The Forest Monster of Oz

by Robert J. Evans; Chris Dulabone

CHAPTER 14

ME AND MY SHADOW

It has been mentioned before that, although very comprehensive maps exist of Oz, there are areas that are totally uncharted and about which very little is known. One such area is the Land of Lost Shadows. In fact this may be the very first time that this mysterious land has ever been mentioned by any living human being. That is because no one has ever known where a person's shadow goes when he dies. It has always been assumed that when someone's physical form is no more, his shadow automatically disappears along with it. That is quite true, of course. But does anyone ever stop to think where it disappears to!

Now, it is very true that if you are separated from your shadow when you are alive, it can be sewn back on again. Any child who has ever read the story of Peter Pan knows that this is so. But when a person's body dies, the shadow has no desire to be buried in the ground or to be burned up. None of these things bother the body because it is not aware of anything. But the shadow is totally aware and is anxious to remain active and useful. Sometimes these shadows are helpful and good. Other times, the opposite is true. Scholars of Oz are already well aware of the time when the shadow of the Wicked Witch of the East made a ploy for revenge against the magical country. But no shadow can continue to remain alive outside of the enchanted lands. After all, it is but a shadow of its former self (if you'll pardon the pun). So it just zips off to Oz to reside in the Land of Lost Shadows. Now, the word 'lost' is a misnomer here. The shadow itself is anything but lost. In fact it is quite at home in its new abode. However, it is lost as far as the rest of the world is concerned. Well, enough of these explanations. Let us get back to our story. No created beings other than shadows had ever crossed the borders of Shadowland (which is the name used by the inhabitants). That is, no one had until Elephant, Ozma, Tweaty, Hootsey, Lisa, Nibbles and the Forest Monster happened to stumble on it by accident. And the way that happened was as follows: Each member of the little band was so preoccupied with his own thoughts—especially Elephant. He was still thinking how close he had come to being eaten by the Land Sharks and the miraculous change of heart on the part of the Forest Monster. As for the Monster himself, he was feeling bad about all the evil things he had done, and was contemplating what he would say in apology to all of the animals he had wronged. Since it was getting dark by this time, he failed to notice the thick, dark area looming up in front of him, when CRASH! He went straight into it. And since it was really dark now, the shadowy occupants were quite invisible. Hootsey suggested that there was no point in stumbling around in the dark, and that the best thing to do would be for everyone to lie down and go to sleep.

This seemed like a fine idea to Elephant, who promptly flopped down on the grass—almost squashing Nibbles, who was already snoozing under him. The Forest Monster also took a position of repose, but far enough away from his smaller charges that he knew he would not roll over and squish any of them. In the twinkling of an eye, he was fast asleep. But it was hardly a restful sleep that he experienced. It was a deeply troubled sleep. In his dreams, he saw the tortured faces of the many that he had mistreated in his angry power play. The wispy night visions experienced by his companions were hardly any more enjoyable, except those of Princess Ozma, who rated enough respect from the Sleep Fays that they would not allow any negative influences to disturb her sleep. Instead, she saw visions of the beautiful Love Fairy, and the lilting, music-like laughter of the Laughing Fay. These served to make her smile inwardly as she slept.

Ozma was the first to awaken. She felt refreshed and envigorated. The sound of birds chirping and the warm sun on her face brought her out of her deep restful slumber.

The first thing that her eyes focused upon was a two-dimensional shadowy shape moving toward her along the ground in much the same manner as the shadow of an airplane would. She instinctively looked up at the sky to see what flying object might be casting its shadow on the ground. But there was nothing to account for it. Then she became apprehensive, for it occurred to her that perhaps one of the land sharks had escaped her snailifying spell and followed them and that was what she was seeing. But no; it was definitely just a shadow, for it had stopped right in front of her. Then the shadow stood up as it became a three-dimensional human being.

"Good morning," said the shadow, who had now taken the form of a very ordinary man. This awoke the others, who were surprised to see a man in a baseball uniform.

"Forgive me for startling you all," said the man. "But you see, when the sun comes up high enough in the sky, we shadows resume the forms of our previous selves. In fact, we are identical to our previous selves except that our bodies are composed of high-frequency molecules as opposed to the low frequency molecules of our earthly bodies." Seeing the quizzical look on everyone's face, he quickly continued: "It's quite simple, really. We are composed of the same material you are. After all, none of us could reside in Oz if we weren't."

"It makes sense, when you think about it," said Ozma. "But I am very curious as to why you are wearing baseball clothes. Have you just come from a game?"

"Yes, I have," answered the man. "Baseball is pretty big in Shadowland. You see, we have a large population here of old baseball players and baseball fans. It's the biggest thing we all have in common, so we tend to congregate together. As a matter of fact, we not only have games between ourselves, but we invite teams in the United States to visit when the players are in restitude. We have a wonderful time together. Of course, the visiting players don't usually bring back the memory of the games when they awaken in the morning—Well, maybe some fragmented dreams—but that doesn't detract from the game or the great fun we have. Those young whippersnappers think they'll show us old timers a thing or two, but boy, do they get a run for their money!"

"Might I inquire as to your name?" questioned Tweaty, rather timidly.

"Why yes," came the simple reply. "My name is Richard Marquard. Please, just call me Rube."

"Sounds like a backwoodsy hillbilly name to me," said Elephant, intending his words to sound like friendly teasing.

"Ha ha!" laughed Rube, equally friendly. "My nickname being what it is, you probably automatically assume that I must have been a country boy. That's what most people figure. But it's not so. Fact is, my father was the Chief Engineer of the City of Cleveland, and that is where I was born and reared."

"Okay," said Elephant. "So then, why is it that you are called Rube?"

