Harmony
EVEN a baseball writer must sometimes work. Regretfully I yieldedmy seat in the P. G., walked past the section where Art Graham,Bill Cole, Lefty Paiks and young Waldron were giving experttonsorial treatment to "Sweet Adeline," and flopped down besideRyan, the manager."Well, Cap," I said, "we're due in Springfield in a little overan hour and I haven't written a line.""Don't let me stop you," said Ryan."I want you to start me," I said. "Lord!" said Ryan. "Yououghtn't to have any trouble rinding out stuff these days, withthe club in first place and young Waldron gone crazy. He's wortha story any day.""That's the trouble," said I. "He's been worked so much thatthere's nothing more to say about him. Everybody in the countryknows that he's hitting .420, that he's made nine home runs,twelve triples and twenty-some doubles, that he's stolentwenty-five bases, and that he can play the piano and sing likeCarus'. They've run his picture oftener than Billy Sunday andMary Pickford put together. Of course, you might come throughwith how you got him.""Oh, that's the mystery," said Ryan."So I've heard you say," I retorted. "But it wouldn't be amystery if you'd let me print it.""Well," said Ryan, "if you're really hard up I suppose I might aswell come through. Only there's really no mystery at all aboutit; it's just what I consider the most remarkable piece ofscouting ever done. I've been making a mystery of it just to havea little fun with Dick Hodges. You know he's got the Jackson cluband he's still so sore about my stealing Waldron he'll hardlyspeak to me."I'll give you the dope if you want it, though it's a boost forArt Graham, not me . There's lots of people think the reason I'vekept the thing a secret is because I'm modest."They give me credit for having found Waldron myself. But Grahamis the bird that deserves the credit and I'll admit that healmost had to get down on his knees to make me take his tip. Yes,sir, Art Graham was the scout, and now he's sitting on the benchand the boy he recommended has got his place.""That sounds pretty good," I said. "And how did Graham get wise?""I'm going to tell you. You're in a hurry; so I'll make itsnappy."You weren't with us last fall, were you? Well, we had a day offin Detroit, along late in the season. Graham's got relatives inJackson; so he asked me if he could spend the day there. I toldhim he could and asked him to keep his eyes peeled for good youngpitchers, if he happened to go to the ball game. So he went toJackson and the next morning he came back all excited. I askedhim if he'd found me a pitcher and he said he hadn't, but he'dseen the best natural hitter he'd ever looked at--a kid namedWaldron."'Well,' I said, 'you're the last one that ought to berecommending outfielders. If there's one good enough to hold aregular job, it might be your job he'd get.'"But Art said that didn't make any difference to him--he waslooking out for the good of the club. Well, I didn't see my wayclear to asking the old man to dig up good money for anoutfielder nobody'd ever heard of, when we were pretty wellstocked with them, so I tried to stall Art; but he kept after meand kept after me till I agreed to stick in a draft for the kidjust to keep Art quiet. So the draft went in and we got him.Then, as you know, Hodges tried to get him back, and that made mesuspicious enough to hold on to him. Hodges finally came over tosee me and wanted to know who'd tipped me to Waldron. That'swhere the mystery stuff started, because I saw that Hodges wasall heated up and wanted to kid him along. So I told him we hadsome mighty good scouts working for us, and he said he knew ourregular scouts and they couldn't tell a ball-player from a tornligament. Then he offered me fifty bucks if I'd tell him thetruth and I just laughed at him. I said: 'A fella happened to bein Jackson one day and saw him work. But I won't tell you who thefella was, because you're too anxious to know.' Then he insistedon knowing what day the scout had been in Jackson. I said I'dtell him that if he'd tell me why he was so blame curious. So hegave me his end of it."It seems his brother, up in Ludington, had seen this kid playball on the lots and had signed him right up for Hodges and takenhim to Jackson, and of course, Hodges knew he had a world beaterthe minute he saw him. But he also knew he wasn't going to beable to keep him in Jackson, and, naturally he began to figurehow he could get the most money for him. It was already Augustwhen the boy landed in Jackson; so there wasn't much chance ofgetting a big price last season. He decided to teach the kid whathe didn't know about baseball and to keep him under cover tillthis year. Then everybody would be touting him and there'd beplenty of