Short fiction in the public domain by Ring Lardner
First published in the Saturday Evening Post, July 31, 1915
His right name was Frank X. Farrell, and I guess the X stood for "Excuse me." Because he never pulled a play, good or bad, on or off the field, without apologizin' for it.
"Alibi Ike" was the name Carey wished on him the first day he reported down South. O' course we all cut out the "Alibi" part of it right away for the fear he would overhear it and bust somebody. But we called him "Ike" right to his face and the rest of it was understood by everybody on the club except Ike himself.
He ask me one time, he says:
"What do you all call me Ike for?"
"Carey give you the name," I says. "It's his nickname for everybody he takes a likin' to."
"He mustn't have only a few friends then," says Ike. "I never heard him say 'Ike' to nobody else."
|July 31, 1915 edition|
But I was goin' to tell you about Carey namin' him. We'd been workin' out two weeks and the pitchers was showin' somethin' when this bird joined us. His first day out he stood up there so good and took such a reef at the old pill that he had everyone lookin'. Then him and Carey was together in left field, catchin' fungoes, and it was after we was through for the day that Carey told me about him.
"What do you think of Alibi Ike?" ask Carey.
"Who's that? " I says.
"This here Farrell in the outfield," says Carey.
"He looks like he could hit," I says.
"Yes," says Carey, "but he can't hit near as good as he can apologize."
Then Carey went on to tell me what Ike had been pullin' out there. He'd dropped the first fly ball that was hit to him and told Carey his glove wasn't broke in good yet, and Carey says the glove could easy of been Kid Gleason's gran'father. He made a whale of a catch out o' the next one and Carey says "Nice work!" or somethin' like that, but Ike says he could of caught the ball with his back turned only he slipped when he started after it and, besides that, the air currents fooled him.
"I thought you done well to get to the ball," says Carey.
"I ought to been settin' under it," says Ike.
"What did you hit last year?" Carey ask him.
"I had malaria most o' the season," says Ike. "I wound up with .356."
"Where would I have to go to get malaria?" says Carey, but Ike didn't wise up.
I and Carey and him set at the same table together for supper. It took him half an hour longer'n us to eat because he had to excuse himself every time he lifted his fork.
"Doctor told me I needed starch," he'd say, and then toss a shoveful o' potatoes into him. Or, "They ain't much meat on one o' these chops," he'd tell us, and grab another one. Or he'd say: "Nothin' like onions for a cold," and then he'd dip into the perfumery.
"Better try that apple sauce," says Carey. "It'll help your malaria."
"Whose malaria?" says Ike. He'd forgot already why he didn't only hit .356 last year.
I and Carey begin to lead him on.
"Whereabouts did you say your home was?" I ask him. "I live with my folks," he says. "We live in Kansas City--not right down in the business part--outside a ways."
"How's that come?" says Carey. "I should think you'd get rooms in the post office."
But Ike was too busy curin' his cold to get that one.
"Are you married?" I ask him.
"No," he says. "I never run round much with girls, except to shows onct in a wile and parties and dances and roller skatin'."
"Never take 'em to the prize fights, eh?" says Carey.
"We don't have no real good bouts," says Ike. "Just bush stuff. And I never figured a boxin' match was a place for the ladies."
Well, after supper he pulled a cigar out and lit it. I was just goin' to ask him what he done it for, but he beat me to it.
"Kind o' rests a man to smoke after a good work-out," he says. "Kind o' settles a man's supper, too."
"Looks like a pretty good cigar," says Carey.
"Yes," says Ike. "A friend o' mine give it to me--a fella in Kansas City that runs a billiard room."
"Do you play billiards?" I ask him.
"I used to play a fair game," he says. "I'm all out o' practice now--can't hardly make a shot."