"Well, it's a long story," answered the ball player's shadow.

"Then we had better not take the time to hear it all now," said Hootsey.
"We have a very important mission to fulfill."

"Yes," agreed Lisa. "But perhaps Mr. Rube could help us. I think we should bring him along."

"A grand idea!" exclaimed Ozma. "Mr. Marquard, would you be so kind as to join us on our mission? I would like to hear your story, and then will be happy to tell you ours."

[Illustration: "My name is Richard Marquard. Please just call me
Rube."]

"If I had been asked to join an undefined questing party by any other than the Queen of all Oz, I might have hesitated," came the reply. "But as it is from you, I will come along."

"Splendid!" said Elephant. "Then let us be off!"

Rube was lifted atop the Forest Monster, as were Elephant and the others, and from this high podium Rube began his unique tale. "It all started with my father," he explained. "Like I say, he was the Chief Engineer of the city of Cleveland. As far as he was concerned, the only important thing was for me to get a good education. But as far back as I can remember, all I could think of, morning, noon and night, was baseball.

"'Now listen,' Dad would say. 'I want you to cut this out and pay attention to your studies. I want you to go to college when you're through high school, and I don't want any foolishness about it. Without an education, you won't be able to get a good job, and then you'll never amount to anything.'

"'I already have a job,' I'd say.

"'You've got a job? What are you talking about?'

"I'm going to be a ballplayer,' I'd explain. But Dad was not very receptive.

"'A ballplayer?' he'd say, throwing his hands up in the air. 'What do you mean? How can you make a living as a ballplayer? I don't understand why a grown man would wear those funny-looking suits in the first place.'

"'Well,' I'd answer. 'You see policemen with uniforms on, and other people like that. They change after they're through working. It's the same way with ballplayers.'"

"That sounds reasonable to me," said Tweaty.

"Me, too," said Queen Ozma. "I certainly don't wear the same clothes to a meeting with a foreign dignitary as I would wear while playing marbles with Jellia Jamb."

"Certainly not!" agreed Nibbles.

"If only my father had thought that way," sighed Rube's shadow. "But he just scoffed. 'Do ballplayers get paid?' he'd ask.

"'Yes,' I told him. 'They get paid.'

"'I don't believe it!' he would rant.

"And 'round and 'round we would go. We'd actually have that same argument, almost always word-for-word, at least once a week. Twice a week in the summer. Sometimes my grandfather—my father's father—would get involved in it. My grandfather was a nice man who liked baseball, and he would usually take my side.

"'Listen,' he'd say to my father, 'when you were a youngster, I wanted you to be something, too. I wanted you to be a stonecutter, same as I was when I came over from the old country.' Oh, did I mention before that my grandfather was a stonecutter?"

"No," replied Elephant. "You just said that he was a nice man who liked baseball."

"Okay," said Rube's shadow. "Well, my grandfather had been a stonecutter, and had tried to persuade Dad to become one, too. 'But no!' he would say loudly into my father's ear, 'You wouldn't listen. You wanted to be an engineer. So you became an engineer. And a darned good one, too. Had I forced you into masonry, you would never have excelled in the craft for which you had no love. And you would have been very unhappy. Now Richard wants to be a baseball player. He's so determined that nothing is going to stop him. Let's give him a chance and see what he can do. Don't force the boy to give up on his dreams.'"

"Your grandfather sounds like a wise man to me," said Ozma.

"He was," said the shadow. "But Dad would never listen. 'Ballplayers are no good,' he'd insist. 'Ballplayers are no good, and they never will be any good.' It was very frustrating. He would usually end the argument by slamming the door and going outside to sit on the porch. And he would stop speaking to my grandfather or me for hours at a time."

"That's too bad," said Tweaty. "If you were good at baseball, you should have stuck with it."

"But I did stick with it," replied the shadow. "I told you, I just came from a game."

"Oh, yeah," said Tweaty. "So you mean you brought your Dad around?"

"Well," the shadow said slowly. "The thing is, I was always very tall for my age. I had three brothers and a sister, and my sister was the shortest of the five of us. She grew to be six feet two. So you see, I was constantly hanging around the older kids and playing ball with them instead of hanging with kids my own age. When I was about thirteen or so, I used to carry bats for some of the Cleveland Indians, such as Elmer Flick, Napoleon Lajoie and Terry Turner. Of course, they were not called the Cleveland Indians then. They were called the Cleveland Bronchos in those days. Then the Cleveland Naps—after Napoleon Lajoie. Anyway, after the regular season was over, a lot of them would barnstorm around the Cleveland area, and sometimes I'd be their bat boy.

"Later on, I even pitched a few games for Bill Bradley's Boo Gang," the shadow added proudly.

"Boo Gang?" said Lisa with a little shudder.

"Boo like a Ghost?" added Hootsey.

"No, no," laughed Rube's image. "Bill Bradley was the third baseman for the Cleveland Indians—and one of the greatest who ever lived—and he also barnstormed with his 'Boo Gang' after the season was over. So by the time I was fifteen or so, I knew a lot of ballplayers. And I had my heart set on being a Big Leaguer myself.

"Well, one of my best friends was a catcher named Howard Wakefield. He was about five years older than I was. In 1906 he was playing for the Waterloo Club in the Iowa State League, and …"

"1906?" echoed Lisa. "But … But …"

"What's wrong?" asked the ballplayer's shadow.

"You have to be mistaken," said Elephant, recognizing the reason for his friend's perplexity. "It isn't 1906 yet. It's only 1902!"

"I think he's from the future," said Lisa. "Rube Marquard is from a year that hasn't happened yet."

"But how is that possible?" asked Hootsey.

"Have you ever noticed," explained the shadow, "how you can stand in the middle of two or more different sources of light, and cast several shadows in various directions?"

