“How are you feeling to-day, George?” asked “Connie” Mack, his boss.
“Never better,” replied the light-hearted “Rube.”
“Well, you work this afternoon.”
“All right,” answered Waddell.
Then the ground-keeper got busy and built the pitcher’s box up about two feet, so that Waddell would have a splendid opportunity to cut loose all his speed. At that time he happened to be the only tall man on the pitching staff of the Philadelphia club, and, as a rule, the box was kept very low. The scheme would probably have worked out as planned, if it had not been that Waddell, in the course of his noon-day wanderings, met several friends in whose society he became so deeply absorbed that he neglected to report at the ball park at all. He also forgot to send word, and here was the pitcher’s box standing up out of the infield like one of the peaks of the Alps.
As the players gathered, and Waddell failed to show up, the manager nervously looked at his watch. At last he sent out scouts to the “Rube’s” known haunts, but no trace of the temperamental artist could be found. The visitors were already on the field, and it was too late to lower the box. A short pitcher had to work in the game from this peak of progress, while the opposing team installed a skyscraper on the mound. The Philadelphia club was badly beaten and Waddell heavily fined for his carelessness in disrupting the “inside” play of his team.
An old and favorite trick used to be to soap the soil around the pitcher’s box, so that when a man was searching for some place to dry his perspiring hands and grabbed up this soaped earth, it made his palm slippery and he was unable to control the ball.
Of course, the home talent knew where the good ground lay and used it or else carried some unadulterated earth in their trousers’ pockets, as a sort of private stock. But our old friend “Bugs” Raymond hit on a scheme to spoil this idea and make the trick useless. Arthur always perspired profusely when he pitched, and several managers, perceiving this, had made it a habit to soap the dirt liberally whenever it was his turn to work. While he was pitching for St. Louis, he went into the box against the Pirates one day in Pittsburg. His hands were naturally slippery, and several times he had complained that he could not dry them in the dirt, especially in Pittsburg soil.
As Raymond worked in the game in question, he was noticed, particularly by the Pittsburg batters and spectators, to get better as he went along. Frequently, his hand slipped into his back pocket, and then his control was wonderful. Sometimes, he would reach down and apparently pick up a handful of earth, but it did no damage. After the game, he walked over to Fred Clarke, and reached into his back pocket. His face broke into a grin.
“Ever see any of that stuff, Fred?” he asked innocently, showing the Pittsburg manager a handful of a dark brown substance. “That’s rosin. It’s great—lots better than soaped ground. Wish you’d keep a supply out there in the box for me when I’m going to work instead of that slippery stuff you’ve got out there now. Will you, as a favor to me?”