Gowan meditated.
“After showing me that a team of fast players can be made up,” he finally wheezed, “you’ll have to show me that such a team can get at least one game with some of the majors.”
“Will you take hold of it then?”
“I—I may,” answered the stout man cautiously.
“Well, here, I have a pull with two managers who will favor me. Look at these letters. Here’s one from Collins, of Boston, and this from McGraw. Both promise to give me a game if I get the team and they find an open date.”
Gowan adjusted a pair of spectacles and examined the letters placed before him, while McGann lighted a cigarette.
“All very friendly and fine,” admitted the stout man, as he refolded the letters; “but neither man makes a definite promise.”
“As far as possible, both do. I know they’ll keep their word. I’ll guarantee to get a game with one of those teams, if we can make up a bunch that is fast enough. I can get the field in Hoboken for almost any Sunday if I arrange for it in advance. We can draw a mob. I tell you, Bob, we’ll make money, sure as fate. If we succeed with one team made up from outcasts this year, we can keep our little scheme quiet, and next season we can begin early to make arrangements, and we can spring the Outcasts League, which will come pretty near rating with the National or the American. Of course we’ll be outsiders for a season; but we may be able to show the country some baseball that will make the National Association recognize us. In two or three years, if we plan properly and carry out our schemes, we may be pushing the two top-notchers for leadership. That would give me all the revenge I want for being crowded out in Philadelphia.”
“It’s a visionary scheme, Mel. I doubt if it can be done this year with a bunch of outcasts. I’d like to hear what Hurley has to say. Why doesn’t he show up?”