"Of course," said Hootsey. "And sometimes I have a long skinny shadow that is faint and grayish, while I also have a short fat shadow right under me which is almost completely black. And when I'm flying, I can make lots of different shadows that don't even touch me anywhere."

"Yes," said Rube. "And these are all your shadow. If you go on a stage with many footlights, you will cast various images of various shades of gray. These are all your shadow. You see, your shadow can go in any direction, backward or forward. It can reach to a distant area or stay situated close by. And it can do all at one time without ever letting go of you—even if, as you say, it isn't actually touching you. You are always attached at some place. As the shadow of Rube Marquard, I touch him always, even while he is far away in repose. I can be his past, his future, or his mirror image. That is why I can remember experiences he hasn't even had yet. Sometimes we shadows accidentally create a feeling of deja vu in our live counterparts, which can lead to a false sense of psychic ability."

"I don't know much about American sports figures," said Elephant. "But it sounds like you are someone who is or will be important to Baseball. But how did you convince your dad to let you play?"

"Yes," agreed Hootsey. "You still haven't told us."

"Of course," replied the shadow. "As I was saying, I had a friend by the name of Howard Wakefield. He was playing for the Waterloo Club in the Iowa State League. That summer—when I was only sixteen—I got a letter from him.

"'We can use a good left-handed pitcher,' the letter said. 'And if you want to come to Waterloo, I'll recommend you to the manager.' I think Howard thought that I was at least eighteen or nineteen, as I was so big for my age.

"I wrote Howard and told him that my dad did not want me to play ball, so I didn't think he'd give me the money to go. If I asked him, he'd probably hit the ceiling and rap me over the head with something. Aside from that, I was ready to go."

"Well," said Lisa indignantly, "a good father would have encouraged you to go. He should have been able to see that you were good at what you did, and that you deserved this chance to make good."

"Absolutely," agreed Hootsey. "But I don't expect that your father gave you the money. Did you ever get to Waterloo?"

"Well," answered the shadow, "pretty soon I got a telegram from the Waterloo manager. He said that I had been recommended very highly by Howard Wakefield, and asked if I would like to come and try out for the team. The Waterloo manager offered to reimburse the cost of transportation if I was given a contract."

"But you still couldn't get the money from your father," said Ozma.

"No," sighed the ballplayer. "It was hardly an improvement over Howard's letter. So I just went upstairs to my room and closed the door. Then I wrote back a long letter to the Waterloo manager, explaining that I didn't have any money for transportation. But I told him that, if he sent me an advance right now for transportation, I'd be on the very next train to Waterloo and he could take it out of my salary later on."

"That's assuming you were hired, of course," said Lisa.

"Yes," agreed Rube. "But I didn't have the slightest doubt that I would make good. And, of course, I didn't mention that I was only sixteen years old. I thought it best to leave that out.

"I mailed the letter to Iowa, and then I waited on pins and needles for an answer. Every day I had to be the first one to get at the mail, because if anyone else saw a letter to me from the Waterloo Ball Club—well, that would have been enough to alert Dad to what was going on and I'd have been sunk. So every day I waited for the first sign of the mailman and tried to get to him before he reached the house. As it turned out, I could have saved myself a lot of worrying."

"No letter ever came?" guessed Lisa.

"Nope. Three weeks passed and still no answer." The shadow sighed again. "I couldn't understand what had gone wrong. Maybe it was against the rules to send transportation money to somebody not yet under contract? Maybe they didn't know how good I really was? Maybe this and maybe that. It was another frustrating period of my life. Finally, I just couldn't stand it any longer. I gave my folks a story about camping with the Boy Scouts and hitch-hiked to Waterloo."

"You lied to your parents?" said Ozma, startled by the very idea.

"Yes, I did. It was a hard thing for me to do, going against Dad like that. But I was well punished for the deed. Believe me! Have you ever had to hitch-hike, sleep in open fields, or hop a freight train? It took me five days and five nights. The longest five days of my life, and I was only sixteen at the time. But I did get there. Tired, anxious and half-starved, I blew into the Illinois Central Station at Waterloo, Iowa on a freight train early in the evening. Just before it stopped, I jumped off and went head over heels right in front of the passenger house. I hardly had time to pick myself up off the ground before the stationmaster grabbed me and shouted, 'What do you think you're doing? Come on, get out of here before I run you in!'

"'No,' I said. 'I'm reporting to the Waterloo Ball Club.'

"'You're what?' he says. 'My God! Did you ever wash your face?'

"'Yes I did,' I said. 'But I've been travelling for five days and five nights, and I am anxious to get to the Ball Park. Where do the ballplayers hang around?'

"'At the Smoke Shop,' he says. 'Down the street about a half of a mile. If you walk down there, probably whoever you're looking for will be there.'

"So I thanked him and said I'd see to it that he got a free pass to the ball game as soon as I got settled, and started off for the Smoke Shop. It turned out that two brothers owned the Smoke Shop, and they also owned the Ball Club. One of them was behind the counter when I walked into the place. He took one look at me and let out a roar like a lion's.

"'What are you doing in here?' he yelled. This is a respectable place!
Get out of here!'

"'Wait a minute,' I says. 'I've got a telegram from the manager of the
Ball Club to report here, and if I make good I'll get a contract.'

"'Are you kidding?' he says. 'Who in the world ever recommended you?'

"'Howard Wakefield did,' I said.

"'Well,' says the guy behind the counter, 'Wakefield is in back shooting billiards. We'll soon settle this!'

"I'd like to go back and see him,' I said.

"'Don't you go back there,' he shouted. 'Don't even think about going back there! You'll drive everybody out. Did you ever take a bath?'

