Adventure Magazine Cover, October 1911 — page 110: what you’re looking at

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

1056 him pitch before and his subterfuge was unavailing. Nearly every printed report of the game mentioned him as a well-known college pitcher and gave his right name. He could well imagine the feelings of his father. ‘‘IJe will be about as proud of me,” thought Pennington, “as if I had been caught red-handed cracking a safe!” SZ AS A Big League pitcher, Penning- NS ton’s career was brief. He had fancied that success in the first game would settle everything, but, to his surprise, he found his position still far from assured. Dugan took care to impress upon him the - fact that support of the hair-lifting variety alone had saved him from being slaughtered early in the game, and assured him that his swift ‘chin-wiper,’’ on which he relied for a strike-out ball, would be pie for real bat- ters when they got wise to it. Nor were Pennington’s team-mates more friendly and encouraging. Some of the sore-arm brigade of flingers sneered at him openly; othcrs ignored him; not a man of them had a cheerful word for him. The Indians were reputed to be the biggest bunch of grouches in the business. Whether or not they conspired to throw him down, he had his troubles next time he was sent to the firing-line. In direct con- trast to the first occasion, his backing was of the most wretched order. The day was cold and marrow-piercing, but a succession of seemingly bone-headed plays behind him made the youngster hot enough. Deciding that he must rely on himself, he whipped the ball over with savage fierceness, using his high in-shoot for almost every strike-ball pitched. For a time, the surest hitters of the opposing team were as helpless before his speed as back-lot players might have been. ‘The spectators were with him, and up to the eighth inning it looked as if he would get away with it. Then something happened! He felt— and heard—a snap in his shoulder! A stab- bing pain shct the length of his arm to his finger-tips and he turned sick and faint. After that he could swing his arm enly with the most excruciating agony, but he was foolish enough to try to continue. When three long. hits had given the enemy two runs, he walked out of the box, holding his right shoulder with his left hand. “Yellow!”’ was Dugan’s only comment. Not one of the Indians seemed willing to Adventure believe there was anything the matter with his arm. Hoping it would come round, Pennington held on for a few days, but it continued practically useless. Although the pain gradually subsided, there was a lameness that hurt like a knife-thrust whenever he attempted to lift his hand above his head. He could not pitch, even for batting prac- tise, and finally, telling him in the most in- sulting manner that the trouble was with his heart, Dugan dropped him. Although he longed to hit the sneering manager, he held his hand. With his stuffed traveling-bag beside him, Pennington sat in the waiting-room of the big Union Station and wondered whither he would go and to what he could next turn his hand. As a self-sustaining hustler he had made a very poor start in- deed, and things were not looking very bright. He was sitting there, head down, when a hand fell on his shoulder and a familiar voice sounded in his ears: “On my word it’s Pen—old Pen! What are you doing here looking like a man who doesn’t know where the next meal or a bed is coming from?” It was Harvey Whipple, second pitcher ’ of the Varsity, who had profited much by Pennington’s coaching. Pen rose and shook hands with him heartily. “You came near hitting the spike on the head that time, Whipple,” he confessed; “I was wondering where I’d go and what I’d do to earn my salt.” ““Great Scott!’? said Whipple. “Last I heard of you, you were one of the star slant-slingers of the Indians. You don’t mean to say e Pennington told him the truth, briefly. “Tt’s the pick and shovel for mine, I reckon,” he concluded. ‘‘Decency won’t let me go home, and I doubt if my esteemed dad would have anything to do with me now if I did.” “Well, that’s what I call rotten hard luck,” sympathized Whipple. “I’m up against it, too. I’m pitching for Sahagan in the Mountain League; bush baseball, but good money. I’ll pick up enough to pay my way through college next year, but of course I’m off the Varsity for good. They’re baseball crazy in Sahagan. Tail- enders last year, they’re ready at any ex- pense to make a hot fight for first place this CO MICLOOKS CO