competition. Hodges could sell to the highest bidder."He had Waidron out practising every day, but wouldn't let himplay in a game, and every player on the Jackson club had promisedto keep the secret till this year. So Hodges wanted to find outfrom me which one of his players had broken the promise."Then I asked him if he was perfectly sure that Waldron hadn'tplayed in a game, and he said he had gone in to hit for somebodyjust once. I asked him what date that was and he told me. It wasthe day Art had been in Jackson. So I said:"'There's your mystery solved. That's the day my scout saw him,and you'll have to give the scout a little credit for picking astar after seeing him make one base hit.'"Then Hodges said:"'That makes it all the more a mystery. Because, in the firstplace, he batted under a fake name. And, in the second place, hedidn't make a base hit. He popped out.'"That's about all there is to it. You can ask Art how he pickedthe kid out for a star from seeing him pop out once. I've askedhim myself, and he's told me that he liked the way Waldron swung.Personally, I believe one of those Jackson boys got too gabby.But Art swears not.""That is a story," I said gratefully. "An old outfielder who mustknow he's slipping recommends a busher after seeing him pop outonce. And the busher jumps right in and gets his job."I looked down the aisle toward the song birds. Art Graham, now abench warmer, and young Waldron, whom he had touted and who wasthe cause of his being sent to the bench, were harmonizing at thetops of their strong and not too pleasant voices."And probably the strangest part of the story," I added, "is thatArt doesn't seem to regret it. He and the kid appear to be thebest of friends.""Anybody who can sing is Art's friend," said Ryan.I left him and went back to my seat to tear off my seven hundredwords before we reached Springfield. I considered for a momentthe advisability of asking Graham for an explanation of hiswonderful bit of scouting, but decided to save that part of itfor another day. I was in a hurry and, besides, Waldron was justteaching them a new "wallop," and it would have been folly for meto interrupt."It's on the word 'you,'" Waldron was saying. "I come down atone; Lefty goes up a half tone, and Bill comes up two tones, Artjust sings it like always. Now try her again," I heard him directthe song birds. They tried her again, making a worse noise thanever:"I only know I love you;Love me, and the world (the world) is mine (the worldis mine).""No," said Waldron. "Lefty missed it. If you fellas knew music, Icould teach it to you with the piano when we get to Boston. Onthe word 'love,' in the next to the last line, we hit a regular Fchord. Bill's singing the low F in the bass and Lefty's hittingmiddle C in the baritone, and Art's on high F and I'm up to A.Then, on the word 'you,' I come down to G, and Art hits E andLefty goes up half a tone to C sharp, and Cole comes up from F toA in the bass. That makes a good wallop. It's a change from the Fchord to the A chord. Now let's try her again," Waldron urged.They tried her again:"I only know I love you--""No, no! " said young Waldron. "Art and I were all right; butBill came up too far, and Lefty never moved off that C. Half atone up, Lefty. Now try her again."We were an hour late into Springfield, and it was past sixo'clock when we pulled out. I had filed my stuff, and when I cameback in the car the concert was over for the time, and Art Grahamwas sitting alone."Where are your pals?" I asked."Gone to the diner," he replied."Aren't you going to eat?""No," he said, "I'm savin' up for the steamed clams." I took theseat beside him."I sent in a story about you," I said."Am I fired? "he asked."No, nothing like that.""Well," he said, "you must be hard up when you can't find nothin'better to write about than a old has-been.""Cap just told me who it was that found Waldron," said I."Oh, that," said Art. "I don't see no story in that.""I thought it was quite a stunt," I said. "It isn't everybodythat can pick out a second Cobb by just seeing him hit a flyball."Graham smiled."No," he replied, "they's few as smart as that.""If you ever get through playing ball," I went on, "you oughtn'tto have any trouble landing a job. Good scouts don't grow ontrees.""It looks like I'm pretty near through now," said Art, stillsmiling. "But you won't never catch me scoutin' for nobody. It'stoo lonesome a job."I had passed up lunch to retain my seat in the card game; so Iwas hungry. Moreover, it was evident that Graham was not going towax garrulous on the subject of his scouting ability. I left himand sought the diner. I found a vacant chair opposite Bill Cole."Try the minced ham," he advised, "but lay off'n thesparrow-grass. It's tougher'n a