We coaxed him into a four-handed battle, him and Carey against Jack Mack and I. Say, he couldn't play billiards as good as Willie Hoppe; not quite. But to hear him tell it, he didn't make a good shot all evenin'. I'd leave him an awful-lookin' layout and he'd gather 'em up in one try and then run a couple o' hundred, and between every carom he'd say he'd put too much stuff on the ball, or the English didn't take, or the table wasn't true, or his stick was crooked, or somethin'. And all the time he had the balls actin' like they was Dutch soldiers and him Kaiser William. We started out to play fifty points, but we had to make it a thousand so as I and Jack and Carey could try the table.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ringgold Wilmer "Ring" Lardner (March 5, 1885 – September 25, 1933) was an American sports columnist and short-story writer best known for his satirical writings on sports, marriage, and the theatre.
The four of us set round the lobby a wile after we was through playin', and when it got along toward bedtime Carey whispered to me and says:
"Ike'd like to go to bed, but he can't think up no excuse."
Carey hadn't hardly finished whisperin' when Ike got up and pulled it:
"Well, good night, boys," he says. "I ain't sleepy, but I got some gravel in my shoes and it's killin' my feet."
We knowed he hadn't never left the hotel since we'd came in from the grounds and changed our clo'es. So Carey says:
"I should think they'd take them gravel pits out o' the billiard room."
But Ike was already on his way to the elevator, limpin'.
"He's got the world beat," says Carey to Jack and I. "I've knew lots o' guys that had an alibi for every mistake they made; I've heard pitchers say that the ball slipped when somebody cracked one off'n 'em; I've heard infielders complain of a sore arm after heavin' one into the stand, and I've saw outfielders tooken sick with a dizzy spell when they've misjudged a fly ball. But this baby can't even go to bed without apologizin', and I bet he excuses himself to the razor when he gets ready to shave."
"And at that," says Jack, "he's goin' to make us a good man."
"Yes," says Carey, "unless rheumatism keeps his battin' average down to .400."
Well, sir, Ike kept whalin' away at the ball all through the trip till everybody knowed he'd won a job. Cap had him in there regular the last few exhibition games and told the newspaper boys a week before the season opened that he was goin' to start him in Kane's place.
"You're there, kid," says Carey to Ike, the night Cap made the 'nnouncement. "They ain't many boys that wins a big league berth their third year out."
"I'd of been up here a year ago," says Ike, "only I was bent over all season with lumbago."
It rained down in Cincinnati one day and somebody organized a little game o' cards. They was shy two men to make six and ask I and Carey to play.
"I'm with you if you get Ike and make it seven-handed," says Carey.
So they got a hold of Ike and we went up to Smitty's room.
"I pretty near forgot how many you deal," says Ike. "It's been a long wile since I played."
I and Carey give each other the wink, and sure enough, he was just as ig'orant about poker as billiards. About the second hand, the pot was opened two or three ahead of him, and they was three in when it come his turn. It cost a buck, and he throwed in two.
"It's raised, boys," somebody says.
"Gosh, that's right, I did raise it," says Ike.
"Takeout a buck if you didn't mean to tilt her," says Carey.
"No," says Ike, "I'll leave it go."
Well, it was raised back at him and then he made another mistake and raised again. They was only three left in when the draw come. Smitty'd opened with a pair o' kings and he didn't help 'em. Ike stood pat. The guy that'd raised him back was flushin' and he didn't fill. So Smitty checked and Ike bet and didn't get no call. He tossed his hand away, but I grabbed it and give it a look. He had king, queen, jack and two tens. Alibi Ike he must have seen me peekin', for he leaned over and whispered to me.
"I overlooked my hand," he says. "I thought all the wile it was a straight."
"Yes," I says, "that's why you raised twice by mistake."
They was another pot that he come into with tens and fours. It was tilted a couple o' times and two o' the strong fellas drawed ahead of Ike. They each drawed one. So Ike throwed away his little pair and come out with four tens. And they was four treys against him. Carey'd looked at Ike's discards and then he says:
"This lucky bum busted two pair."
"No, no, I didn't," says Ike.
"Yes, yes, you did," says Carey, and showed us the two fours. "What do you know about that? " says Ike. "I'd of swore one was a five spot."
Well, we hadn't had no pay day yet, and after a wile everybody except Ike was goin' shy. I could see him gettin' restless and I was wonderin' how he'd make the get-away. He tried two or three times. "I got to buy some collars before supper," he says.
