As was prognosticated, the heavy hitter to Cape Verde Islands arose to the occasion and smacked a fair one on the nose to left which the fielder fumbled. He lead off a dozen feet and made second with a hook slide when a foul tip clipped the catchers’ finger and the ball rolled to the screen. The tension increased. From where he stood, legs apart and watchful, O’Toole stormed and upbraided at the top of his voice, swearing by the web-footed, bald-headed Siamese twins, while the pitcher and backstop conferred. The umpire’s indicator shewed two men on bases and no one out when the third birdman stepped over to the plate and stood motionless as Sejanus on his horse. His plan or the captain’s orders counseled a waiting policy, and such patience was repaid with four balls, earning first base, forcing his mates and filling the bags. Whoops and yells tore jagged holes in the atmosphere, and even momentarily disconcerted the fourth and last friendly batter. “Slim” threw him a swift ball at which he swung to no purpose, and it lodged with a resounding plop in the cavity of the catcher’s mitt. Again the man on the mound moistened the now soiled horsehide and repeated the performance, but the strain was terrific and his features registered it plainly. The next one was low and wide. Once more he threw, transmitting decided curve to the sphere, but it lacked sustained velocity and slowed down in progress. The waiting batter saw his opportunity, breathed a fervent “Welcome Mr. Spalding” and received it squarely. The ball sailed over the pitcher’s head and past the shortstop’s clutching digits just at the instant Spider O’Toole was vociferating “Oh, you son of a snail”. This compliment to the exhausted “Slim” smothered in his mouth as he realized the sphere was heading to his territory. True to instinct, his tentacular mechanism sprang alert and making a sanguine, mighty vault his fingers just touched the ball, the contact and a puff of wind diverting its course and down it came behind him not far off. The dirty ball ceased rolling two yards away, resting in one of those shady, somewhat deep hollows in the black loam close to the river bank and fence. Alive to the crucial situation quivering at half cock on the diamond and savagely intent on thwarting the runners as well as to maintain his lead, the Spider spun round in a flash of time and half blindly leaping on the dirty horsehide stumbled, falling at full length face down as his hand closed over the coveted ball.
O ye hooting witches of the midnight orgy and screeching jagaurs squirming in the fatal coils of Columbian pythons, never was there such a scream and succession of fearful cries emitted as arose from the prostrate player rolling over and over before the multitude in an agonized struggle to right himself. The approaching bay of a hungry winter wolf pack in full tongue is unequalled as a shudder producer and fearful indeed, our ancestors say, were the howls of redskins bent on massacre. The field and stand had never listened to these, but they heard Spider O’Toole and were transfixed with thrills in speechless anticipation. Wild eyed and sweating they found him, the grimey ball still in his grasp and two water snakes wound about his wrist and forearm with ugly heads and forked tongues shooting this way and that as their bodies writhed and rubbed his bare skin in efforts to free themselves from his powerful clutch, poor O’Toole dancing in near convulsions, meanwhile beseeching the rescuers to free him from the loathsome girdle. It would appear that the reptiles had come out of the water, as they sometimes do, and after the manner of their kind, curled up together and gone to sleep in one of the swampy depressions close to the fence bounding extreme centre field, and this was the handful the fingers of Claudius O’Toole closed on. The shortstop and fielder who first reached their horrified leader state sub rosa that he was muttering pieces of prayers, swearing on the bones of King Kelly, and vowing by Ptolemy’s ancient mummies that he would nail those flying runners at the plate. In his wanderings he was heard to mention “Log over the Chaudiere”, “See their flat, evil heads” and “St. Patrick to the rescue”.
Thomas J. Nelson,
City Passenger and Ticket Agent, G.T.R., Brantford, Ont.; former President, Brantford Baseball Club.
When the commotion subsided and the contented Peterboroughese were discussing the absorbing topic on their way home, Mister O’Toole disrobed in the dressing room and while introducing his friends Gerald O’Flaherty and Jimmie Goodall to Mr. Nelson, declared by all the hairy chested “oorang ootangs” in the Zambesi Country that he would in future manage his team from the bench when they clashed with the Bluejays at home. Therefore you may not view Spider O’Toole in action again beside the winding Otonabee River, but sooner or later, he will emulate a spike-heeled river driver with peavie in hand, riding a pine log over the Chaudiere in order that a pound of flesh may be delivered to Silent Tom Nelson, President of the Brantford Green Sox.
VIEW OF THE FIRST AMERICAN RAILWAY TRAIN