double-header in St. Louis.""We're over an hour late," I said."You'll have to do a hurry-up on your story, won't you? " askedBill. "Or did you write it already?""All written and on the way.""Well, what did you tell 'em?" he inquired. "Did you tell 'em wehad a pleasant trip, and Lenke lost his shirt in the poker game,and I'm goin' to pitch to-morrow, and the Boston club's heardabout it and hope it'll rain?""No," I said. " I gave them a regular story to-night--about howGraham picked Waldron.""Who give it to you?""Ryan," I told him."Then you didn't get the real story," said Cole, "Ryan himselfdon't know the best part of it, and he ain't goin' to know it fora w'ile. He'll maybe find it out after Art's got the can, but notbefore. And I hope nothin' like that'll happen for twenty years.When it does happen, I want to be sent along with Art, 'cause Iand him's been roomies now since 1911, and I. wouldn't hardlyknow how to act with him off'n the club. He's a nut all right onthe singin' stuff, and if he was gone I might get a chanct togive my voice a rest. But he's a pretty good guy, even if he iscrazy.""I'd like to hear the real story," I said."Sure you would," he answered, "and I'd like to tell it to you. Iwill tell it to you if you'll give me your promise not to spillit till Art's gone. Art told it to I and Lefty in the club-houseat Cleveland pretty near a nionth ago, and the three of us andWaldron is the only ones that knows it. I figure I've did prettywell to keep it to myself this long, but it seems like I got totell somebody.""You can depend on me," I assured him, "not to say a word aboutit till Art's in Minneapolis, or wherever they're going to sendhim.""I guess I can trust you," said Cole. "But if von cross me, I'llshoot my fast one up there in the press coop some day and knockyour teeth loose.""Shoot," said I."Well," said Cole, "I s'pose Ryan told you that Art fell for thekid after just seem' him pop out.""Yes, and Ryan said he considered it a remarkable piece ofscouting.""It was all o' that. It'd of been remarkable enough if Art'd sawthe bird pop out and then recommended him. But he didn't even seehim pop out.""What are you giving me?""The fac's." said Bill Cole. "Art not only didn't see him popout, but he didn't even see him with a ball suit on. He wasn'tnever inside the Jackson ball park in his life.""Waldron?""No. Art I'm talkin' about.""Then somebody tipped him off," I said, quickly."No, sir. Nobody tipped him off, neither. He went to Jackson andspent the ev'nin' at his uncle's house, and Waldron was there.Him and Art was together the whole ev'nin'. But Art didn't evenask him if he could slide feet first. And then he come back toDetroit and got Ryan to draft him. But to give you the wholestory, I'll have to go back a ways. We ain't nowheres nearWorcester yet, so they's no hurry, except that Art'll prob'ly besendin' for me pretty quick to come in and learn Waldron's lostchord."You wasn't with this club when we had Mike McCann. But you mustof heard of him; outside his pitchin', I mean. He was on thestage a couple o' winters, and he had the swellest tenor voice Iever heard. I never seen no grand opera, but I'll bet this hereC'ruso or McCormack or Gadski or none o' them had nothin' on himfor a pure tenor. Every note as clear as a bell. You couldn'thardly keep your eyes dry when he'd tear off 'Silver Threads' or'The River Shannon.'"Well, when Art was still with the Washin'ton club yet, I andLefty and Mike used to pal round together and onct or twict we'dhit up some harmony. I couldn't support a fam'ly o' Mormons withmy voice, but it was better in them days than it is now. I usedto carry the lead, and Lefty'd hit the baritone and Mike thetenor. We didn't have no bass. But most o' the time we let Mikedo the singin' alone, 'cause he had us outclassed, and the otherboys kept tellin' us to shut up and give 'em a treat. First it'dbe ' Silver Threads' and then 'Jerusalem' and then 'My Wild IrishRose' and this and that, whatever the boys ast him for. JakeMartin used to say he couldn't help a short pair if Mike wasn'tsingin'."Finally Ryan pulled off the trade with Griffith, and Graham comeon our club. Then they wasn't no more solo work. They made a bassout o' me, and Art sung the lead, and Mike and Lefty took care o'the tenor and baritone. Art didn't care what the other boyswanted to hear. They could holler their heads off for Mike tosing a solo, but no sooner'd Mike start singin' than Art'd chimein with him and pretty soon we'd all four be goin' it. Art's anut on singin', but he don't care nothin' about list'nin', noteven to a canary. He'd rather harmonize than hit one past theoutfielders with two on."At first we done all our serenadin' on the train. Art'd get usout o' bed early