LITMIR.BIZ

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most cold-blooded attempt at spiking I have ever witnessed.

      It was up to Nelligan. In that fraction of a second I figured it out that Nellie could either be spiked and save the game for the Panthers, or that he could jump to safety. Then—

      Nelligan leaped aside and Davis slipped past him in a cloud of dust!

      But as he struck the ground he commenced to writhe. Like a panther, Nellie was on him, jamming the ball with terrific force into his ribs. I saw the arm of the umpire wave.

      “Out!” he yelled.

      Bedlam broke loose.

      I couldn’t understand. But after the game Nelligan explained.

      “I know he was more anxious to spike me than to score the run,” the little catcher told us, “and I’ve always said I’d prove him a four-flush. So I stood three feet to the right of the plate to receive Lewis’s throw. Just as I expected, he slid straight at me—never even looking to see if I was at the plate. I let him slide by. Then I touched him out.”

      THE TRUMP CARD, by Octavus Roy Cohen

      All-players are born, not made. They’re like opera-singers and traveling salesmen and politicians: the temperament has got to be there when nursy first tells papa that it’s a boy, and mother and child are doing very well. Of course there are a bunch of men who attain more or less fame on the diamond, but that’s because there are a certain number of places in the big leagues that have to be filled by some one. But as to real, honest-to-goodness, dyed-in-the-wool, inspirational, instinctive ball-players—they come along about once in a decade.

      Ty Cobb—you know the fellow—well, he’s one of ’em. Charlie Zimmer is another.

      Charlie was bought by the Colts when they needed a crackerjack outfielder worse than an aviator with two busted planes and a balky motor needs a soft place to land. He was discovered by a scout in some bush league of the Middle West, clouting at an average close to .500, fielding one error short of perfect, and as wise to the inner workings of the game as a man can be.

      He joined the Colts during their series with the Pheasants. He sat unassumingly and unconcernedly on the bench, acknowledged his introductions to the other players calmly and without the slightest exhibition of awe; criticized the method of handling a long relay in the third inning, and modestly explained how he would have done it.

      Manager Clary sized him up carefully, and in the ninth inning, with the game hopelessly lost and one man on base, he sent Zimmer in as a pinch hitter. Charlie stepped into one of Dave Masterson’s fastest fast ones and lined it out for three sacks. Then he stole home.

      He was oblivious to the delirious howls of the fans as he walked to the bench. He artfully dusted the trousers of his spick-and-span uniform, and ignored the wondering looks bestowed upon him by his new teammates.

      “I’ll bet,” complimented Tommy Carey, the little second baseman, “that you’re the first man that ever stole home on Von Shaick.”

      “Oh!” smiled Zimmer phlegmatically. “It’s no harder here than in the bushes.”

      The next day Clary put Zimmer in center field. The new man did several things of an unusual nature. For instance, he poled out two doubles and a single in three trips to the plate; he stole second and third after his single; he tallied twice; and he nabbed a man at the plate on the throw-in from a line drive to center. The fans went wild over him.

      Within a week Clary realized that he had unearthed one of the rarest gems in baseball: a born player. Zimmer was calm through it all; his head did not seem turned by the adulation he received through the newspapers, he never made mistakes of judgment and batting and base-running ability did not decrease. And he took chances which would have made the immortal Ty turn pale green with envy. The hook slide and fall away were easy for him, and he had invented one or two little deceptive dips which were all his own, and which his less confident teammates dared not try to imitate.

      It was during the series with the Blizzards that the first clash came. Even though he realized that he owned the best player in either of the big leagues, Manager Clary had ideas of his own about running a ball team, and when Zimmer deliberately ignored his signal for a drive and bunted—and then beat the bunt to first—he called him down hard in the clubhouse after the game.

      “Listen here, Zimmer,” he rasped, “that’s the fourth time in three days that you’ve crossed my signals, and I’ve stood all I intend to stand of that sort of thing.”

      “Didn’t they expect me to line it out? Weren’t they all playing ’way back?”

      “Yes.”

      “And didn’t I fool ’em with that bunt?”

      “That’s got nothing to do with it. You’re a busher with a busher’s ideas. I’m running this bunch, and I intend to run it. See?”

      “But you act the bone-head at times.” Zimmer’s statement was made calmly, as though he were talking to a naughty child. The other players gasped, and Clary himself grew livid.

      “You overgrown hunk of cheese you,” he snapped, “I’ve a good mind to ram that down your ugly throat!”

      Zimmer grinned and rose to his feet.

      “If you’re able to do that,” he said quietly, “I’ll obey any damn’ fool signal you give me after this.”

      The mutual defi couldn’t have been more final. Immediately Clary started stripping to the waist. The men stood forth half naked, Clary slightly taller and heavier; both confident, and both smiling slightly.

      Clary was known as one of the best boxers in baseball; for years it had been his way to rule with the iron fist when any of his players became too unruly. In this manner he had subdued a tendency toward heavy drinking and too much poker on his championship team of three years previous. O’Hare grinned pityingly at Zimmer.

      “Our wisenheimer is in for it now, good and proper,” he volunteered. Charlie turned laughingly.

      “Maybe,” he said significantly, “I can scrap as well as I can play ball.”

      “For Clary’s sake,” breathed Vardon, “I hope not.”

      Tommy Carey assumed the rôle of referee. “By rounds?” he inquired.

      They nodded.

      “Three minutes—one minute’s rest?”

      “Yes.”

      “Very well—go!”

      The smile vanished from the outfielder’s not unattractive face. He sparred with his guard extended, dancing lightly in and out, attentive, catlike. Clary hunched himself into a ball, waiting an opening.

      It came when Zimmer jabbed tentatively with his left. Clary uncorked and catapulted close, slamming with both hands for the body and jaw. Zimmer didn’t move his body—but his right streaked upward with mule-kick power and landed flush on the side of the manager’s jaw. Clary struck the ground with a thud, and rolled over.

      At the count of ten he was up.

      “That wasn’t quite a knock-out,” said Zimmer critically. “Your knee was off the ground when he said ‘ten.’ Have you had enough?”

      “I have—not.”

      “Well, I won’t hit you in the condition you’re in now. Take a minute’s rest. I want to convince you that you’re easy for me.”

      Clary rushed weakly. Zimmer clinched.

      “I told you I wasn’t goin’ to beat you up when you were groggy,” he repeated, “and I ain’t. You’ll get what’s coming to you next round.”

      For the balance of the three minutes Zimmer held Clary helpless. At the end of the minute’s rest, they met in the center of the clubhouse floor, with Clary somewhat recovered, and the victim of a berserk rage.

      As

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