"No hurry," says Smitty. "The stores here keeps open all night in April."
After a minute he opened up again.
"My uncle out in Nebraska ain't expected to live," he says. "I ought to send a telegram."
"Would that save him?" says Carey.
"No, it sure wouldn't," says Ike, "but I ought to leave my old man know where I'm at."
"When did you hear about your uncle?" says Carey.
"Just this mornin'," says Ike.
"Who told you? "ast Carey.
"I got a wire from my old man," says Ike.
"Well," says Carey, "your old man knows you're still here yet this afternoon if you was here this mornin'. Trains leavin' Cincinnati in the middle o' the day don't carry no ball clubs."
"Yes," says Ike, "that's true. But he don't know where I'm goin' to be next week."
"Ain't he got no schedule?" ask Carey.
"I sent him one openin' day," says Ike, "but it takes mail a long time to get to Idaho."
"I thought your old man lived in Kansas City," says Carey.
"He does when he's home," says Ike.
"But now," says Carey, "I s'pose he's went to Idaho so as he can be near your sick uncle in Nebraska."
"He's visitin' my other uncle in Idaho."
"Then how does he keep posted about your sick uncle?" ask Carey.
"He don't," says Ike. "He don't even know my other uncle's sick. That's why I ought to wire and tell him."
"Good night!" says Carey.
"What town in Idaho is your old man at?" I says.
Ike thought it over.
"No town at all," he says. "But he's near a town."
"Near what town?" I says.
"Yuma," says Ike.
Well, by this time he'd lost two or three pots and he was desperate. We was playin' just as fast as we could, because we seen we couldn't hold him much longer. But he was tryin' so hard to frame an escape that he couldn't pay no attention to the cards, and it looked like we'd get his whole pile away from him if we could make him stick.
The telephone saved him. The minute it begun to ring, five of us jumped for it. But Ike was there first.
"Yes," he says, answerin' it. "This is him. I'll come right down."
And he slammed up the receiver and beat it out o' the door without even sayin' good-by.
"Smitty'd ought to locked the door," says Carey.
"What did he win?" ask Carey.
We figured it up--sixty-odd bucks.
"And the next time we ask him to play," says Carey, "his fingers will be so stiff he can't hold the cards."
Well, we set round a wile talkin' it over, and pretty soon the telephone rung again. Smitty answered it. It was a friend of his'n from Hamilton and he wanted to know why Smitty didn't hurry down. He was the one that had called before and Ike had told him he was Smitty.
"Ike'd ought to split with Smitty's friend," says Carey.
"No," I says, "he'll need all he won. It costs money to buy collars and to send telegrams from Cincinnati to your old man in Texas and keep him posted on the health o' your uncle in Cedar Rapids, D. C."
And you ought to heard him out there on that field! They wasn't a day when he didn't pull six or seven, and it didn't make no difference whether he was goin' good or bad. If he popped up in the pinch he should of made a base hit and the reason he didn't was so-and-so. And if he cracked one for three bases he ought to had a home run, only the ball wasn't lively, or the wind brought it back, or he tripped on a lump o' dirt, roundin' first base.
They was one afternoon in New York when he beat all records. Big Rube Marquard was workin' against us and he was good.
In the first innin' Ike hit one clear over that right field stand, but it was a few feet foul. Then he got another foul and then the count come to two and two. Then Rube slipped one acrost on him and he was called out.
"What do you know about that!" he says afterward on the bench. "I lost count. I thought it was three and one, and I took a strike."
"You took a strike all right," says Carey. "Even the umps knowed it was a strike."
"Yes," says Ike, "but you can bet I wouldn't of took it if I'd knew it was the third one. The score board had it wrong."
"That score board ain't for you to look at," says Cap. "It's for you to hit that old pill against."
"Well," says Ike, "I could of hit that one over the score board if I'd knew it was the third."
"Was it a good ball? " I says.
"Well, no, it wasn't," says Ike. "It was inside."