so's we could be through breakfast and back inthe ear in time to tear off a few before we got to wherever wewas goin'."It got so's Art wouldn't leave us alone in the different towns'we played at. We couldn't go to no show or nothin'. We had tostick in the hotel and sing, up in our room or Mike's. And thenhe went so nuts over it that he got Mike to come and room in thesame house with him at home, and I and Lefty was supposed to helpkeep the neighbors awake every night. O' course we had mornin'practice w'ile we was home, and Art used to have us come to thepark early and get in a little harmony before we went on thefield. But Ryan finally nailed that. He says that when he orderedmornin' practice he meant baseball and not no minstrel show."Then Lefty, who wasn't married, goes and gets himself a girl. Imet her a couple o' times, and she looked all right. Lefty mightof married her if Art'd of left him alone. But nothin' doin'. Wewas home all through June onct, and instead o' comin' roundnights to sing with us, Lefty'd take this here doll to one o' theparks or somewheres. Well, sir, Art was pretty near wild. Hescouted round till he'd found out why Lefty'd quit us and then hetried pretty near everybody else on the club to see if theywasn't some one who could hit the baritone. They wasn't nobody.So the next time we went on the road, Art give Lefty a earfulabout what a sucker a man was to get married, and looks wasn'teverything and the girl was prob'ly after Lefty's money and hewasn't hem' a good fella to break up the quartette and spoil ourgood times, and so on, and kept pesterin' and teasin' Lefty tillhe give the girl up. I'd of saw Art in the Texas League beforeI'd of shook a girl to please him, but you know theseleft-handers."Art had it all framed that we was goin' on the stage, the fourof us, and he seen a vaudeville man in New York and got us bookedfor eight hundred a week--I don't know if it was one week or two.But he sprung it on me in September and says we could get solidbookin' from October to March; so I ast him what he thought myMissus would say when I told her I couldn't get enough o' hem'away from home from March to October, so I was figurin' ontravelin' the vaudeville circuit the other four or five monthsand makin' it unanimous? Art says I was tied to a woman's apronand all that stuff, but I give him the cold stare and he had topass up that dandy little scheme."At that, I guess we could of got by on the stage all right. Mikewas better than this here Waldron and I hadn't wore my voice outyet on the coachin' line, tellin' the boys to touch all thebases."They was about five or six songs that we could kill. 'Adeline'was our star piece. Remember where it comes in, 'Your fair facebeams'? Mike used to go away up on 'fair.' Then they was 'The OldMillstream' and 'Put on Your Old Gray Bonnet.' I done some fancywork in that one. Then they was 'Down in Jungle Town' that we hadpretty good. And then they was one that maybe you never heard. Idon't know the name of it. It run somethin' like this."Bill sottoed his voice so that I alone could hear the beautifulrefrain:"'Years, years, I've waited yearsOnly to see you, just to call you 'dear.'Come, come, I love but thee,Come to your sweetheart's arms; come back to me.'"That one had a lot o' wallops in it, and we didn't overlook noneo' them. The boys used to make us sing it six or seven times anight. But 'Down in the Cornfield' was Art's favor-ight. They wasa part in that where I sung the lead down low and the other threedone a banjo stunt. Then they was 'Castle on the Nile' and 'ComeBack to Erin' and a whole lot more."Well, the four of us wasn't hardly ever separated for threeyears. We was practisin' all the w'ile like as if we was goin' toplay the big time, and we never made a nickel off'n it. The onlyaudience we had was the ball players or the people travelin' onthe same trains or stoppin' at the same hotels, and they got itall for nothin'. But we had a good time, 'specially Art."You know what a pitcher Mike was. He could go in there stonecold and stick ten out o' twelve over that old plate withsomethin' on 'em. And he was the willin'est guy in the world. Hepitched his own game every third or fourth day, and between themgames he was warmin' up all the time to go in for somebody else.In 1911, when we was up in the race for aw'ile, he pitched eightgames out o' twenty, along in September, and win seven o' them,and besides that, he finished up five o' the twelve he didn'tstart. We didn't win the pennant, and I've always figured thatthem three weeks killed Mike."Anyway, he wasn't worth nothin' to the club the next year; butthey carried him along, hopin' he'd come back and show somethin'.But he was pretty near through, and he knowed it. I knowed it,too, and so did everybody else on the club, only Graham. Artnever got wise till the trainin' trip two years ago this lastspring. Then he come to me one day."'Bill,' he says, 'I don't believe Mike's comin' back.'"'Well,' I says, 'you're gettin's so's they can't nobody hidenothin' from you. Next thing you'll be findin' out that SamCrawford can hit.'"'Never mind the comical stuff,' he says. 