Argosy All-Story Weekly, May 3, 1924 — page 70: what you’re looking at

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

860 Even so, Freckles O’Ryan did not lose his nerve. He tightened his belt and struck out another man. That, as his battery mate had told him, was the only way in which they might be certain of retiring an opponent, for the field was worse than none at all. Before Freckles was able to make a third man take the third swing at the air, though, just four more runs had pattered over the pan! Briefly, it assuredly was slaughter for the next three innings. The Birds had twenty- two runs chalked up to their credit, and the Triple Stars none. Tubby, it is true, had doubled and performed the praise- worthy feat of stealing third, but there he had died. Rube was at his best, and the chances are that he would easily have been able to blank any team in his own league. It was hinted, anyway, that he was to be given a trial by the majors, so what else could you expect in the present situation? At the end of the fourth, with two of the Triple Stars out, Six-Gun Bates was hit on the shoulder. Frankly, it did sort of look as if he might have got in the way of the ball, but as the confident Birds made no mention of this, Old Man Bassett waved him to first. A great shout went up from the punchers, and, as for Six-Gun himself, he went wild with joy. He was considered the crack shot of the ranch, he had won a medal at El Paso for trick target work, but it had not given him more happiness than this. With a wild whoop, he started for first. He did not jog nonchalantly to the cushion, as was his privilege; instead, he leaped along the path like a frightened antelope: and, when some ten feet from the bag, he hurled his body through the air, struck the ground for a crazy looking slide, and emitted another shriek of joy. But this, however, was not all. As his spurs caught in the sack, his right hand must have got mixed up with the trigger. Any- way, a sharp report suddenly rang out—and a little spurt of dust kicked up not a foot behind Rube Hummer’s heel! “Hey, there, you bonehead,” he cried, “take off that gat an’—”’ He caught himself in time: A laugh came from Dora—a hearty and _ whole-souled laugh that told him she thought it was ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. great fun. He got hold of himself, some- how, and managed to stand on his trembling legs. He took a long time in his wind- up, for, as he had twisted his head behind him, he had seen the spot where the bullet had struck. A little closer and he’d have had to look for some other means of a liv- ing—and, to the Rube, there was no other way as easy as hurling a baseball. It wor- ried him so, it got on his mind, that he actually passed the next two men on precise- ly eight balls. The Triple Star boys now were fiercely jubilant, but Rube Hummer had got him- self under better control, and he struck out the next batter. Tubby now was at the plate. The pitcher knew that he was fac- ing a man who had formerly played the game—and one who had played it in good and fast company. He did his mightiest, but his mind would insist on dwelling on how close that lead had come. The upshot of it was that he put one right in the mid- dle of the groove, and the big catcher whaled it over the right fielder’s head. Again there was pandemonium. Although it was a clean home run, the three punchers on the sacks started madly for the plate. The one on third must have been a poor runner, and the one on second just a little better, while the one on first must have been a wizard; for, somehow, they all ar- rived at the platter at the same instant. When they did, too, more difficulties arose, Once more, it seemed it was due to spurs. Anyway, they all come down in a heap;' and when they did, the same thing hap- pened to the three of them that had hap- pened to Six-Gun. Tree reports sounded —and three little dust clouds kicked up about the feet of Rube Hummer. “ Dammit,” he cried, “ they’re tryin’ to murder me!”’ Although Dora’s laugh was not any quieter than before, the pitcher did not hear it. He shrieked out his words almost hys- terically. He did more. He stuck his hands in the air and dug his spikes into _the ground. He could run, could the Rube, but he never had run, and never will again, as he did then. ‘‘ They’re tryin’ to kill me,” he kept yell- ing; “ they’re tryin’ to murder me!” COMIG DOO! (©