World Series (14 page)

Cheers. More cheers. Again Dave rose, bowing, smiling his appreciation. Gosh! What do you think of that? “Hey, Fat Stuff, what is it? A Lincoln? Sure, it’s a Lincoln, isn’t it, Jerry?”

The little man continued: “We also have a tribute for the other members of the team with us tonight, ladies and gentlemen. Although we regret that it was impossible to bring five cars into the space at our disposal, the sample provided will give you an idea of the kind of transportation that...that the Messrs...” he fumbled with his paper...“that the Messrs Foster, Strong, Tucker, and McCaffrey will be riding in next season. Okay, Spike.”

Once more the lights went off, the spot framed the other bulk in the rear of the room, and after some pulling the cloth fell away to disclose a baby blue sports roadster, shiny and resplendent in the glare. Then lights once more, while the four players rose, bowing awkwardly amid cheers and applause. The car, its hood back, stood neat and trim in the rear of the room. A Ford V8! The Kid recalled his first trip to the training camp, how from the train he had seen Raz Nugent riding in opulence along the Florida roads in an open car. And how he had longed and hoped for a blue roadster like that himself some day. Now he had it.

They whispered among themselves. “Oh boy, will Raz be burned up. Imagine missing a new car.”

“And wait ’til Rats Doyle sees this.”

“And Case.”

“Yeah, and Harry Street.” At the mention of Harry’s name the Kid felt a twinge of regret. Hang it, he should have found Harry and dragged him along. If Harry had only shown up in the room at his usual time he could have come. It was a darn shame to miss out on a new car like this. Well, that’s luck. Lucky for him he hadn’t quit and gone to bed right after dinner as he felt like doing on leaving the ballpark that afternoon.

The little man sat down, beaming, and the white-haired toastmaster was on his feet. “A few more words...I know you’ll all want to hear what he has to say...no need of any introduction...the man who has brought baseball back to Brooklyn after twenty years....” Loud applause and cheers all over the room as MacManus arose. Strong, virile, handsome in his tails, the carnation on his chest, he surveyed the ballroom with an assurance that was almost impudence.

Just as he began speaking, Roy noticed three painters near the door. At any rate they looked like painters or workmen of some kind. They wore white, paint-spotted overalls and white caps down over their ears, and they carried brushes and pots of paint in their hands. Then they brought in two long ladders. Oblivious to the festive hour, to the assembly in gala attire, to the high table with its famous men, even to the words of Jack MacManus, they went to work. Apparently the room was to be changed over for some other purposes and they had orders to start immediately.

Never at a loss for one word or a hundred, MacManus jumped into his talk with an easy, informal style. Unlike the other speakers, he needed no notes or written material or slips of paper to remind him of what he wished to say. With cool confidence, certain of the eager attention of his listeners, he went on in witty manner to describe the trials and difficulties of bringing top class baseball to a town that for years had been steeped in tailenders. Words flowed from his lips. Wisecracks sprinkled his sentences. The crowd ate it up.

But the trio of painters had no time or attention for his eloquence. They had a job to do. Dragging their ladders and pails across the floor, they managed to hit the leg of a table, knocking down the glassware with a clatter. Some hard looks were thrown their way and Jack, pausing for a second, surveyed their movements with an eye calculated to terrify them. Intent on their job, they never noticed him; so he was forced not to notice them. By much shoving and hauling they finally got their pails and ladders back of the speakers’ table and behind the toastmaster. The white-haired man jumped up, and Roy could hear him arguing with them in a whisper.

“Gentlemen...gentlemen...wait a minute...please....”

But they paid no heed except to shove a paper, which Roy guessed contained their orders, under his nose. “We can start here,” said the big one in a tone everyone could hear.

The toastmaster, ruffled and irate, jumped down from the platform. “Waiter, send for the manager. Get the manager here at once.” The waiter scuttled off, as with a loud
WHANG
the ladders were planted against the wall right over Jack’s head.