'They ain't no jokeabout this!'"'No,' I says, 'and I never said they was. They'll look a longw'ile before they find another pitcher like Mike.'"'Pitcher my foot!' says Art. 'I don't care if they have to pitchthe bat boy. But when Mike goes, where'll our quartette be?'"'Well,' I says, 'do you get paid every first and fifteenth forsingin' or for crownin' that old pill?'"'If you couldn't talk about money, you'd be deaf and dumb,' saysArt."'But you ain't playin' ball because it's fun, are you?'"'No,' he says, 'they ain't no fun for me in playin' ball. They'sno fun doin' nothin' but harmonizin', and if Mike goes, I won'teven have that.'"'I and you and Lefty can harmonize,' I says."'It'd be swell stuff harmonizin' without no tenor,' says Art.'It'd be like swingin' without no bat.'"Well, he ast me did I think the club'd carry Mike throughanother season, and I told him they'd already carried him a yearwithout him hem' no good to them, and I figured if he didn't showsomethin' his first time out, they'd ask for waivers. Art keptbroodin' and broodin' about it till they wasn't hardly no livin'with him. If he ast me onet he ast me a thousand tmmes if Ididn't think they might maybe hold onto Mike another season onaccount of all he'd did for 'em. I kept tellin' him I didn'tthink so; but that didn't satisfy him and he finally went to Ryanand ast him point blank."'Are you goin' to keep McCann? 'Art ast him."'If he's goin' to do us any good, I am,' says Ryan. "If heain't, he'll have to look for another job.'"After that, all through the trainin' trip, he was right onMike's heels."'How does the old souper feel?' he'd ask him."'Great!' Mike'd say."Then Art'd watch him warm up, to see if he had anything on theball."'He's comin' fine,' he'd tell me. 'His curve broke to-day justas good as I ever seen it.'"But that didn't fool me, or it didn't fool Mike neither. Hecould throw about four hooks and then he was through. And hecould of hit you in the head with his fast one and you'd ofthought you had a rash."One night, just before the season opened up, we was singin' onthe train, and when we got through, Mike says:"'Well, boys, you better be lookin' for another C'ruso.'"'What are you talkin' about?' says Art."'I'm talkin' about myself,' says Mike. 'I'll be up there inMinneapolis this summer, pitchin' onct a week and swappin'stories about the Civil War with Joe Cantillon.'"'You're crazy,' says Art. 'Your arm's as good as I ever seenit.'"'Then,' says Mike, 'you must of been playin' blindfolded allthese years. This is just between us, 'cause Ryan'll find it outfor himself; my arm's rotten, and I can't do nothin' to help it.'"Then Art got sore as a boil."'You're a yellow, quittin' dog,' he says. 'Just because youconic round a little slow, you talk about Minneapolis. Why don'tyou resign off'n. the club?'"'I might just as well,' Mike says, and left us."You'd of thought that Art would of gave up then, 'cause when aball player admits he's slippin', you can bet your last nickelthat he's through. Most o' them stalls along and tries to kidthemself and everybody else long after they know they're gone.But Art kept talkin' like they was still some hope o' Mike comin'round, and when Ryan told us one night in St. Louis that he wasgoin' to give Mike his chanct, the next day, Art was as nervousas a bride goin' to get married. I wasn't nervous. I just feltsorry, 'cause I knowed the old boy was hopeless."Ryan had told him he was goin' to work if the weather suitedhim. Well, the day was perfect. So Mike went out to the parkalong about noon and took Jake with him to warm up. Jake told meafterwards that Mike was throwin', just easy like, from half-pasttwelve till the rest of us got there. He was tryin' to heat upthe old souper and he couldn't of ast for a better break in theweather, but they wasn't enough sunshine in the world to makethat old whip crack."Well, sir, you'd of thought to see Art that Mike was his son orhis brother or somebody and just breakin' into the league. Artwasn't in the outfield practisin' more than two minutes. He comein and stood behind Mike w'ile he was warmin' up and kept tellin'how good he looked, hut the only guy he was kiddin' was himself."Then the game starts and our club goes in and gets three runs."'Pretty soft for you now, Mike,' says Art, on the bench. 