"How far inside?" says Carey.
"Oh, two or three inches or half a foot," says Ike.
"I guess you wouldn't of threatened the score board with it then," says Cap.
"I'd of pulled it down the right foul line if I hadn't thought he'd call it a ball," says Ike.
Well, in New York's part o' the innin' Doyle cracked one and Ike run back a mile and a half and caught it with one hand. We was all sayin' what a whale of a play it was, but he had to apologize just the same as for gettin' struck out.
"That stand's so high," he says, "that a man don't never see a ball till it's right on top o' you."
"Didn't you see that one? "ask Cap.
"Not at first," says Ike; "not till it raised up above the roof o' the stand."
"Then why did you start back as soon as the ball was hit?" says Cap.
"I knowed by the sound that he'd got a good hold of it," says Ike.
"Yes," says Cap, "but how'd you know what direction to run in?"
"Doyle usually hits 'em that way, the way I run," says Ike.
"Why don't you play blindfolded?" says Carey.
"Might as well, with that big high stand to bother a man," says Ike. "If I could of saw the ball all the time I'd of got it in my hip pocket."
Along in the fifth we was one run to the bad and Ike got on with one out. On the first ball throwed to Smitty, Ike went down. The ball was outside and Meyers throwed Ike out by ten feet.
You could see Ike's lips movin' all the way to the bench and when he got there he had his piece learned.
"Why didn't he swing?" he says.
"Why didn't you wait for his sign?" says Cap.
"He give me his sign," says Ike.
"What is his sign with you?" says Cap.
"Pickin' up some dirt with his right hand," says Ike.
"Well, I didn't see him do it," Cap says.
"He done it all right," says Ike.
Well, Smitty went out and they wasn't no more argument till they come in for the next innin'. Then Cap opened it up.
"You fellas better get your signs straight," he says.
"Do you mean me? " says Smitty.
"Yes," Cap says. "What's your sign with Ike?"
"Slidin' my left hand up to the end o' the bat and back," says Smitty.
"Do you hear that, Ike?" ask Cap.
"What of it?" says Ike.
"You says his sign was pickin' up dirt and he says it's slidin' his hand. Which is right?"
"I'm right," says Smitty. "But if you're arguin' about him goin' last innin', I didn't give him no sign."
"You pulled your cap down with your right hand, didn't you? " ask Ike.
"Well, s'pose I did," says Smitty. "That don't mean nothin'. I never told you to take that for a sign, did I?"
"I thought maybe you meant to tell me and forgot," says Ike. They couldn't none of us answer that and they wouldn't of been no more said if Ike had of shut up. But wile we was settin' there Carey got on with two out and stole second clean.
"There!" says Ike. "That's what I was tryin' to do and I'd of got away with it if Smitty'd swang and bothered the Indian."
"Oh!" says Smitty. "You was tryin' to steal then, was you? I thought you claimed I give you the hit and run."
"I didn't claim no such a thing," says Ike. "I thought maybe you might of gave me a sign, but I was goin' anyway because I thought I had a good start."
Cap prob'ly would of hit him with a bat, only just about that time Doyle booted one on Hayes and Carey come acrost with the run that tied.
Well, we go into the ninth finally, one and one, and Marquard walks McDonald with nobody out.
"Lay it down," says Cap to Ike.
And Ike goes up there with orders to bunt and cracks the first ball into that right-field stand! It was fair this time, and we're two ahead, but I didn't think about that at the time. I was too busy watchin' Cap's face. First he turned pale and then he got red as fire and then he got blue and purple, and finally he just laid back and busted out laughin'. So we wasn't afraid to laugh ourselfs when we seen him doin' it, and when Ike come in everybody on the bench was in hysterics.
But instead o' takin' advantage, Ike had to try and excuse himself. His play was to shut up and he didn't know how to make it.
"Well," he says, "if I hadn't hit quite so quick at that one I bet it'd of cleared the center-field fence."
Cap stopped laughin'.
"It'll cost you plain fifty," he says.
"What for? " says Ike.
"When I say 'bunt' I mean 'bunt,'" says Cap.
