Spears, my veteran first baseman and captain of the team, was the first to see us. "Sufferin' umpires!" yelled Spears. "Here, you Micks! Look at this Con's got with him!" What a yell burst from that sore and disgruntled bunch of ball tossers! My players were a grouchy set in practice anyway, and today they were in their meanest mood. "Hey, beanpole!" "Get on to the stilts!" "Con, where did you find that?" I cut short their chaffing with a sharp order for batting practice. "Regular line-up, now no monkey biz," I went on. "Take two cracks and a bunt. Here, Hurtle," I said, drawing him toward the pitcher's box, "don't pay any attention to their talk. That's only the fun of ball players. Go in now and practice a little. Lam a few over." Hurtle's big freckled hands closed nervously over the ball. I thought it best not to say more to him, for he had a rather wild look. I remembered my own stage fright upon my first appearance in fast company. Besides I knew what my amiable players would say to him. I had a secret hope and belief that presently they would yell upon the other side of the fence. McCall, my speedy little left fielder, led off at bat. He was full of ginger, chipper as a squirrel, sarcastic as only a tried ball player can be. "Put 'em over, Slats, put 'em over," he called, viciously swinging his ash. Hurtle stood stiff and awkward in the box and seemed to be rolling something in his mouth. Then he moved his arm. We all saw the ball dart down straight--that is, all of us except McCall, because if he had seen it he might have jumped out of the way. Crack! The ball hit him on the shin. McCall shrieked. We all groaned. That crack hurt all of us. Any baseball player knows how it hurts to be hit on the shinbone. McCall waved his bat madly. "Rube! Rube! Rube!" he yelled. Then and there Hurtle got the name that was to cling to him all his baseball days. McCall went back to the plate, red in the face, mad as a hornet, and he sidestepped every time Rube pitched a ball. He never even ticked one and retired in disgust, limping and swearing. Ashwell was next. He did not show much alacrity. On Rube's first pitch down went Ashwell flat in the dust. The ball whipped the hair of his head. Rube was wild and I began to get worried. Ashwell hit a couple of measly punks, but when he assayed a bunt the gang yelled derisively at him. "What's he got?" The old familiar cry of batters when facing a new pitcher!