'Theycan't score three off'n you in three years.'"Say, it's lucky he ever got the side out in the first innin'.Everybody that come up hit one on the pick, but our infieldpulled two o' the greatest plays I ever seen and they didn'tscore. In the second, we got three more, and I thought maybe theold bird was goin' to be lucky enough to scrape through."For four or five innin's, he got the grandest support that wasever gave a pitcher; but I'll swear that what he throwed up theredidn't have no more on it than September Morning. Every time Artcome to the bench, he says to Mike, 'Keep it up, old boy. You gotmore than you ever had.'"Well, in the seventh, Mike still had 'em shut out, and we wassix runs to the good. Then a couple o' the St. Louis boys hit 'emwhere they couldn't nobody reach 'em and they was two on and twoout. Then somebody got a hold o' one and sent it on a line to theleft o' second base. I forgot who it was now; but whoever it was,he was supposed to be a right field hitter, and Art was layin'over the other way for him. Art started with the crack o' thebat, and I never seen a man make a better try for a ball. He hadit judged perfect; but Cobb or Speaker or none o' them couldn'tof catched it. Art just managed to touch it by stretchin' to thelimit. It went on to the fence and everybody come in. They didn'tscore no more in that innin'."Then Art come in from the field and what do you think he triedto pull?"'I don't know what was the matter with me on that fly ball,' hesays. 'I ought to caught it in my pants pocket. But I didn't getstarted till it was right on top o' me.'"'You misjudged it, didn't you?' says Ryan."'I certainly did,' says Art without crackin'."'Well,' says Ryan, 'I wisht you'd misjudge all o' them that way.I never seen a better play on a ball.'"So then Art knowed they wasn't no more use trying to alibi theold boy."Mike had a turn at bat and when he come back, Ryan ast him howhe felt."'I guess I can get six more o' them out,' he says."Well, they didn't score in the eighth, and when the ninth comeRyan sent I and Lefty out to warm up. We throwed a few w'ile ourclub was battin'; but when it come St. Louis' last chanct, we wastoo much interested in the ball game to know if we was throwin'or bakin' biscuits."The first guy hits a line drive, and somebody jumps a mile inthe air and stabs it. The next fella fouled out, and they wasonly one more to get. And then what do you think come off?Whoever it was hittin' lifted a fly ball to centre field. Artdidn't have to move out of his tracks. I've saw him catch ahundred just like it behind his back. But you know what he wasthinkin'. He was sayin' to himself, 'If I nail this one, we'reli'ble to keep our tenor singer a w'ile longer.' And he droppedit."Then they was five base hits that sounded like the fourth o'July, and they come so fast that Ryan didn't have time to sendfor I or Lefty. Anyway, I guess he thought he might as well leaveMike in there and take it."They wasn't no singin' in the clubhouse after that game. I andLefty always let the others start it. Mike, o' course, didn'tfeel like no jubilee, and Art was so busy tryin' not to letnobody see him cry that he kept his head clear down in his socks.Finally he beat it for town all alone, and we didn't see nothin'of him till after supper. Then he got us together and we all wentup to Mike's room."'I want to try this here " Old Girl o' Mine,"' he says."'Better sing our old stuff,' says Mike. 'This looks like thelast time.'"Then Art choked up and it was ten minutes before he could getgoin'. We sung everything we knowed, and it was two o'clock inthe mornin' before Art had enough. Ryan come in after midnightand set a w'ile listenin', but he didn't chase us to bed. Heknowed better'n any of us that it was a farewell. When I and Artwas startin' for our room, Art turned to Mike and says:"'Old boy, I'd of gave every nickel I ever owned to of caughtthat fly ball.'"'I know you would,' Mike says, 'and I know what made you dropit. But don't worry about it, 'cause it was just a question o'time, and if I'd of got away with that game, they'd of murderedsome o' the infielders next time I started.'"Mike was sent home the next day, and we didn't see him again. Hewas shipped to Minneapolis before we got back. And the rest o'the season I might as well of lived in a cemetery w'ile we was onthe road. Art was so bad that I thought onct or twict I'd have tochange roommies. Onct in a w'ile he'd start hummin' and then he'dbreak off short and growl at me. He tried out two or three o' theother boys on the club to see if he couldn't find a new tenorsinger, but nothin' doin'. One night he made Lefty try the tenor.Well, Lefty's voice is bad enough down low. When he gets up aboutso high, you think you're in the stockyards."And Art had