Read Online Keystone Kids by John R. Tunis - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: John R. Tunis
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was thinking and how he would respond to this offer Jack MacManus had no idea nor could his brother, searching that face for a hint, guess either.
“Yes, sir. Yes, Mr. MacManus,” said Spike at last. “I’d like to be able to sign up but it just wouldn’t be fair to you, sir. We wouldn’t be able to do our best for you.”
Now MacManus was annoyed. He had made concessions, too many concessions. They’d sign now, by ginger, or else...
“Boys, this is your last chance. I really mean business.” He looked it, too. His grimness frightened Bob, who turned to his brother.
“Spike, I think we oughta sign for twelve, don’t you?”
Then Jack MacManus, a rare judge of human nature, made one of his rare mistakes.
“O.K. If he won’t sign, how ’bout you putting your John Hancock on that contract, Bob? I promise you won’t be sorry.”
No one spoke. The silence lasted and lasted.
“You mean... I should leave Spike, Mr. MacManus?” What was the man saying? Leave Spike and go back up there alone? Not a chance!
MacManus, shrewd, intelligent, realized instantly he had made a bad mistake. But before he could correct himself the boy replied.
“Thank you very much indeed, sir, but I reckon I better stick with my brother.”
“What? Why, you young fatheads! You fresh young bushers... throwing away your last chance... you two chowderheads! This is your last chance... don’t you appreciate...”
Now he was angry. MacManus liked to jockey with other people, but he enjoyed winning these battles and he usually did win. When losing he didn’t enjoy himself at all. And he was losing, he knew he was losing, although the two scared boys did not. For almost the first time in the long weeks of indecision, Spike was thoroughly frightened as the Dodger owner, red in the face, rose from his chair, strode across the room, took the two contracts off the table and hurled them over.
“Take ’em, take ’em, you young bushers, you fresh young rookies... you...”
They reached over and each picked up a contract from the floor. Both contracts were made out in typewritten figures for the same sum—seven thousand five hundred dollars!
9
T HE F LORIDA SUN beat down on the small ballpark so reminiscent of those the Russell boys had known in their minor league days; on the veterans and the rookies, on Slugger Case and Fat Stuff and Elmer McCaffrey, who knew all the answers and worked out slowly and deliberately; on Ginger Crane, the manager, no longer on the active list for the first time in his fourteen seasons in the majors; and on the Russell boys cavorting like two ponies in the dust behind second base. Standing in the rear of the batting cage, Ginger surveyed his squad and listened to Bob Russell, the chatterbox of the team, in action.
“Uhuh, he does more talking than all the rest of the team put together. Shoot, we needed some chin music out there; it helped toward the end of last season. We’d never have finished third without those kids in there.”
“Ginger, do you expect to play those boys together, or will you break ’em up and shove Ed Davis in?” asked one of the sportswriters.
“I can’t tell, can’t tell a thing. Too early yet. Depends on how the kid shapes up, how Ed’s arm holds out, on a lot of different things. Listen to him out there now.”
From the dust of the infield came the harsh, brazen chatter of the little second baseman. “Boy, you gotta get your hands round that thing,” he yelled to a rookie outfielder. “You have to get your hands round it; there aren’t any handles on the ball.”
Spring training was a grind, yet Spike and Bob enjoyed it. For one thing, much of it was new to them. They liked being with a big league club, liked living in a comfortable and luxurious hotel; they liked the players, no longer strange faces but friends; most of all they liked this chance to show what they really could do without the pressure of the pennant race to tighten them up. The only thing they
“Yes, sir. Yes, Mr. MacManus,” said Spike at last. “I’d like to be able to sign up but it just wouldn’t be fair to you, sir. We wouldn’t be able to do our best for you.”
Now MacManus was annoyed. He had made concessions, too many concessions. They’d sign now, by ginger, or else...
“Boys, this is your last chance. I really mean business.” He looked it, too. His grimness frightened Bob, who turned to his brother.
“Spike, I think we oughta sign for twelve, don’t you?”
Then Jack MacManus, a rare judge of human nature, made one of his rare mistakes.
“O.K. If he won’t sign, how ’bout you putting your John Hancock on that contract, Bob? I promise you won’t be sorry.”
No one spoke. The silence lasted and lasted.
“You mean... I should leave Spike, Mr. MacManus?” What was the man saying? Leave Spike and go back up there alone? Not a chance!
MacManus, shrewd, intelligent, realized instantly he had made a bad mistake. But before he could correct himself the boy replied.
“Thank you very much indeed, sir, but I reckon I better stick with my brother.”
“What? Why, you young fatheads! You fresh young bushers... throwing away your last chance... you two chowderheads! This is your last chance... don’t you appreciate...”
Now he was angry. MacManus liked to jockey with other people, but he enjoyed winning these battles and he usually did win. When losing he didn’t enjoy himself at all. And he was losing, he knew he was losing, although the two scared boys did not. For almost the first time in the long weeks of indecision, Spike was thoroughly frightened as the Dodger owner, red in the face, rose from his chair, strode across the room, took the two contracts off the table and hurled them over.
“Take ’em, take ’em, you young bushers, you fresh young rookies... you...”
They reached over and each picked up a contract from the floor. Both contracts were made out in typewritten figures for the same sum—seven thousand five hundred dollars!
9
T HE F LORIDA SUN beat down on the small ballpark so reminiscent of those the Russell boys had known in their minor league days; on the veterans and the rookies, on Slugger Case and Fat Stuff and Elmer McCaffrey, who knew all the answers and worked out slowly and deliberately; on Ginger Crane, the manager, no longer on the active list for the first time in his fourteen seasons in the majors; and on the Russell boys cavorting like two ponies in the dust behind second base. Standing in the rear of the batting cage, Ginger surveyed his squad and listened to Bob Russell, the chatterbox of the team, in action.
“Uhuh, he does more talking than all the rest of the team put together. Shoot, we needed some chin music out there; it helped toward the end of last season. We’d never have finished third without those kids in there.”
“Ginger, do you expect to play those boys together, or will you break ’em up and shove Ed Davis in?” asked one of the sportswriters.
“I can’t tell, can’t tell a thing. Too early yet. Depends on how the kid shapes up, how Ed’s arm holds out, on a lot of different things. Listen to him out there now.”
From the dust of the infield came the harsh, brazen chatter of the little second baseman. “Boy, you gotta get your hands round that thing,” he yelled to a rookie outfielder. “You have to get your hands round it; there aren’t any handles on the ball.”
Spring training was a grind, yet Spike and Bob enjoyed it. For one thing, much of it was new to them. They liked being with a big league club, liked living in a comfortable and luxurious hotel; they liked the players, no longer strange faces but friends; most of all they liked this chance to show what they really could do without the pressure of the pennant race to tighten them up. The only thing they
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