“Yes, the loss of Hughson has put a dent in our chances for the pennant,” put in Wheeler, the big center fielder. “Even with that lame wing of his he won more games for us than any others, except you and Jim. And you two, good as you are, can’t pitch every other day. McRae ought to have his lines out for a couple more prospects in the pitching line. The rookies we got this year haven’t made good in the box. Young Bradley shows promise, but he needs a year or so yet before he’ll be ready to take his regular turn.”
“You bet the old man isn’t asleep,” said Burkett, the burly first baseman of the team. “He’s got his scouts out combing the minor leagues with a fine tooth comb. I hear he has a line on Merton of the San Francisco Seals. They say he shows all the signs of a top-notcher. But even if he gets him, he won’t be able to report till the end of the season, and by that time the pennant will be either lost or won.”
“How about that Lemblow out in the Middle Western League?” chimed in Mylert, the Giant catcher. “They say he’s got speed to burn and a cross-fire delivery that reminds one of Hays of the Yankees. He’s crazy to break into the big league, and if the old man comes across with the ‘mazuma’ I’ve no doubt he could get him.”
“He may be a good pitcher,” remarked Iredell, the shortstop of the team. “But I’ve heard that he has a rather shady past. Not that they’ve ever been able to hang anything on him. Perhaps he’s too cunning for that. But there have been all sorts of rumors about him not being on the level, and where there’s so much smoke there may be some fire.”
“I heard that he’s been resting up for a couple of weeks lately,” volunteered Willis, the Giants’ third baseman. “Hurt one of his fingers or something like that. I saw him pitch once in a barn-storming tour at the end of last season. He sure can put some smoke on the ball. Queer looking duck he is, too. Looks like a rube with his straw-colored hair and big ears sticking out from his head.”
“What’s that you said?” put in Jim quickly.
“I said that he put smoke on the ball,” replied Willis, in some surprise. “He just burned it over the plate.”
“Yes, yes,” returned Jim impatiently. “But I was talking about his looks!”
“I was just telling you he wouldn’t take any beauty prize,” replied Willis. “Big lob ears standing almost at right angles to his head and a headful of hair that looks like a stack of hay. Tall and thin, too, a regular beanpole. But what makes you so interested in the fellow’s looks? He doesn’t have to be an Apollo Cuticura—or is it Belvedere?—does he, to take his turn in the box?”
“Not a bit of it,” agreed Jim, with a laugh. “That would rule a good many of us fellows off the diamond. But come along, Joe,” he added to his friend. “If we stay in here chinning very much longer, McRae will be after us with a big stick.”