  It was on the way to the city next morning that, riding with his father, Jimmie brought up the coming ball game. “Durant is pitching today,” he suggested. “Yup.” His father’s face was buried in the morning paper. “That will be one swell game,” Jimmie ventured. “Yup.” For some little time Jimmie said no more. Then, feeling ready to burst, he exclaimed: “Gee! There are times when I really wish I was a good liar.” “Why? What’s up?” His father’s head came out from behind the paper. “I want to go to that game something fierce. And if only I could tell ’em my grandmother had died or—or something, I—” Jimmie paused for breath. “You’d get to go to the game,” his father smiled. “Yes, but I couldn’t get away with it,” he said. “No,” said his father, “I hope not. But you’ll go all the same.” “Why—wha—what?” Jimmie was fairly bowled over by this sudden bombshell. “You have a camera with a telescopic lens,” suggested his father. “Yes, oh, yes. It’s Scottie’s.” “And it works?” “Swell.” “Then I’ll take you along to get some shots of Durant pitching. We’ll have to get them. This game is one of the big society events of the season. They——” “Say, that’s great!” Jimmie exploded. “It—why it——” “Never mind the fireworks,” his father checked this burst of enthusiasm. “The umpires have been crowding the photographers back off the side lines. Their shots of pitchers in action have not been so hot. With that telescope lens of yours you may do credit to your candid camera crowd.” “What a break!” Jimmie murmured. “Boy, oh, boy! What a break!” At the appointed hour Jimmie found himself seated beside his father in the grand-stand. They were in the midst of a large and enthusiastic crowd, for Jimmie’s father purposely had asked for seats outside the press box. The reserved seats were packed with the city’s richest society people. J. Ogden Durant, popular young society bachelor, was about to make his bid for stardom. If J. Ogden seemed a strange name for a pitcher, the good-natured crowd soon put an end to that. “’Ray for Oggie,” some big voice shouted. At once the throng took it up: “’Ray for Oggie! ’Ray for Oggie!” As “Oggie” stepped into the pitcher’s box the same big voice shouted: “Atta boy, Oggie! Bear down on ’em! Pitch to ’em, boy! We know you, Oggie. You’ll do!” When Oggie turned his face up into the sun to acknowledge the compliment the crowd went wild. Just then Jimmie sighted his camera and took a shot. “That should be a winner.” His father smiled his approval. “Do you think he can pitch?” Jimmie asked. “He has a record as a sticker,” answered his father. “Unlike most pitchers, he gets better as the game goes on. If they keep him in there for four innings he’ll win the game.” That his father was a good judge of ball players Jimmie knew right well and admired him for it. Now he found himself hoping that Ogden Durant might stay those four innings. That there was at least one onlooker who did not agree with Jimmie’s views soon became evident. Busy as Jimmie was getting pictures for his father, he found time to glance along the seats to a spot some fifty feet away where a man with a long, thin face and a fog-horn voice was bellowing from time to time: “Take him out! He’s rotten! Who said he could pitch? Another ball! What did I tell you? Take him out! Send him back to the stock yards!” “Who’s your friend?” Jimmie’s father asked teasingly. “He’s no friend of mine,” Jimmie replied almost in anger. “I’m for Oggie.” Oggie was in need of friends. In the first inning he gave a base on balls that let in a run. In the third he filled the bases, got out of this hole only by chance, then allowed a two-bagger to bring in another run. Jimmie saw the manager look toward the bull pen. At the same time the man with the fog-horn voice, standing up with his face very red, was shouting, “Take him out! Back to the stockyards! Ma—a! Ma—a!” “I wish someone would swat him!” Jimmie exclaimed. “He’s asking for it,” his father replied. “He’ll probably get it.” Oggie was given one more inning and this time he made good. No runs were scored. What was more, in his time at bat he hit out a Texas leaguer and brought in a run. Then the society ladies in the reserved seats screamed. But the man with a red face bawled all the louder: “Take him out!” “There’s something behind all his noise,” said Mr. Drury. “Something I don’t like. It’s sure to come out in the end.” It did come out and that very soon. Oggie pitched a hitless inning. At this the heckler bawled out in a voice that all could hear: “Take him out! He’s one of the idle rich. A millionaire. A murderer!” Enough had been said. The guards surrounded the man and bore him away. But before this happened, just as he turned half about to face the guards, Jimmie aimed his camera, glanced at the ground glass, made a quick adjustment and snapped his picture. Why did he do this? He did not know. He was not to regret it, for this picture was to form a link in a long chain that had started the day he had shot the Silent Terror’s. |
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