"You didn't say 'bunt,'" says Ike.
"I says 'Lay it down,'" says Cap. "If that don't mean 'bunt,' what does it mean?"
"'Lay it down' means 'bunt' all right," says Ike, "but I understood you to say 'Lay on it.'"
"All right," says Cap, "and the little misunderstandin' will cost you fifty."
Ike didn't say nothin' for a few minutes. Then he had another bright idear.
"I was just kiddin' about misunderstandin' you," he says. "I knowed you wanted me to bunt."
"Well, then, why didn't you bunt?" ask Cap.
"I was goin' to on the next ball," says Ike. "But I thought if I took a good wallop I'd have 'em all fooled. So I walloped at the first one to fool 'em, and I didn't have no intention o' hittin' it."
"You tried to miss it, did you?" says Cap.
"Yes," says Ike.
"How'd you happen to hit it?" ast Cap.
"Well," Ike says, "I was lookin' for him to throw me a fast one and I was goin' to awing under it. But he come with a hook and I met it right square where I was swingin' to go under the fast one."
"Great!" says Cap. "Boys," he says, "Ike's learned how to hit Marquard's curve. Pretend a fast one's comin' and then try to miss it. It's a good thing to know and Ike'd ought to be willin' to pay for the lesson. So I'm goin' to make it a hundred instead o' fifty."
The game wound up 3 to 1. The fine didn't go, because Ike hit like a wild man all through that trip and we made pretty near a clean-up. The night we went to Philly I got him cornered in the car and I says to him:
"Forget them alibis for a wile and tell me somethin'. What'd you do that for, swing that time against Marquard when you was told to bunt?"
"I'll tell you," he says. "That ball he throwed me looked just like the one I struck out on in the first innin' and I wanted to show Cap what I could of done to that other one if I'd knew it was the third strike."
"But," I says, "the one you struck out on in the first innin' was a fast ball."
"So was the one I cracked in the ninth," says Ike.
You've saw Cap's wife, o' course. Well, her sister's about twict as good-lookin' as her, and that's goin' some.
Cap took his missus down to St. Louis the second trip and the other one come down from St. Joe to visit her. Her name is Dolly, and some doll is right.
Well, Cap was goin' to take the two sisters to a show and he wanted a beau for Dolly. He left it to her and she picked Ike. He'd hit three on the nose that afternoon--off'n Sallee, too.
They fell for each other that first evenin'. Cap told us how it come off. She begin flatterin' Ike for the star game he'd played and o' course he begin excusin' himself for not doin' better. So she thought he was modest and it went strong with her. And she believed everything he said and that made her solid with him--that and her make-up. They was together every mornin' and evenin' for the five days we was there. In the afternoons Ike played the grandest ball you ever see, hittin' and runnin' the bases like a fool and catchin' everything that stayed in the park.
I told Cap, I says: "You'd ought to keep the doll with us and he'd make Cobb's figures look sick."
But Dolly had to go back to St. Joe and we come home for a long series.
Well, for the next three weeks Ike had a letter to read every day and he'd set in the clubhouse readin' it till mornin' practice was half over. Cap didn't say nothin' to him, because he was goin' so good. But I and Carey wasted a lot of our time tryin' to get him to own up who the letters was from. Fine chanct!
"What are you readin'?" Carey'd say. "A bill?"
"No," Ike'd say, "not exactly a bill. It's a letter from a fella I used to go to school with."
"High school or college?" I'd ask him.
"College," he'd say.
"What college?" I'd say.
Then he'd stall a wile and then he'd say:
"I didn't go to the college myself, but my friend went there."
"How did it happen you didn't go?" Carey'd ask him.
"Well," he'd say, "they wasn't no colleges near where I lived."
"Didn't you live in Kansas City?" I'd say to him.
One time he'd say he did and another time he didn't. One time he says he lived in Michigan.
"Where at? "says Carey.
"Near Detroit," he says.
"Well," I says, "Detroit's near Ann Arbor and that's where they got the university."
"Yes," says Ike, "they got it there now, but they didn't have it there then."
