McGinnity was pitching, and with his motion, Clarke got his start. Bresnahan drew back his arm as if to throw to second, and true to form, Leach was on his way to the plate. But Bresnahan had not let go of the ball, and he shot it to Devlin, Leach being run down in the base line and the Pittsburg club eventually losing the game. Again and again Leach fell for this bluff throw, until the news spread around the circuit that once a catcher drew back his arm with a man on first base and "Tommy" Leach on third, there would be no holding him on the bag. He was caught time and again--indeed as frequently as the play came up. It was his "groove." He could not be stopped from making his break. At last Clarke had to order him to abandon the play until he could cure himself of this self-starting habit. "What you want to do on that play is cross 'em," is McGraw's theory, and he proceeded to develop the delayed steal with this intent. Put the men back on first and third bases. Thank you. The pitcher has the ball. The runner on first intentionally takes too large a lead. The pitcher throws over, and he moves a few steps toward second. Then a few more. All that time the man on third is edging off an inch, two inches, a foot. The first baseman turns to throw to second to stop that man. The runner on third plunges for the plate, and usually gets there. It's a hard one to stop, but that's its purpose. Then, again, it can be worked after the catcher gets the ball. The runner starts from first slowly and the catcher hesitates, not knowing whether to throw to first or second. Since the runner did not start with the pitch, theoretically no one has come in to take a short throw, and the play cannot be made back to the plate if the ball is thrown to second. This form of the play is usually successful. Miller Huggins is one of the hardest second basemen in the League to work it against successfully. With men on first and third, he always comes in for the short throw on the chance, and covers himself up. After we had stolen our way to a pennant in the National League in the season of 1911, and after our five leading base runners had been "mugged" by the police in St. Louis so that the catchers would know them, many fans expected to see us steal a world's championship, and we half expected it ourselves. But so did "Connie" Mack, and there lies the answer. He knew our strong point, and his players had discussed and rehearsed ways and means to break up our game. Mack had been watching the Giants for weeks previous to the series and had had his spies taking notes. "We've got to stop them running bases," he told his men before the first game, I have learned since. And they did. Guess the St. Louis police must have sent Thomas and Lapp copies of those pictures.