J. Powers - The Stories of J.F. Powers

Didymus said nothing, letting Titus keep his secret. With his whole will he tried to lose himself in the sight of God, and failed. He was not in the least transported. Even now he could find no divine sign within himself. He knew he still had to look outside, to Titus. God still chose to manifest Himself most in sanctity.

Titus, nervous under his stare, and to account for staying at the window so long, felt for the draft again, frowned, and kept his eye hunting among the trees.

The thought of being the cause of such elaborate dissimulation in so simple a soul made Didymus want to smile — or cry, he did not know which… and could do neither. Titus persisted. How long would it be, Didymus wondered faintly, before Titus ungrievingly gave the canary up for lost in the snowy arms of God? The snowflakes whirled at the window, for a moment for all their bright blue beauty as though struck still by lightning, and Didymus closed his eyes, only to find them there also, but darkly falling.

THERE IT WAS, all about Lefty, in Ding Bell’s Dope Box.

“We don’t want to add coals to the fire, but it’s common knowledge that the Local Pitcher Most Likely To Succeed is fed up with the home town. Well, well, the boy’s good, which nobody can deny, and the scouts are on his trail, but it doesn’t say a lot for his team spirit, not to mention his civic spirit, this high-hat attitude of his. And that fine record of his — has it been all a case of him and him alone? How about the team? The boys have backed him up, they’ve given him the runs, and that’s what wins ball games. They don’t pay off on strike-outs. There’s one kind of player every scribe knows — and wishes he didn’t — the lad who gets four for four with the willow, and yet, somehow, his team goes down to defeat — but does that worry this gent? Not a bit of it. He’s too busy celebrating his own personal success, figuring his batting average, or, if he’s a pitcher, his earned run average and strike-outs. The percentage player. We hope we aren’t talking about Lefty. If we are, it’s too bad, it is, and no matter where he goes from here, especially if it’s up to the majors, it won’t remain a secret very long, nor will he… See you at the game Sunday. Ding Bell.”

“Here’s a new one, Jamesie,” his father said across the porch, holding up the rotogravure section.

With his father on Sunday it could be one of three things — a visit to the office, fixing up his mother’s grave in Calvary, or just sitting on the porch with all the Chicago papers, as today.

Jamesie put down the Courier and went over to his father without curiosity. It was always Lindy or the Spirit of St Louis , and now without understanding how this could so suddenly be, he was tired of them. His father, who seemed to feel that a growing boy could take an endless interest in these things, appeared to know the truth at last. He gave a page to the floor — that way he knew what he’d read and how far he had to go— and pulled the newspaper around his ears again. Before he went to dinner he would put the paper in order and wish out loud that other people would have the decency to do the same.

Jamesie, back in his chair, granted himself one more chapter of Baseball Bill in the World Series . The chapters were running out again, as they had so many times before, and he knew, with the despair of a narcotic, that his need had no end.

Baseball Bill, at fifty cents a volume and unavailable at the library, kept him nearly broke, and Francis Murgatroyd, his best friend… too stingy to go halves, confident he’d get to read them all as Jamesie bought them, and each time offering to exchange the old Tom Swifts and Don Sturdys he had got for Christmas — as though that were the same thing!

Jamesie owned all the Baseball Bills to be had for love or money in the world, and there was nothing in the back of this one about new titles being in preparation. Had the author died, as some of them did, and left his readers in the lurch? Or had the series been discontinued — for where, after Fighting for the Pennant and In the World Series , could Baseball Bill go? Baseball Bill, Manager , perhaps. But then what?

“A plot to fix the World Series! So that was it! Bill began to see it all… The mysterious call in the night! The diamond necklace in the dressing room! The scribbled note under the door! With slow fury Bill realized that the peculiar odor on the note paper was the odor in his room now! It was the odor of strong drink and cigar smoke! And it came from his midnight visitor! The same! Did he represent the powerful gambling syndicate? Was he Blackie Humphrey himself? Bill held his towering rage in check and smiled at his visitor in his friendly, boyish fashion. His visitor must get no inkling of his true thoughts. Bill must play the game — play the very fool they took him for! Soon enough they would discover for themselves, but to their everlasting sorrow, the courage and daring of Baseball Bill…”

Jamesie put the book aside, consulted the batting averages in the Courier , and reread Ding Bell. Then, not waiting for dinner and certain to hear about it at supper, he ate a peanut butter sandwich with catsup on it, and left by the back door. He went down the alley calling for Francis Murgatroyd. He got up on the Murgatroyd gate and swung — the death-defying trapeze act at the circus — until Francis came down the walk.

“Hello, Blackie Humphrey,” Jamesie said tantalizingly.

“Who’s Blackie Humphrey?”

“You know who Blackie Humphrey is all right.”

“Aw, Jamesie, cut it out.”

“And you want me to throw the World Series!”

“Baseball Bill!”

“In the World Series. It came yesterday.”

“Can I read it?”

Jamesie spoke in a hushed voice. “So you’re Blackie Humphrey?”

“All right. But I get to read it next.”

“So you want me to throw the World Series, Blackie. Is that it? Say you do.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Ask me again. Call me Bill.”

“Bill, I want you to throw the World Series. Will you, Bill?”

“I might.” But that was just to fool Blackie. Bill tried to keep his towering rage in check while feigning an interest in the nefarious plot. “Why do you want me to throw it, Blackie?”

“I don’t know.”

“Sure you know. You’re a dirty crook and you’ve got a lot of dough bet on the other team.”

“Uh, huh.”

“Go ahead. Tell me that.”

While Blackie unfolded the criminal plan Bill smiled at him in his friendly, boyish fashion.

“And who’s behind this, Blackie?”

“I don’t know.”

“Say it’s the powerful gambling syndicate.”

“It’s them.”

“Ah, ha! Knock the ash off your cigar.”

“Have I got one?”

“Yes, and you’ve got strong drink on your breath, too.”

“Whew!”

Blackie should have fixed him with his small, piglike eyes.

“Fix me with your small, piglike eyes.”

“Wait a minute, Jamesie!”

“Bill. Go ahead. Fix me.”

“O.K. But you don’t get to be Bill all the time.”

“Now blow your foul breath in my face.”

“There!”

“Now ask me to have a cigar. Go ahead.”

Blackie was offering Bill a cigar, but Bill knew it was to get him to break training and refused it.

“I see through you, Blackie.” No, that was wrong. He had to conceal his true thoughts and let Blackie play him for a fool. Soon enough his time would come and… “Thanks for the cigar, Blackie,” he said. “I thought it was a cheap one. Thanks, I’ll smoke it later.”

“I paid a quarter for it.”

“Hey, that’s too much, Francis!”