"'Of course I did,' says I. 'But I've bummed my way here and I haven't had a chance to clean up yet.'

"So he goes into the back and in a minute Howard comes out 'Cripes!' he says. 'What happened to you?'

"I was explaining it to him when in came Mr. Frisbee, the manager, and I was introduced to him. 'I received your telegram,' I said. 'I didn't have enough money to come first class or anything like that, but here I am.'

"'Keokuk is here tomorrow,' says the manager, 'and we'll pitch you.'"

"'We'll pitch you?'" echoed Hootsey. "What a mean thing for him to say!
Imagine, just pitching you out after all your effort to get there!"

"No, no," explained the shadow. "He meant that he wanted me to pitch the next day. But I was all tuckered out and hardly ready to do that. I really wanted to have a bath and get some sleep.

"'Tomorrow or never, Young Fellow,' he says to me. Tomorrow or not at all.'

"'All right,' I said. 'But could I have five dollars in advance so I can get a clean shirt or something?'

"'After the game tomorrow,' he said. Then he just walked away from me like I was nothing."

"How rude," said Elephant.

"The least he could have done would have been to let you take a shower in the locker-room," said Lisa.

"Well, I got to clean up," admitted Rube. "Howard took me to his rooming house and gave me something to eat. They let me sleep on an extra cot they had. And the next day we went to the Ball Park and I was introduced to the players and given a uniform that was too small for me. The Keokuk team was shagging balls while I warmed up, and they kept making comments about green rookies and bushers and nitchies and such; and how they'd knock me out of the box in the first inning; and how I should have stayed home with my Mommy. Ooh, I felt terrible. I had an awful headache and I was exhausted! Still, I was determined to show them that I could make good, and I went out there and won that game six against one!

"With that," continued the shadow, "I felt sure I'd be offered a contract. So after the game, I went to Mr. Frisbee and said, 'Welp, I showed you I could deliver the goods. Can we talk about a contract now?'

"'Oh,' he says to me. 'Keokuk is in last place. Wait until Oskaloosa comes in this weekend. They are in second place. They are a rough team, and if you can beat them, then we'll talk.'

"'Can't I get any money—any advance money—on my contract?' I asked him.

"'You haven't got a contract,' he said.

"'All right,' says I, and I didn't say another word. I knew that he was right. I'd have to prove myself before I could expect any handouts from this man. So I stayed quiet. I didn't say anything to anybody that evening. But when it got dark, I went down to the railway station, and the same stationmaster was there. He remembered me.

"'Hey!' he says. 'You pitched a fine game today! I was there, and you did a great job! What are you doing back here? Did you come to give me that free ticket you promised me?'

"'No,' I said to him sadly. I'm sorry. I'm going back home to Cleveland, and I want to know what time a freight comes by.' Then I explained to him about everything that had happened. Oh, he was very nice to me. He completely understood where I was coming from. After we had talked for awhile, he said, 'Look, the train comes in at one o'clock in the morning and the engine unhooks and goes down to the water tower. When it does, you sneak into the baggage compartment. Meanwhile, I'll talk to the baggage man before the engine gets hooked up again. So when the train pulls out and is about five miles out of town, he'll open the baggage door and let you out.'

"And that is pretty much what happened," continued Rube. "When we were five miles out of town, the door opened and the baggage man appeared. I talked with him all the way to Chicago, and as we got close to the yards he says to me, 'Okay, you'd better get ready to jump now. There are a lot of detectives around here and if you're not careful, they'll jump on you and throw you in jail. So once you get to the ground, do not hesitate! Beat it away from here as fast as you can!'

"The baggage man must have told the engineer about me, as we slowed down to a crawl just before we approached the Chicago yards, and off I jumped. I got out of there quick and took off down the street. I don't know what street it was, and I'm not sure where I was headed, but I do remember that I was awfully tired. It was the middle of the morning and I had hardly slept a wink the night before. I had staggered about three or four blocks when I passed by a fire engine house. Evidently all of the firemen were out at a fire, because the place was deserted. I was tired, very tired, so I went in and sat down. Well, they had a big bellied iron stove in there, and it was warm. I guess I must have fallen asleep, as the next thing I knew, a couple of firemen were shaking me and doing everything they could do to wake me up. They called me a bum and a lot of other bad names, and told me to get out of there or they'd have me thrown in jail.

"'I'm no bum,' I said. 'I'm a ballplayer.'

"'What?' the firemen laughed. 'You, a ballplayer? Where did you ever play?'

"'In Cleveland, around the sandlots,' I told them proudly. 'And in
Waterloo, Iowa, too! I beat the Keokuk team six to one!'

"'Yeah?' said one of the firemen. 'And last week I had dinner with Santa Claus and the Pope. So I suppose you're going to tell me that you are close buddies with Three-Fingered Brown, Chance, Tinker and Evans—I mean, Evers—and all of those fellows?'

"'No,' I said. 'I don't know them. But some day I'll be playing with them, or against them, because I'm going to get in the Big Leagues.'

"'Where are you going now?' asked the firemen.

"'Back home to Cleveland,' I told them.

"'Have you got any money?' they asked me.

"'No,' I answered. I had to be honest, after all.

"So they got up a little pool of about five dollars and said, 'Well, on your way. And use this to get something to eat.'

"I thanked them, and as I left I told them that some day I would be back again. 'When I get to the Big Leagues,' I said, I'm coming out to visit you when we get to Chicago.'

"And home I went. I played around home all the rest of the summer, and then the next summer—that would have been 1907, if I recall correctly, even though I'm remembering things that have yet to happen and I'm remembering them backwards—I took a job with an ice cream company in Cleveland. I made twenty-five dollars a week: Fifteen for checking the cans on the truck that would take the ice cream away, and ten dollars a Sunday, when I pitched for the company team. It was a good team. We played the best semipro clubs in the Cleveland area, and I beat them all. I was only seventeen, but I hardly lost a game.