"I come pretty near goin' to Syracuse," I says, "only they wasn't no railroads runnin' through there in them days."
"Where'd this friend o' yours go to college?" says Carey.
"I forget now," says Ike.
"Was it Carlisle? "ask Carey.
"No," says Ike, "his folks wasn't very well off."
"That's what barred me from Smith," I says.
"I was goin' to tackle Cornell's," says Carey, "but the doctor told me I'd have hay fever if I didn't stay up North."
"Your friend writes long letters," I says.
"Yes," says Ike; "he's tellin' me about a ball player."
"Where does he play?" ask Carey.
"Down in the Texas League--Fort Wayne," says Ike.
"It looks like a girl's writin'," Carey says.
"A girl wrote it," says Ike. "That's my friend's sister, writin' for him."
"Didn't they teach writin' at this here college where he went?" says Carey.
"Sure," Ike says, "they taught writin', but he got his hand cut off in a railroad wreck."
"How long ago?" I says.
"Right after he got out o' college," says Ike.
"Well," I says, "I should think he'd of learned to write with his left hand by this time."
"It's his left hand that was cut off," says Ike; "and he was lefthanded."
"You get a letter every day," says Carey. "They're all the same writin'. Is he tellin' you about a different ball player every time he writes?"
"No," Ike says. "It's the same ball player. He just tells me what he does every day."
"From the size o' the letters, they don't play nothin' but double-headers down there," says Carey.
We figured that Ike spent most of his evenin's answerin' the letters from his "friend's sister," so we kept tryin' to date him up for shows and parties to see how he'd duck out of 'em. He was bugs over spaghetti, so we told him one day that they was goin' to be a big feed of it over to Joe's that night and he was invited.
"How long'll it last?" he says.
"Well," we says, "we're goin' right over there after the game and stay till they close up."
"I can't go," he says, "unless they leave me come home at eight bells."
"Nothin' doin'," says Carey. "Joe'd get sore."
"I can't go then," says Ike.
"Why not?" I ask him.
"Well," he says, "my landlady locks up the house at eight and I left my key home."
"You can come and stay with me," says Carey.
"No," he says, "I can't sleep in a strange bed."
"How do you get along when we're on the road?" says I.
"I don't never sleep the first night anywheres," he says. "After that I'm all right."
"You'll have time to chase home and get your key right after the game," I told him.
"The key ain't home," says Ike. "I lent it to one o' the other fellas and he's went out o' town and took it with him."
"Couldn't you borry another key off'n the landlady?" Carey ask him.
"No," he says, "that's the only one they is."
Well, the day before we started East again, Ike come into the clubhouse all smiles.
"Your birthday?" I ask him.
"No," he says.
"What do you feel so good about?" I says.
"Got a letter from my old man," he says. "My uncle's goin' to get well."
"Is that the one in Nebraska?" says I
"Not right in Nebraska," says Ike. "Near there."
But afterwards we got the right dope from Cap. Dolly'd blew in from Missouri and was goin' to make the trip with her sister.
Well, I want to alibi Carey and I for what come off in Boston. If we'd of had any idear what we was doin', we'd never did it. They wasn't nobody outside o' maybe Ike and the dame that felt worse over it than I and Carey.
The first two days we didn't see nothin' of Ike and her except out to the park. The rest o' the time they was sight-seein' over to Cambridge and down to Revere and out to Brook-a-line and all the other places where the rubes go.
But when we come into the beanery after the third game Cap's wife called us over.
"If you want to see somethin' pretty," she says, "look at the third finger on Sis's left hand."
Well, o' course we knowed before we looked that it wasn't goin' to be no hangnail. Nobody was su'prised when Dolly blew into the dinin' room with it--a rock that Ike'd bought off'n Diamond Joe the first trip to New York. Only o' course it'd been set into a lady's-size ring instead o' the automobile tire he'd been wearin'.
