“I know I can make good what I’ve promised.”
“Tell us what players you can gather up, Mr. Hurley,” urged Gowan. “I’m rather skeptical in regard to the strength of the team.”
“Don’t you be skeptical for a moment. Listen. I have O’Neill for the principal pitcher, with Boliver Bimm for change pitcher and the outfield. The Athletics let Bimm go because their sore-armed men came round all right and their list of pitchers was complete. Bimm can hit at a three-hundred clip, and they were dopey over in Quakertown when they let him slide. I can get Bill Brackett, who came so near making the Brooklyn team. He’s a good utility man, as well as a fair pitcher. We can keep him on the bench and use him in the box against ordinary teams. He can pitch three games a week right along—four, if necessary. How is that for a pitching staff?”
“Huah!” grunted Gowan, in his usual noncommittal manner. “Go on. Who’s behind the plate?”
“Cy Swatt.”
“Why, I thought he had signed with Chicago.”
“He’s been cast adrift on the cold world.”
“I don’t understand why!” exclaimed McGann.
“Nobody else. I’ve got him on the string. We can land him, and he’ll make ’em go some. He’s one of the handsomest throwers to bases I ever saw. I played with him out on the Coast two years ago.”
“Go on,” wheezed Gowan, showing some signs of interest.