a rotten year in baseball, too. The old boy's stillpretty near as good on a fly ball as anybody in the league; butyou ought to saw him before his legs begin to give out. He couldcover as much ground as Speaker and he was just as sure. But theyear Mike left us, he missed pretty near half as many as he got.He told me one night, he says:"'Do you know, Bill, I stand out there and pray that nobody'llhit one to me. Every time I see one comin' I think o' that one Idropped for Mike in St. Louis, and then I'm just as li'ble tohave it come down on my bean as in my glove.'"'You're crazy,' I says, 'to let a thing like that make a bum outo' you.'"But he kept on droppin' fly balls till Ryan was talkin' aboutsettin' him on the bench where it wouldn't hurt nothin' if hisnerve give out. But Ryan didn't have nobody else to play outthere, so Art held on."He come back the next spring---that's a year ago--feelin' morecheerful and like himself than I'd saw him for a long w'ile. Andthey was a kid named Burton tryin' out for second base that couldsing pretty near as good as Mike. It didn't take Art more'n a dayto find this out, and every mornin' and night for a few days thefour of us would be together, hittin' her up. But the kid didn'thave no more idea o' how to play the bag than Charley Chaplin.Art seen in a minute that he couldn't never beat Cragin out ofhis job, so what does he do but take him out and try and learnhim to play the outfield. He wasn't no worse there than at secondbase; he couldn't of been. But before he'd practised out therethree days they was bruises all over his head and shoulders wherefly balls had hit him. Well, the kid wasn't with us long enoughto see the first exhibition game, and after he'd went, Art wasOld Man Grump again."'What's the matter with you?' I says to him. 'You was all smilesthe day we reported and now you could easy pass for aundertaker.'"'Well,' he says, 'I had a great winter, singin' all the w'ile.We got a good quartette down home and I never enjoyed myself asmuch in my life. And I kind o' had a hunch that I was goin' to belucky and find somebody amongst the bushers that could hit up theold tenor.'"'Your hunch was right,' I says. 'That Burton kid was as good atenor as you'd want.'"'Yes,' he says, 'and my hunch could of played ball just as goodas him.'"Well, sir, if you didn't never room with a corpse, you don'tknow what a whale of a time I had all last season. About themiddle of August he was at his worst."'Bill,' he says, 'I'm goin' to leave this old baseball flat onits back if somethin' don't happen. I can't stand these herelonesome nights. I ain't like the rest o' the boys that can goand set all ev'nin' at a pitcher show or hang round them Dutchgardens. I got to be singin' or I am mis'rable.'"'Go ahead and sing,' says I. 'I'll try and keep the cops back.'"'No,' he says, 'I don't want to sing alone. I want to harmonizeand we can't do that 'cause we ain't got no tenor.'"I don't know if you'll believe me or not, but sure as we'resettin' here he went to Ryan one day in Philly and tried to gethim to make a trade for Harper."'What do I want him for?' says Ryan."'I hear he ain't satisfied,' says Art."'I ain't runnin' no ball players' benefit association,' saysRyan, and Art had to give it up. But he didn't want Harper on theclub for no other reason than because he's a tenor singer!"And then come that Dee-troit trip, and Art got permission to goto Jackson. He says he intended to drop in at the ball park, buthis uncle wanted to borry some money off'n him on a farm, so Arthad to drive out and see the farm. Then, that night, this hereWaldron was up to call on Art's cousin--a swell doll, Art tellsme. And Waldron set down to the py-ana and begin to sing andplay. Then it was all off; they wasn't no spoonin' in the parlorthat night. Art wouldn't leave the kid get off'n the py-ana stoollong enough to even find out if the girl was a blonde or abrunette."O' course Art knowed the boy was with the Jackson club as soonas they was interduced, 'cause Art's uncle says somethin' aboutthe both o' them hem' ball players, and so on. But Art swears henever thought o' recommendin' him till the kid got up to go home.Then he ast him what position did he play and found out all abouthim, only o' course Waldron didn't tell him how good he was'cause he didn't know himself."So Art ast him would he like a trial in the big show, and thekid says he would. Then Art says maybe the kid would hear fromhim, and then Waldron left and Art went to bed, and he says hestayed awake all night plannin' the thing out and wonderin' wouldhe have the nerve to pull it off. You see he thought that if Ryanfell for it, Waldron'd join us as soon as his season was over andthen Ryan'd see he wasn't no good; but