Argosy All-Story Weekly, October 7, 1922 — page 74: what you’re looking at

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

220 “T thought you wanted to steep, Bill?” I said at last. ‘* Sleep!” he cried, exasperated. “ How can I sleep without a catcher?” And he rolled over onto the bed with a groan of anguish. He continued te mutter far into the night. 139 In the morning a telegram was delivered at the door. Bill read it, perplexed, and then passed it on to me. It read: Anything Taynor says is all right. It was signed by John Gray, the manager of the big league team which he had made famous by his uncanny knowledge of ball players and how to pick them. But what- ever meaning lurked in the message was too obscure for us, and Bill put it away, ab- sorbed, as he was, in getting the team ready to quit the hotel for morning practice, meet- ing a delegation of the directors, led by Al- fred J. Hobson, and assuring them that he would do everything in his power to bring the championship to their city. Bill was stopped on one of his hurried journeys through the lobby by a young man, unknown to him, who begged for a mo- ment’s conversation. He was a queer-look- ing youth. His face was of naturally com- posed features, but they were of unusual cast, molded in long, sloping lines with a thrust forward, a protuberance almost pis- catorial. His eyes, too, were fishy-blue, though not unpleasant, and his gull-like mouth kept opening frequently, as if gulp- ing for air. ‘“‘ Here I am,” he announced. Bill looked at him, mystified. ‘““A fact almost self-evident. want?” The stranger held out for Bill’s inspection a piece of paper which proved to be a clip- ping from the Morning Sun: SNAPPY SOX CATCHER OUT OF FINAL SERIES Injury to Rafferty Breaks Up Great Bat- tery On Eve Of Crucial Battle “Well,” commented Bill gruffty, “ you don’t have to remind me of my troubles.” Whad’ya ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. “No intention,” replied the stranger ami- ably. “FE want to make you forget them. I’m here to take Rafferty’s place. I’m a catcher. I can do it.” Bilt stared at him, amazed. The fellow’s declaration that he could fill Rafferty’s shoes was not made in a spirit of braggadocio, but apparently with a quiet confidence, an al- most reverent faith, as if devoted to the truth—the whole truth, and nothmg but the truth. Yet the promise m such a statement was too good to be true. Bil regarded him sharply, noting bis rugged solidity and six feet of brawn. “ Of course no other catcher in the circuit can hold Pudney. I tried eleven before I got Rafferty, and they all went home with lacerated hands and broken fmgers. They ether couldn’t hold the bal! or else had their mitts burned off their hands. Of course ”— Bil smiled ironically—‘“ you’d be the ex- ception to the rule.” The stranger replied with a casual glance at his own hands. ““ My digits have a quality of asbestos. Pudney can’t burn ’em too fast for me.” Bill gasped. ‘‘ Ts your name Mephistopheles?”’ “No. ‘Taynor—Orson Taynor.” Again Bill gasped. He remembered the telegram from John Gray: Anything Taynor says is all right. Suddenly he grabbed the other by the arm. “Do you know the Giants’ manager?” “‘ Certamly. Before I started for your city I sent him a telegram asking him to wire you a word or two, so you’d know me.” “‘ A word or two? He wired a mouthful.” Bill paused, reflectively. ‘ Johnny knows his business, though he may have made a mistake this time. Well, come on, jump in the bus outside the door and ride to the field with the other players. I'll give you a uniform in the clubhouse and a tryout in half an hour.” Taynor followed Bill into the carry-all, loaded with ball players, bats, and gloves. Bit! added: “‘ Then you can catch the first train back home.” ‘“T sold rt yesterday.” comiclbooolx C©