"Then one day I got a postal card from the Cleveland Ball Club, asking me to come in and talk to them. Mr. Kilfoyl and Mr. Somers, the owners of the club, wanted to see me."

"Hurray!" said Hootsey. "So then, your father must have come around by then?"

"Hardly!" said the shadow. "My Dad saw the postal card and became very upset. 'So,' he said to me. 'I see that you still want to be a ballplayer.'

"'Yes,' I admitted. 'I do. And I'm going to be a great one, too! Just you wait and see! Some day you're going to be proud of me!'

"'Yeah,' he shrugged. 'Proud of nothing.'

"But I went to the Cleveland club's office all the same, and Mr. Kilfoyl and Mr. Somers were both there. I told them that I had received their card. 'You know,' I added, 'You got me into a little jam. My dad doesn't want me to be a ballplayer.'

"'Don't you worry,' said Mr. Kilfoyl 'After you sign with us and get into the Big Leagues, he'll think differently about it.'

"'Well,' I said, 'I'm not signing with you or anybody else until I hear what you're offering. I've been taken advantage of before, and it's not going to happen again. I know a lot of ballplayers and they always tell me not to sign with anybody unless I get a good salary. They all tell me you better get it when you're young, 'cause you sure won't get it when you're old.'

"'That's a lot of nonsense,' Mr. Kilfoyl said. 'Don't you worry. We'll treat you right. We'll give you a hundred dollars a month. That's a wonderful offer.'

"'I think he'll be overpaid,' Mr. Somers says.

"'I don't think that is so wonderful,' I said. 'And as for being overpaid, I get that much right now from the ice cream company, and in addition I get to eat all the ice cream I want.'"

"So it really wasn't an honorable offer," tsked Ozma. "Did they raise their offer?"

"No," replied the shadow with a sad expression. "They wouldn't increase their price. And I wouldn't reduce mine. So I left and went home. On my way home, though, I stopped in this sporting-goods store at 724 Prospect Avenue. It was owned by Bill Bradley and Ryan … Phylli … —I mean, Charlie Carr. Charlie managed and played first base for Indianapolis in the American Association. Bill, as I think I may have mentioned before, played third base for Cleveland.

"Anyway, when I walked in the door, Bill Bradley said, 'Hello, Big
Leaguer. I understand that the boss wants to sign you up.'

"'Not me,' I said. 'He wouldn't pay me as much as I already make with the ice cream company.'

"'You know,' said Charlie Carr, 'I manage the Indianapolis Club.'

"'I know that,' I said. After all, everybody knew that!

"'How would you like to sign with me?' Charlie said with a smile.

"'You're in the minor leagues,' I replied. 'If a major league club won't pay me what I want, how could you do it?'

"'How much do you want?' he wanted to know.

"I took a deep breath and then answered, 'Two hundred a month.'

"'Wow!' he said. 'You want all the money, don't you?'

"'No,' I told him. 'But you want a good pitcher, don't you?'

"'Yes,' he answered simply.

"'Well, I said, I'm one.'"

The five Ozites laughed at this, and the shadow smiled. He was actually beginning to fear that he was giving them too many details and that his story may be becoming long-winded and dull. But seeing that he was not boring his listeners, he continued:

"He agreed to my terms, of course. So right then I signed my first professional contract, with Indianapolis of the American Association.

"When I got home that night I had to tell my dad about it, because I was to leave for Indianapolis the very next day. Oh, that was a terrible night! Finally, Dad said, 'Now listen, I've told you time and time again that I don't want you to be a professional ballplayer. But you've got your mind made up. Now I'm going to tell you something: when you cross that threshold, don't come back. I don't ever want to see you again.'"

"No!" said Ozma with a start. "No way! No father would say such a thing to his own son!"

"That was just what my father said to me," said Rube sadly. "He didn't want me to come home again. I was excommunicated from the family."

"That's awful!" said Lisa. "Parents do have a certain responsibility toward any children that they brought into the world! He was a skinflint and a creep!"

"Yes," agreed Rube. "His actions that day were like those of a regular skunk!"

"I've known some very nice skunks in my day," said Hootsey.

"In any case," said the shadow, not wanting to get into a debate about his use of the word skunk, "I was as shocked as you all seem to be.

"'You don't mean that, Dad!" I said.

"'Yes, I do.'

"'Well,' I replied. 'I'm going. And some day you'll be proud of me.'

"'Proud!' he said. 'You're breaking my heart, and I don't ever want to see you again.'

"'I will not break your heart,' I said. 'I'll add more years to your life. You wait and see.'

"And so it was that I went to Indianapolis. They optioned me out to
Canton in the Central League for the rest of the 1907 season, and I won
twenty-three games with them, which was one-third of all the games the
Canton Club won that year."

"Good for you, Rube!" said Elephant, genuinely proud of his new friend.

"The next year—that would have been 1908—I went to Spring Training with the Indianapolis Club. We went to French Lick Springs, Indiana. After three weeks there we went back to Indianapolis and played a few exhibition games before the season opened. Well, believe it or not, the first club to come in for an exhibition game was the Cleveland team: Napoleon Lajoie, Terry Turner, Elmer Flick, George Stovall and the whole bunch that I used to carry bats for. When they came on the field I was already warming up.

"'Hey!' a couple of them yelled at me. 'What are you doing here? Are you the bat boy here?'

"'No,' I smugly replied. 'I am the pitcher.'

"'You, a pitcher?' they jeered. 'Who do you think you're kidding?'