One man mounted the unsteady, swaying thing. Then he hastily climbed down, having forgotten something. That drew titters throughout the room, and Jack’s eloquence began to have less effect. The big man of the trio climbed up again, this time with a hammer in his hand, while most of the diners, fascinated, kept their eyes on his movements. He turned at the top and after a minute whistled through his teeth, making signs frantically to the others below. The titters became subdued laughter.

MacManus turned round, pausing, and looked them over with that cool insolence which was his. Unfortunately insolence was lost on these men who refused to notice him. Jack, unnoticed, was not entirely happy. Meanwhile the white-haired toastmaster, now red-faced and angry, was scuttling about the room. The speaker tried to continue.

“I was saying, I set my heart on a pennant for Brooklyn this year. So what? So did half a dozen other club owners, most of whom had bigger pocketbooks than I had.” Gradually his charm, his refusal to get annoyed, his smooth delivery, and his wisecracks drew the crowd back. His magnetism was winning the day. He went on, his head thrust forward, talking with his arms, his big chest, his fists, his whole body.

“Yeowk...” There was a frightful screech from above as the big painter yanked one of the festooned banners from the wall with the claw of his hammer. “Yeowk...yeowk....” It continued until the bunting hung at a tipsy angle, and the shield read like this:

MacManus was now obliged to pause. “If you boys there can only be patient until we beat the Indians tomorrow...” This sally drew applause. The crowd was all for him. Not the painters, however, who took no notice whatever of his pleas. He might have been addressing the wall. Another ladder was set up. The little painter, violently chewing gum, climbed up and yanked at the other end of the festooned bunting.

“Yeowk...Yeowk...Yeowk...”

CRASH.
With a fearful noise, half the decorations fell in a heap behind the table, almost decapitating MacManus and the toastmaster. Now the suave speaker was annoyed. At first he had been mildly amused; now he was furious.

“Hey, there! Whatsa matter with you men?” The suaveness was gone, he was ruffled. The toastmaster, the president of Martin Motors, and the head waiter meanwhile were running from door to door in search of the manager, the assistant manager, the night clerk, or anyone in authority who could and would call off the renovating of the room until the banquet was finished. To the painters orders were orders and MacManus was just another man in a soup and fish. They wanted to be done with their work and get home to bed.

They stood looking down at their handiwork, not in the least apologetic, so MacManus was forced to continue. It became a kind of game between the speaker and the three workmen, and the speaker began to lose some of his poise and show some of his Irish by the flushing of his broad face. A shade of red crept above the nose, into his forehead. He was angry. Jack MacManus angry was a dangerous customer. Unfortunately the workmen didn’t realize this fact.

“So, ’s I say, I was saying...” He turned and glared at the painters, a glare which was lost because they were now on the floor with their heads together, mixing some paint in a pot. “So ’s I say, I was trying to say, that is, we had the problem of getting a completely new outfield and some good pitchers. My infield I was satisfied with, so long as I had old Spencer at short, because Red Allen and Ed and Jerry here were just about as quick getting the ball away as any infield in the league. One day that summer, I was up at Waterbury, Connecticut...”

Oh, my gosh! Was he gonna tell that story again? Why, he’d told that story eight hundred times. The Kid groaned to himself.

“I was up in Waterbury there looking over a cub shortstop, boy by the name of Simpson; seemed as if he’d do for a utility fielder. The Cuban Giants were playing an exhibition game that afternoon, and there was a young pitcher in the box for Waterbury who held ’em to one hit. Right away I saw his possibilities. So I went to the manager, man by the name of Tommy Andrews. ‘Tom,’ I said, ‘I’ll give you exactly...’”