Cap and his missus and Ike and Dolly ett supper together, only Ike didn't eat nothin', but just set there blushin' and spillin' things on the table-cloth. I heard him excusin' himself for not havin' no appetite. He says he couldn't never eat when he was clost to the ocean. He'd forgot about them sixty-five oysters he destroyed the first night o' the trip before.
He was goin' to take her to a show, so after supper he went upstairs to change his collar. She had to doll up, too, and o' course Ike was through long before her.
If you remember the hotel in Boston, they's a little parlor. where the piano's at and then they's another little parlor openin' off o' that. Well, when Ike come down Smitty was playin' a few chords and I and Carey was harmonizin'. We seen Ike go up to the desk to leave his key and we called him in. He tried to duck away, but we wouldn't stand for it.
We ask him what he was all duded up for and he says he was goin' to the theayter.
"Goin' alone?" says Carey.
"No," he says, "a friend o' mine's goin' with me."
"What do you say if we go along?" says Carey.
"I ain't only got two tickets," he says.
"Well," says Carey, "we can go down there with you and buy our own seats maybe we can all get together."
"No," says Ike. "They ain't no more seats. They're all sold out."
"We can buy some off'n the scalpers," says Carey.
"I wouldn't if I was you," says Ike. "They say the show's rotten."
"What are you goin' for, then?" I ask.
"I didn't hear about it bein' rotten till I got the tickets," he says.
"Well," I says, "if you don't want to go I'll buy the tickets from you."
"No," says Ike, "I wouldn't want to cheat you. I'm stung and I'll just have to stand for it."
"What are you goin' to do with the girl, leave her here at the hotel?" I says.
"What girl?" says Ike.
"The girl you ett supper with," I says.
"Oh," he says, "we just happened to go into the dinin' room together, that's all. Cap wanted I should set down with 'em."
"I noticed." says Carey, "that she happened to he wearin' that rock you bought off'n Diamond Joe."
"Yes." says Ike. "I lent it to her for a wile."
"Did you lend her the new ring that goes with it?" I says.
"She had that already," says Ike. "She lost the set out of it."
"I wouldn't trust no strange girl with a rock o' mine," says Carey.
"Oh, I guess she's all right," Ike says. "Besides, I was tired o' the stone. When a girl asks you for somethin', what are you goin' to do?"
He started out toward the desk, but we flagged him.
"Wait a minute!" Carey says. "I got a bet with Sam here, and it's up to you to settle it."
"Well," says Ike, "make it snappy. My friend'll be here any minute."
"I bet," says Carey, "that you and that girl was engaged to be married."
"Nothin' to it," says Ike.
"Now look here," says Carey, "this is goin' to cost me real money if I lose. Cut out the alibi stuff and give it to us straight. Cap's wife just as good as told us you was roped."
Ike blushed like a kid.
"Well, boys," he says, "I may as well own up. You win, Carey."
"Yatta boy!" says Carey. "Congratulations!"
"You got a swell girl, Ike," I says.
"She's a peach," says Smitty.
"Well, I guess she's O. K.," says Ike. "I don't know much about girls."
"Didn't you never run round with 'em?" I says.
"Oh, yes, plenty of 'em," says Ike. "But I never seen none I'd fall for."
"That is, till you seen this one," says Carey.
"Well," says Ike, "this one's O. K., but I wasn't thinkin' about gettin' married yet a wile."
"Who done the askin'--her?" says Carey.
"Oh, no," says Ike, "but sometimes a man don't know what he's gettin' into. Take a good-lookin' girl, and a man gen'ally almost always does about what she wants him to."
"They couldn't no girl lasso me unless I wanted to be lassoed," says Smitty.
"Oh, I don't know," says Ike. "When a fella gets to feelin' sorry for one of 'em it's all off."
Well, we left him go after shakin' hands all round. But he didn't take Dolly to no show that night. Some time wile we was talkin' she'd came into that other parlor and she'd stood there and heard us. I don't know how much she heard. But it was enough. Dolly and Cap's missus took the midnight train for New York. And from there Cap's wife sent her on her way back to Missouri.
She'd left the ring and a note for Ike with the clerk. But we didn't ask Ike if the note was from his friend in Fort Wayne, Texas.