"'Just ask Bill Bradley,' I told them. 'He was there when I signed my first contract. You'll see. I'm going to pitch against you guys today, and I'm going to beat you, too.'

"'Beat us? Busher, you couldn't beat a drum!'

"So then Bill Bradley came over and said hello. As he was leaving he said, 'Richard, you're a nice boy, so I want to give you some advice before today's game. Be careful of the Frenchman.' He meant Napoleon Lajoie. He said, The Frenchman is very sharp and he's been hitting terrific line drives this past week. He's almost killed three of our own pitchers in practice, so there's no telling what he'll do in a real game, even if it is just an exhibition game.'

"I thanked him, of course, and went back to warming up. Well, I pitched the whole nine innings and beat them, two to zero. Lajoie got two hits off me, and I think George Stovall got a couple, but I shut them out—and I wasn't killed, either.

"That night Charlie Carr called me over. 'You know,' he said, 'a funny thing just happened. Mr. Somers, the owner of the Cleveland club, just came over to my hotel room and wanted to buy you. He offered me three thousand five hundred dollars for your contract with the understanding that you'd stay here all season, to get more experience, and then you would join the Cleveland club next year.'

"'Charlie,' I said, 'if you sell me to Somers, I'm going right back to the ice cream company. He had first chance to get me, and he wouldn't give me what I deserved. So long as Somers is involved, I won't play for Cleveland, no matter what.'

"'Okay,' he said. 'Don't worry. I won't sell you. Later on I'll be able to sell you for a lot more, anyway.'

"On opening day, Kansas City was at Indianapolis, and I pitched the opening game. I won two to one, and that evening the story in the Indianapolis Star read like this: 'The American Association season opened up today, and it was a beautiful game between two fine teams. Each had great pitching, with an eighteen year old right-hander pitching for Kansas City and an eighteen year old left-hander for the home team. The right-hander with Kansas City looks like he's going to develop into a great pitcher. They call him Smoky Joe Wood. But we have a left-hander with Indianapolis who is going places, too. He resembles one of the great left-handed pitchers of all time: Rube Waddell.'

"And from that day on, they nicknamed me 'Rube.'

"I had a wonderful season that year with Indianapolis. I pitched forty-seven complete games, won twenty-eight of them, led the league in most strikeouts, least hits, most innings pitched, and everything. Occasionally what I'd do would be reported in the Cleveland papers, and friends of mine would tell me that they'd pass by the house and see Dad sitting on the porch.

"'Well, Fred,' they'd say—that was Dad's name, by the way, Fred—'Did you see what your son Rube did yesterday?'

"'Who are you talking about?' he'd say. 'Rube who?'

"'Your son—Richard,' they would answer.

"'I told him that baseball was no good,' my dad would reply. 'Now they've even gone and changed his name!'

"Anyway, I had a terrific year with Indianapolis, like I said. Late in the season we went into Columbus, Ohio, and Charlie Carr came up to me before the game.

"'Rube,' he said, 'there are going to be an awful lot of celebrities here at the game today. The American and National Leagues both have an off-day, and they're all coming to see you pitch. If you pitch a good game I may be able to sell you before the night is out.'

"'For how much?' I wanted to know.

"'I don't know,' he said. 'But a lot. It depends on what kind of game you pitch.'

"'Will you cut me in?' I asked.

"'No, I won't,' he said with certainty. 'You're getting a good salary and you know it.'

"'Okay,' I said. I was only kidding anyway.

"'I don't want you to get nervous today,' he said.

"'Nervous?' I repeated. 'Have I ever been nervous all season?'

"'No,' he admitted, 'I've been in baseball a long time and I never saw anything like it. I never saw a kid like you, who can beat anybody and is so successful.'

"'Well,' I said, 'the reason I'm so successful is because I can beat anybody.'"

"Now aren't you getting a little carried away with your bragging?" asked Nibbles. "I mean, I'm very much enjoying your story, even though I know little about baseball except that you play it on a bass drum. But really, I think you're carrying your pride a little too far into the negative."

"Yeah," admitted Rube, "I am sorry about that. Sometimes that happens to me when I get too worked up. Anyway, I went out there that day and I pitched one of those unusual games: no hits, no runs, no errors. Twenty-seven men faced me and not one of them got to first base. And that evening in Columbus they put me up for sale, with all the Big League clubs bidding on me, like a horse being auctioned off. The Cleveland club went as high as ten thousand five hundred dollars for my contract, but the Giants went to eleven grand, and I was sold to them. At that time, that was the highest price ever paid for a baseball player.

"I reported to the New York Giants in September of 1908, as soon as the
American Association season was over. I was eigh …"

"It still feels a little odd to have you 'remembering' things from years that have not yet been," interrupted Hootsey.

"Let him finish the story," admonished Elephant.

"I am sorry," said Rube. "But it is a memory to me, and a prediction to you. I will try to be more careful about naming years if I can remember to be. But in any event, I was eighteen years old at the time, and already the most valuable player in the Big Leagues! Excuse me if I seem to boast, but I feel that I am justified this time. I was the hero of the hour.

"Still, I came up too late in the season to make a trip to Chicago with the Giants that year, but the next season we made our first trip to Chicago the second week in June. And the first thing I did, as soon as I got there, was to make a beeline for that firehouse.

"The only one there when I first got there was the Lieutenant. I walked up to him and said, 'Lieutenant, do you remember me?'

"'Never saw you before in my life,' he said.

"'Well, remember about three years ago you caught me sleeping back of that stove there?'

"'Oh, are you that kid from Cleveland that said he's a ballplayer?'

"'Yes!' I told him. 'Remember me? My name is Marquard. Richard
Marquard.'

