NO doubt you have heard of Andy Gregg. He was known as the gamest man in baseball. But when the chief pulled him out of nowhere he was just a big, green, awkward, hitless wonder. He couldn't bat and his fielding was worse. He had just two outstanding accomplishments. He could pitch and he could talk. It was hard to tell in which he excelled.
Regardless of his ability, he labored under difficulties from the very first. A man of lesser courage would have wilted under the strain. Whenever he hove in sight as the pitcher for the day an unreasonable chorus of 'boos' greeted him, followed by the sing-song call for Silent Smith. Not that he was unpopular.
His spirit was really admired. It was the public's method of voicing its outraged feelings over the loss of an idol. They resented the release of Silent and called for him as only a rabid baseball mob can call. The management was there target—Andy only the goat.
The lad simply laughed and went on pitching. But behind his fine indifference there lurked the ambition to stifle that cry for Silent Smith. Secretly he accepted it as a reflection on his own ability and fought courageously to change the tune. He fairly talked the team out of its woeful slump and hurled it back to its place in the sun.
When the Leafs again invaded our territory for a final series of three, we stood within a half game of being deadlocked for first place. It was the end of our playing schedule, and things did not look so rosy as might be supposed. Our pitching staff had cracked. Talkative Andy was the only dependable hurler we had left after a grueling month of struggle to maintain our position as runner-up. But Andy was in splendid form. He could still chatter away like an eight-day clock and that was the sign.
To him was given the mound in the first of that deciding series and he won. Four pitchers were hammered unmercifully in the second and we lost. Again we were trailing by a narrow margin, but who was there to hold the enemy in check? Husky Harris was down with tonsillitis, Lefty Lefferts had a broken thumb. Curly Weinert's arm was sore from too much use. As for the rest—but what's the use!
In that hour of need we were all wishing for an iron arm—the arm of Silent Smith, Even the chief had his former Ace in mind. He as much as said so afterward. At the time, however. there was only one thing he could do—and he did it. Talkative Andy was given the assignment. The lad was ready and advertised the fact with his ceaseless jabber
"We got them going, Johnny," he kept repeating to the chief. "Winter's coming and the leaves are falling. Just keep your eye on the tree!"
We were all gathered in the dug-out, awaiting the call of the gong. That peculiar hush which seizes a crowd immediately before playing time had already descended. Out on the sunswept field a number of white-wings were putting the finishing touches to the sparkling diamond. Behind the plate stood one-armed Jimmy Flynn wielding a megaphone. His booming voice could be heard above the buzzing silence, crying the batteries.
Jimmy got no further in his announcement than the name of Gregg when a spontaneous roar rolled out of the stand and completely submerged the rest. It was the howl of the pack for its idol. Unsportsmanlike, yes; but Andy only chuckled.
"Can you beat it, Johnny," he chirped. "They'd rather have the morgue out there than a live one. We'll bury that bird right now. Come on, you cubs. Watch my smoke!" And he trotted out on the field amid a shower of "boos."
Andy-had plenty of "smoke" and displayed it in his own awkward style. All through the inning that call for Silent Smith went on with varying crescendos, but the nerve-racking din had as much effect on the spirit of Andy as water has on the back of a duck. He worked alone methodically and effectively, setting the enemy down on exactly six pitched balls. Small wonder that the lad was beaming when he climbed down into the pit after the last "out" had been called. He knew he was right.
And he stayed right. For seven innings he went on talking and pitching, waxing more loquacious as the game progressed. There was no reason for acting otherwise. His smoke-ball was working nicely. It went whizzing past their bats with monotonous regularity. They couldn't even see it. Two hits were all he allowed along that entire stretch.
Apparently the feat meant nothing to the mob. They were entirely engrossed in their favorite pastime. They seemed to take a fiendish delight in heckling the club, individually and collectively, for the release of a star, If we won we were simply playing in luck. If we lost—well, we deserved to. They told us so in as many words. And they howled for Silent Smith.
Andy still held his temper. His control was marvelous. He showed no signs of wavering under the strain. As he came trailing into the dugout for our turn at bat in the eighth, he was chattering away like a magpie.
"I told you we'd bury that melancholy bird," he told the chief. "He's got one foot in the grave right now. And when I'm done that bunch of fat-heads up there will be throwing in the dirt. "Twas ever thus, Johnny!"
The chief's face was uncommonly sober as he listened to Andy's chatter. In his hand there fluttered the familiar blue of a telegram. Without a word, he handed it over.
Andy read the news and his countenance fell. . . . Silent Smith was dead. . . . That was the break which went against him. From that moment on Andy's star began to fade.
"I'm sorry I said what I did," he murmured. "I was only kidding. I didn't know about this, Johnny."
"Of course not," answered the chief, perking up. "Don't let it trouble you now. All you've got to think about is the winning of this ball game. Come on now, let's go, boys!"
BUT Andy was troubled nevertheless. His helpful chatter ceased and that was the sign. When we again took the field after a fruitless inning it was quite evident that he was not himself. Even the resumed call for Silent Smith seemed to irritate. He dug into the dirt with his spiked shoes; he pulled up blades of grass and started chewing; he moistened his fingers against the sod; he did a number of things which were not his wont, but which, strangely enough, had characterized the pitching of Silent Smith.
From behind the plate the umpire was calling for action. So was the crowd. And Andy finally got going.
That final inning was a nightmare. Andy walked the first man up and a low rumble of dismay swept the field. The next ball he grooved and Sammy Dawes dropped it over second for a pretty single. The rumble spread to a roar.
Andy spat savagely into his glove and glared up at the stand. That persistent cry for Silent Smith had finally penetrated. The lad was riled.
The crowd saw his action and uncorked a veritable flood of jeers. As if the pennant wouldn't have been clinched ere this had Silent been retained. Now look what's happening! Maybe they were right—who knows?
In a rage, Andy sped another over the plate only to see it turned into a tantalizing bunt. In his clumsy effort to field