When we'd came to Boston Ike was hittin' plain .397. When we got back home he'd fell off to pretty near nothin'. He hadn't drove one out o' the infield in any o' them other Eastern parks, and he didn't even give no excuse for it.
To show you how bad he was, he struck out three times in Brooklyn one day and never opened his trap when Cap ast him what was the matter. Before, if he'd whiffed oncet in a game he'd of wrote a book tellin' why.
Well, we dropped from first place to fifth in four weeks and we was still goin' down. I and Carey was about the only ones in the club that spoke to each other, and all as we did was remind ourself o' what a boner we'd pulled.
"It's goin' to beat us out o' the big money," says Carey.
"Yes," I says. "I don't want to knock my own ball club, but it looks like a one-man team, and when that one man's dauber's down we couldn't trim our whiskers."
"We ought to knew better," says Carey.
"Yes," I says, "but why should a man pull an alibi for bein' engaged to such a bearcat as she was?"
"He shouldn't," says Carey. "But I and you knowed he would or we'd never started talkin' to him about it. He wasn't no more ashamed o' the girl than I am of a regular base hit. But he just can't come clean on no subjec'."
Cap had the whole story, and I and Carey was as pop'lar with him as an umpire.
"What do you want me to do, Cap?" Carey'd say to him before goin' up to hit.
"Use your own judgment," Cap'd tell him. "We want to lose another game."
But finally, one night in Pittsburgh, Cap had a letter from his missus and he come to us with it.
"You fellas," he says, "is the ones that put us on the bum, and if you're sorry I think they's a chancet for you to make good. The old lady's out to St. Joe and she's been tryin' her hardest to fix things up. She's explained that Ike don't mean nothin' with his talk; I've wrote and explained that to Dolly, too. But the old lady says that Dolly says that she can't believe it. But Dolly's still stuck on this baby, and she's pinin' away just the same as Ike. And the old lady says she thinks if you two fellas would write to the girl and explain how you was always kiddin' with Ike and leadin' him on, and how the ball club was all shot to pieces since Ike quit hittin', and how he acted like he was goin' to kill himself, and this and that, she'd fall for it and maybe soften down. Dolly, the old lady says, would believe you before she'd believe I and the old lady, because she thinks it's her we're sorry for, and not him."
Well, I and Carey was only too glad to try and see what we could do. But it wasn't no snap. We wrote about eight letters before we got one that looked good. Then we give it to the stenographer and had it wrote out on a typewriter and both of us signed it.
It was Carey's idear that made the letter good. He stuck in somethin' about the world's serious money that our wives wasn't goin' to spend unless she took pity on a "boy who was so shy and modest that he was afraid to come right out and say that he had asked such a beautiful and handsome girl to become his bride."
That's prob'ly what got her, or maybe she couldn't of held out much longer anyway. It was four days after we sent the letter that Cap heard from his missus again. We was in Cincinnati.
"We've won," he says to us. "The old lady says that Dolly says she'll give him another chance. But the old lady says it won't do no good for Ike to write a letter. He'll have to go out there."
"Send him to-night," says Carey.
"I'll pay half his fare," I says.
"I'll pay the other half," says Carey.
"No," says Cap, "the club'll pay his expenses. I'll send him scoutin'."
"Are you goin' to send him to-night?"
"Sure," says Cap. "But I'm goin' to break the news to him right now. It's time we win a ball game."
So in the clubhouse, just before the game, Cap told him. And I certainly felt sorry for Rube Benton and Red Ames that afternoon! I and Carey was standin' in front o' the hotel that night when Ike come out with his suitcase.
"Sent home?" I says to him.
"No," he says, "I'm goin' scoutin'."
"Where to? " I says. "Fort Wayne?"
"No, not exactly," he says.
"Well," says Carey, "have a good time."
"I ain't lookin' for no good time," says Ike. "I says I was goin' scoutin'."
"Well, then," says Carey, "I hope you see somebody you like."
"And you better have a drink before you go," I says.
"Well," says Ike, "they claim it helps a cold."
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