"'Of course,' he said, not really interested. 'What are you doing here?'

"'I am in the Big Leagues,' I explained. 'I told you when I got to the
Big Leagues I was coming out to visit you.'

"'Well I'll be …' he began, then, 'Who are you with?'

"'Why, I'm with the New York Giants,' I said with pride.

"And boy, for years after that, whenever the Giants would come to Chicago, I'd go out to that firehouse. I'd sit out front and talk for hours. The firemen would have all the kids in the neighborhood there … and all the families that lived around would stop by … and it was really wonderful. Everybody was so nice and friendly. Gee, I used to enjoy that. It was a great thrill for me.

"Actually, every single day of all the years I spent in the Big Leagues was a thrill for me. It was like a dream come true. I was in the Big Leagues for eighteen years, you know, from 1908 through 192 … Oh, yeah. Sorry about that. I was with the Giants for seven glorious years, with the Dodgers for five years after that, with Cincinnati for one year, and then with the Boston Braves for four. And I loved every single minute of it!

"The best years of all were those with the Giants. I don't mean because those were my best pitching years, although they were. In 1911 I won twenty-four games and lost only seven. And in 1912 I won twenty-six. That's the year I won nineteen straight! I didn't lose a single game in 1912 until July eighth!

"Actually, at the risk of sounding boastful again, I won twenty straight, not nineteen. But because of the way they scored then, I didn't get credit for one of them. I relieved Jeff Tesreau in the eighth inning of a game one day, with the Giants behind, three to two. In the ninth inning, Heinie Groh singled and Art Wilson homered, and we won, four to three. But they gave Tesreau credit for the victory instead of me. Except for that it would have been twenty straight wins, not nineteen."

"It's still a pretty magnificent record," harumphed Elephant "I don't see any reason for all the sour grapes."

"Oh, no," said Rube's shadow. "No sour grapes. It was the grandest year of my life. Of course, I had other great years with the Giants, too. In 1914—er, sorry. I've just told this story this way for so long, it is hard to change it now—I beat Babe Adams and the Pirates in a twenty-one inning game, three to one. Both of us went the entire distance that day, all twenty-one innings. And the following year, I pitched a no-hitter against Brooklyn and beat Nap Rucker, two to nothing."

"No wonder you remember your years with the Giants best," said Hootsey understandingly.

"Oh, no," said Rube. "But that's not the reason. The real reason is … Well, maybe it's because that was my first club. I don't know. Whatever the reason, though, it was wonderful to be a Giant back then.

"Take Mr. McGraw, for example. What a great man he was! The finest and grandest man I ever met! He loved his players and his players loved him. Of course, he wouldn't stand for any nonsense. You had to live up to the rules and regulations of the New York Giants, and when he laid down the law you'd better abide by it!

"I'll never forget one day we were playing Pittsburgh, and it was Red Murray's turn to bat, with the score tied in the ninth inning. There was a man on second with none out. Murray came over to McGraw—I was sitting next to McGraw on the bench—and he said, 'What do you want me to do, Mac?'

"'What do I want you to do?' McGraw said. 'What are you doing in the
National League? There's the winning run on second base and no one out.
What would you do if you were the manager?'

"'I'd sacrifice the man to third,' Murray said.

"'Well,' McGraw said, 'that's exactly what I want you to do.'

"So Murray went up to the plate to bunt. After he got to the batter's box, though, he backed out and looked over at McGraw again.

"McGraw poked his elbow in my ribs. 'Look at that so-and-so,' he said. 'He told me what he should do, and I told him what he should do, and now he's undecided. I'll bet he forgot from the bench to the plate.'

"Now, in those days—and I guess it's the same now—when a man was up there to bunt, the pitcher would try to keep the ball high and tight. Well, it so happened that Red was a high-ball hitter. Howie Camnitz was pitching for Pittsburgh. He wound up and in came the ball, shoulder high. Murray took a terrific cut at it and the ball went over the left-field fence. It was a home run and the game was over.

"Back in the clubhouse, Murray was as happy as a lark. He was first into the showers, and out boomed his wonderful Irish tenor, singing My Wild Irish Rose. When he came out of the shower, still singing, McGraw walked over and tapped him on the shoulder. All of us were watching out of the corner of our eyes, because we knew The Little Round Man—that's what we used to call McGraw—wouldn't let this one go by without saying something.

"'Murray,' McGraw said. 'What did I tell you to do?'

"'You told me to bunt,' Murray said, not looking quite so happy anymore. 'But you know what happened, Mac. Camnitz put one right in my gut, so I cow-tailed it.'

"'Where did you say he put it?' asked McGraw.

"'Right in my gut,' Murray says again.

"'Well,' said McGraw, I'm fining you a hundred dollars, and you can try putting that right in your gut, too!' And off he went.

"Oh, God! I never laughed so much in my life! Murray never did live that down. Years later something would happen and we'd yell to Murray, 'Hey Red, is that right in your gut?'

"There were a lot of grand guys on that club: Christy Mathewson and Chief Meyers, Larry Doyle and Fred Snodgrass, Al Bridwell and Bugs Raymond. Bugs Raymond! Ah, yes! What a terrific spitball pitcher he was. Bugs drank a lot, you know, and sometimes it seemed like the more he drank the better he pitched. They used to say that he didn't spit on the ball: he blew his breath on it, and the ball would come up drunk.

"Actually, there was very little drinking in baseball in those days. It's a shame that drinking will become more and more commonplace in American sports with the passage of time. I have seen it, and it is sad. Myself, I've never smoked or took a drink in my life. I always said you can't burn the candle at both ends. You want to be a ballplayer, be a ballplayer. If you want to go out and carouse and chase around, do that. But you can't do them both at once.