Now MacManus was vaguely aware that this story, which was usually listened to with respectful attention, was not getting the complete interest of his audience. He was not sure why, but he could observe fascinated looks following the antics and actions of the men at his rear. Up one ladder went the big painter with a pot of paint on one arm and a brush in the other hand. The second painter climbed the second ladder. The remaining man held this ladder, but the big man had no one to steady his, and as a consequence it swayed dangerously as he climbed. Up, up he went, the ladder swaying, while from below:

“Ten thousand smackers...yes, sir, ten thousand dollars in the bank tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. And Tommy said, ‘Well, Jack, the kid’s gotta lot of possibilities; but ten thousand dollars is a
lotta dough
.’”

Now the ladder was swaying back and forth. Only a painter accustomed to climbing could have kept his balance. Actually he was having a time keeping his balance.

“
LOOK OUT THERE, BUDDY....
” The big man on the top rungs was almost slipping and the paint pot on his arm was perilously near to upsetting. He was slipping. He was slipping! He reached out, caught the bunting and saved himself from a fall, but dropped the paint. It described an arc in the air, and while the gaze of five hundred benumbed diners followed it, descended on the shoulder of the elegant speaker.

MacManus, his mouth open, was smothered down one side of his dress suit in white paint. It turned his red carnation white and made his face more crimson. Roy had seen the Dodger owner angry on the field, but never like this. Sputtering and shaking paint over everyone near him, he turned with upraised fists ready to commit mayhem.

The big painter on the top of the ladder was not at all distressed. He stood surveying the damage. Then suddenly he removed his cap pulled down over his ears.

“How ar’ya, boss?” he said.

It was Razzle. On the other ladder, equally cool and imperturbable, was Harry Street.

“S
HOOT!” REMARKED RATS
Doyle in a disgusted tone. “They oughta told us about this here banquet. What kind of a way is that to run things?”

The whole squad was in a big bus. On the front of the bus was a sign:
BROOKLYN BASEBALL CLUB.
For the last game of all Dave had ordered them to meet early at the hotel and come to the park together.

“Shoot!” grumbled Rats. “Shoot! What kinda way is that to...” Rats indicated the majority opinion. Most of them felt as if a dirty trick had been played on them. Why weren’t they told about the cars? No one likes to miss a good dinner, not to mention a gold wristwatch, a Ford V8, and MacManus drowned in white paint. Up and down the big bus ran the same query. Why hadn’t they been told?

There was another question those who missed the party wanted answered.

“Was the boss sore?”

“Was he sore, Jerry?”

“Was he sore! I’ll say!”

“What’d he do to Raz?”

“Hey, Razzle, bet you won’t get a contract for next season.”

“If Leonard’ll only put me in this afternoon and I win that game, I’ll get a contract all right. And I’m gonna win, if he sends me in, too.”

“Atta boy, Raz. But was he sore, was he?”

“You bet your life he was sore.” Jerry Strong spoke up. “Believe me, he was plenty sore at first. Why, he like to go after Raz with his fists up, didn’t he, Roy?”

“He sure did. I didn’t see much of what happened after the accident. I got out in the confusion. Boy, was I tired! I sneaked back to the hotel and went to bed.”

“Sore! Mac sore?” Fat Stuff had stayed to the end, to see Razzle and Harry and Karl Case officially presented with new cars. “Say, first-off he like to crown Raz, sure enough. Then he found out it was all in fun, an’ the paint wasn’t paint at all but just a little weak solution of whitewash that would come right out. So he cooled down and shook hands all round.”

“Yeah, well, what could he do, with a couple of sportswriters there and half of Brooklyn watching him? But he was plenty sore at first. Seemed like he’d slap a big fat fine on all of ’em. Then he calmed down. He couldn’t do anything but take it in front of all that crowd there.”

“He sure was sore though, at first.”

“Say, know what happened to me when I got back to the hotel last night?” The Kid was full of a strange adventure. “I climb into bed, and I’m sleeping there, and all of a sudden the phone rings.” No one was interested in his story. At the other end of the bus a wordy argument was raging.

“Naw, let’s give him a full one.”

“Give who a full share? Who?” Heads went together across the narrow aisle of the car.