he'd prob'ly keep him tillwe was through for the year, and Art could alibi himself someway, say he'd got the wrong name or somethin'. All he wanted, hesays was to have the kid along the last month or six weeks, so'swe could harmonize. A nut? I guess not."Well, as you know, Waldron got sick and didn't report, and whenArt seen him on the train this spring he couldn't hardly believehis eyes. He thought surely the kid would of been canned durin'the winter without no trial."Here's another hot one. When we went out the first day forpractice, Art takes the kid off in a corner and tries to learnhim enough baseball so's he won't show himself up and get sentaway somewheres before we had a little benefit from his singin'.Can you imagine that? Tryin' to learn this kid baseball, when hewas born with a slidin' pad on."You know the rest of it. They wasn't never no question aboutWaldron makin' good. It's just like everybody says--he's the bestnatural ball player that's broke in since Cobb. They ain'tnothin' he can't do. But it is a funny thing that Art's jobshould be the one he'd get . I spoke about that to Art when hegive me the story."'Well,' he says, 'I can't expect everything to break right. Ifigure I'm lucky to of picked a guy that's good enough to hangon. I'm in stronger with Ryan right now, and with the old man,too, than when I was out there playin' every day. Besides, thebench is a pretty good place to watch the game from. And thisclub won't be shy a tenor singer for nine years.'"'No,' I says, 'but they'll be shy a lead and a baritone and abass before I and you and Lefty is much older.'"'What of it?' he says. 'We'll look up old Mike and all gosomewheres and live together.'"We were nearing Worcester. Bill Cole and I arose from our tableand started back toward our car. In the first vestibule weencountered Buck, the trainer."Mr. Graham's been lookin' all over for you, Mr. Cole," he said."I've been rehearsin' my part," said Bill.We found Art Graham, Lefty, and young Waldron in Art's seat. Thekid was talking."Lefty missed it again. If you fellas knew music, I could teachit to you on the piano when we get to Boston. Lefty, on the word'love,' in the next to the last line, you're on middle C. Then,on the word 'you,' you slide up half a tone. That'd ought to be asnap, but you don't get it. I'm on high A and come down to G andBill's on low F and comes up to A. Art just sings the regular twonotes, F and B. It's a change from the F chord to the A chord. Itmakes a dandy wallop and it ought to be a ----""Here's Bill now," interrupted Lefty, as he caught sight of Cole.Art Graham treated his roommate to a cold stare."Where the h--l have you been?" he said angrily."Lookin' for the lost chord," said Bill."Set down here and learn this," growled Art. "We won't never getit if we don't work.""Yes, let's tackle her again," said Waldron. "Bill comes up twofull tones, from F to A. Lefty goes up half a tone, Art singsjust like always, and I come down a tone. Now try her again."Two years ago it was that Bill Cole told me that story. Two weeksago Art Graham boarded the evening train on one of the many roadsthat lead to Minneapolis.The day Art was let out, I cornered Ryan in the club-house afterthe others had dressed and gone home."Did you ever know," I asked, "that Art recommended Waldronwithout having seen him in a ball suit?""I told you long ago how Art picked Waldron," he said."Yes," said I, "but you didn't have the right story." So I gaveit to him."You newspaper fellas," he said when I had done, "are the biggestsuckers in the world. Now I've never given you a bad steer in mylife. But you don't believe what I tell you and you go and fallfor one of Bill Cole's hop dreams. Don't you know that he was thebiggest liar in baseball? He'd tell you that Walter Johnson wasJack's father if he thought he could get away with it. And thatbunk he gave you about Waldron. Does it sound reasonable?"Just as reasonable," I replied, "as the stuff about Art'sgrabbing him after seeing him pop out.""I don't claim he did," said Ryan. "That's what Art told me. Oneof those Jackson ball players could give you the real truth, onlyof course he wouldn't, because if Hodges ever found it out he'dshoot him full of holes. Art Graham's no fool. He isn't toutingball players because they can sing tenor or alto or anythingelse."Nevertheless, I believe Bill Cole; else I wouldn't print thestory. And Ryan would believe, too, if he weren't in such a moodthese days that he disagrees with everybody. For in spite ofWaldron's wonderful work, and he is at his best right now, theclub hasn't done nearly as well as when Art and Bill and Leftywere still with us.There seems to be a lack of harmony.
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