"Of course," continued Rube Marquard's shadow, 'when we were on the road, we had a nightly eleven o'clock bed check. At eleven o'clock we all had to be in our rooms and the trainer would come around and check us off. We'd usually have a whole floor in a hotel and we'd be two to a room. I always roomed with Matty all the while I was on the Giants. What a grand guy he was! The door would be wide open at eleven o'clock and the trainer would come by with a board with all the names on it. He'd poke his head in: Mathewson, Marquard, check. And lock the door. Next room, check, lock the door.

"As far as I was concerned, I never drank a drop even when I was in show business. In 1912 I made a movie with Alice Joyce and Maurice Costello, and then I was in vaudeville for three years, Blossom Seeley and I. That's when she was my wife. It didn't work out, though. I asked her to quit the stage. I told her I could give her everything she wanted.

"'No,' she told me. 'Show business is show business.'

"'Well,' I said, 'baseball is mine.' So we parted."

"You mentioned that you were with the Giants for seven years, and then the Dodgers for five, did you not? How did it feel when you were traded from the Giants to the Dodgers?" asked Elephant.

"Well," said the shadow, "not too bad. See, I traded myself. I didn't seem to be able to get going in 1915 after I pitched that no-hitter early in April, and late in the season McGraw started riding me. That was a very bad year for the Giants, you know. We were favored to win the pennant, and instead we wound up last. So McGraw wasn't very happy. After I had taken about as much riding as I could stand, I asked him to trade me if he thought I was so bad.

"'Who would take you?' he said to me.

"'What do you mean?' I asked. 'I can still lick any club in the league.'
And I could, too! Heck, I wasn't even twenty-six years old then.

"'Lick any club in the league?' scoffed McGraw. 'You couldn't lick a postage stamp!'

"'Give me a chance to trade myself, then,' I suggested. 'What would you sell me for?'

"'Seven thousand five hundred bills,' he answered.

"'Okay,' I said. 'Can I use your phone?'

"'Sure,' he said.

"We were both pretty mad at that point, so I got 'hold of the operator and asked her to get me Wilbert Robinson, manager of the Brooklyn club. You see, Robbie—that's what we called him—had been a coach with us for years before he became the Dodger manager in 1914. After a while, she got Robbie on the phone.

"'Hello?' he says.

"'How are you, Robbie?' I asked.

"Fine,' he said. 'Who is this?'

"Now, I had to handle this conversation very carefully. My whole world depended on it. 'How would you like to have a good left-handed pitcher?' I said in a jovial tone.

"I'd love it,' he said. 'Who is this? Who's the man? Who are you going to recommend?'

"I then dropped the clincher. 'I'm going to recommend myself,' I told him.

"'Who are you?' he repeated.

"'Rube Marquard,' I said, trying to sound impressive.

"'Oh,' Robbie said. 'What are you kidding around for, Rube? I have to go out on the field and I don't have time to fool around.'

"'No,' I told him, 'I'm serious! McGraw is right here and he says he'll sell me for seven thousand five hundred buckaroos! Do you want to talk to him?'

"'Of course I do,' Robbie said. And right then and there I was traded from the Giants to the Dodgers.

"And, of course, we—the Dodgers, that is—won the pennant the next year, and I had one of the best years I ever had. I think I had an earned run average of about one and a half in 1916. And then we won the pennant again in 1920. So everything worked out pretty well.

"One day when I was pitching for Brooklyn, I pitched the first game of a double-header against Boston and beat them, one to zip! I was in the clubhouse during the second game, taking off my uniform, when the clubhouse boy came in. 'Rube,' he said to me, 'there's an elderly gentleman outside who wants to see you. He says he's your father from Cleveland.

"'He is not my father,' I said. 'My father wouldn't go across the street to see me. But you go out and get his autograph book and bring it in, and I'll autograph it for him.'

"But instead of bringing in the book, he brought in my Dad. And we were both delighted to see one another.

"'Boy,' said my father to me, 'you sure are a hardhead. You know I didn't mean what I said ten years ago.'

"'What about you, Dad?' I said. 'You're as stubborn as I am. I thought you never wanted to see me again. I thought you meant it.'

"'Of course I didn't,' he said.

"After we talked a while, I said, 'Did you see the game today?'

"'Yes,' he said, 'I did.'

"'Where were you sitting?' I asked him.

"'Well, you know the man who wears that funny thing on his face?'

"'You mean the mask? The catcher?' I said.

"'I guess so,' my father said with a smile. 'Well, anyway, I was halfway between him and the number one—you know, where they run right after they hit the ball?'

"'You mean first base?' I asked.

"'I don't know,' he said. 'I don't know what they call it. I was sitting in the middle there.'

"'How many ball games have you seen since I became a ballplayer, Dad?' I wanted to know.

"'This is the first one,' he said.

"Well, he stayed in New York with me for a few weeks, and we had a great time. Finally, he had to go back to Cleveland. After he'd left, the newspapers heard about my Dad and they wanted to know his address back home. So I gave it to them, and doggone if they didn't send reporters and photographers to Cleveland to interview him.

"They took his picture and asked him a lot of questions. One of the things they asked him was whether he had ever played very much baseball himself.

"'Oh,' he told them, 'of course I did, when I was younger. I used to love to play baseball. I used to be a pitcher, just like my son Richard—I mean, like my son Rube.'

"'Are you proud of your son?' they asked him.

"'I certainly am,' Dad said. 'Why shouldn't I be? He's a great baseball player, isn't he?'"

The group of Ozites was silent for a few moments as the Forest Monster carried them along toward Yoraitia. The large pachyderm could feel a tear welling up in his left eye, and he brushed it away with his trunk.