Argosy All-Story Weekly, Vol. 123, No. 4 — page 153: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

PINK THREEBAGGERS. a word—he wasn’t squawkin’ much this game. He just laid back and smacked the first one Bartley pitched on the old pick. It was a terrible bam to center, and by the time the apple was relayed in, three runners had counted, and Leander was leg- gin’ it to third. He made the hassock by a great slide, but somehow his pink glasses flew off to one side. The shortstop, dashin’ up to as- sist in the play, stepped right on them. When Leander saw what had happened he went cuckoo. He dove off the bag and | pasted the shortstop on the chin, knockin’ him cold. He also socked Carl Miller, who run in to grab him. He was ravin’ wild, and we had to fight to subdue him. “My glasses! My glasses!” he sobs. ‘“‘ They’re busted! I can’t play any more! I never can play any more! I’m through! I’m through!” _ He was sure nutty, and I had to take him outa the game. The umpire insisted on it, anyhow. We calmed him a bit, and then I had Frank Sails, the mill scorekeeper, escort him down to the hotel where we was all stoppin’. Leander was cryin’ and moanin’, and I never saw a guy look so miserable in all my life. Eddie Kizer took his place on third, and stayed there while his brother Rudy fanned. The innin’ was over, with the score 3 to o in our favor. With Leander Lucas Smith and his pink glasses outa the line-up, things didn’t look the same. The boys were all upset, aud, I couldn’t put jazz into them. Andy Swanson grew wild in the last of the sixth, and then Eddie Kizer misjudged a long fly. Before that fatal session was over the Redlight Rubber nine had scored five runs, and I felt in my bones we’d never get ’em back. - | I was right. Bartley had us on his hip the rest of the way, and though Andy Swanson braced up in the final frames, the damage was done. Ferry Flour Mills went down to defeat by a 5 to 3 score. We drifted into the hotel after the con- test lookin’ like a.crew of indigo merchants, cussin’ everythin’ from the luck to Leander’s pink glasses. 659 Joe Strong and I went right to Smith’s room, and found him starin’ moodily at the dresser. “Well, we lost the game,” I says, sourly. “Of all the lucky stiffs!” Joe growls. ‘We had ’em beaten, and then they got all the breaks! Andy only had one bad innin’, you know!” ‘One was plenty,” I remark. “You certainly hit that bird who broke your glasses a jolt, Smith,” Joe continues. “‘ Oh, man!” ‘“‘T should have killed him!” busts out Leander. ‘‘ Those were the most wonderful glasses in the world! another pair like them!” “What was it about them that made them so remarkable?” I ask. “It’s no use keepin’ it a secret now, is there?” “No, I suppose not,” he says. “ They were the invention of a.near and dear friend who thought they’d help me become a great batter. So they did.” ‘* How?” Joe and I chorus. ““ Did you ever see those movin’ pictures that are taken by what they call a slow camera? That make all the movements seem slow and terrible languid, like in box- in’ or wrestlin’? “Well, this inventor manufactured a pair of glasses from a series of lenses so con- structed that when you peeped through them they slowed up movements similar to that camera. He used some kinda pink glass—I don’t know why. One of his secrets, I guess. “You can see what these glasses would do for a batter. When I put them on, no matter how fast a pitcher threw a ball, or how much curve he put on it, I could tell just what was comin’ and lay back for it. No wonder I hit 1.000 game after game. “ Those glasses did it for me. And that big-footed horse had to step on them and break them! Not another pair in the world like them, and the inventor dead! Oh, it drives me wild!” He leaped to his feet and started tearin’ around the room, while Joe and I tried to inhale the astonishin’ information he had spilled. “< While Leander was grievin’ in loud tones over his awful loss, a rap came at the door, There never will be ©