-off next day and then on the following another double-header.These double-headers we hated next to exhibition games.Still a lay-off for twenty-four hours, at that stage of the race, was a Godsend, and we received the news with exclamations of pleasure.
After dinner we were all sitting and smoking comfortably in front of the hotel when our manager, Merritt, came hurriedly out of the lobby.
It struck me that he appeared a little flustered.
``Say, you fellars,'' he said brusquely.``Pack your suits and be ready for the bus at seven-thirty.''
For a moment there was a blank, ominous silence, while we assimilated the meaning of his terse speech.
``I've got a good thing on for tomorrow,''
continued the manager.``Sixty per cent gate receipts if we win.That Guelph team is hot stuff, though.''
``Guelph!'' exclaimed some of the players suspiciously.``Where's Guelph?''
``It's in Canada.We'll take the night express an' get there tomorrow in time for the game.
An' we'll hev to hustle.''
Upon Merritt then rained a multiplicity of excuses.Gillinger was not well, and ought to have that day's rest.Snead's eyes would profit by a lay-off.Deerfoot Browning was leading the league in base running, and as his legs were all bruised and scraped by sliding, a manager who was not an idiot would have a care of such valuable runmakers for his team.Lake had ``Charley-horse.'' Hathaway's arm was sore.Bane's stomach threatened gastritis.Spike Doran's finger needed a chance to heal.I was stale, and the other players, three pitchers, swore their arms should be in the hospital.
``Cut it out!'' said Merritt, getting exasperated.
``You'd all lay down on me--now, wouldn't you? Well, listen to this: McDougal pitched today;he doesn't go.Blake works Friday, he doesn't go.But the rest of you puffed-up, high-salaried stiffs pack your grips quick.See? It'll cost any fresh fellar fifty for missin' the train.''
So that was how eleven of the Rochester team found themselves moodily boarding a Pullman en route for Buffalo and Canada.We went to bed early and arose late.
Guelph lay somewhere in the interior of Canada, and we did not expect to get there until 1o'clock.
As it turned out, the train was late; we had to dress hurriedly in the smoking room, pack our citizen clothes in our grips and leave the train to go direct to the ball grounds without time for lunch.
It was a tired, dusty-eyed, peevish crowd of ball players that climbed into a waiting bus at the little station.
We had never heard of Guelph; we did not care anything about Rube baseball teams.Baseball was not play to us; it was the hardest kind of work, and of all things an exhibition game was an abomination.
The Guelph players, strapping lads, met us with every mark of respect and courtesy and escorted us to the field with a brass band that was loud in welcome, if not harmonious in tune.
Some 500 men and boys trotted curiously along with us, for all the world as if the bus were a circus parade cage filled with striped tigers.
What a rustic, motley crowd massed about in and on that ball ground.There must have been 10,000.
The audience was strange to us.The Indians, half-breeds, French-Canadians; the huge, hulking, bearded farmers or traders, or trappers, whatever they were, were new to our baseball experience.
The players themselves, however, earned the largest share of our attention.By the time they had practiced a few moments we looked at Merritt and Merritt looked at us.
These long, powerful, big-handed lads evidently did not know the difference between lacrosse and baseball; but they were quick as cats on their feet, and they scooped up the ball in a way wonderful to see.And throw!--it made a professional's heart swell just to see them line the ball across the diamond.
``Lord! what whips these lads have!'' exclaimed Merritt.``Hope we're not up against it.
If this team should beat us we wouldn't draw a handful at Toronto.We can't afford to be beaten.
Jump around and cinch the game quick.If we get in a bad place, I'll sneak in the `rabbit.' ''
The ``rabbit'' was a baseball similar in appearance to the ordinary league ball; under its horse-hide cover, however, it was remarkably different.
An ingenious fan, a friend of Merritt, had removed the covers from a number of league balls and sewed them on rubber balls of his own making.
They could not be distinguished from the regular article, not even by an experienced professional--until they were hit.Then! The fact that after every bounce one of these rubber balls bounded swifter and higher had given it the name of the ``rabbit.''
Many a game had the ``rabbit'' won for us at critical stages.Of course it was against the rules of the league, and of course every player in the league knew about it; still, when it was judiciously and cleverly brought into a close game, the ``rabbit''
would be in play, and very probably over the fence, before the opposing captain could learn of it, let alone appeal to the umpire.
``Fellars, look at that guy who's goin' to pitch,''
suddenly spoke up one of the team.
Many as were the country players whom we seasoned and traveled professionals had run across, this twirler outclassed them for remarkable appearance.Moreover, what put an entirely different tinge to our momentary humor was the discovery that he was as wild as a March hare and could throw a ball so fast that it resembled a pea shot from a boy's air gun.
Deerfoot led our batting list, and after the first pitched ball, which he did not see, and the second, which ticked his shirt as it shot past, he turned to us with an expression that made us groan inwardly.
When Deerfoot looked that way it meant the pitcher was dangerous.Deerfoot made no effort to swing at the next ball, and was promptly called out on strikes.
