Rookie of the Year by John R. Tunis Page A

get out; go get your dinner.”
    They needed no encouragement to leave. They rose without a word, pushed back the folding door, and slipped into the thick-carpeted corridor. Bill Hanson was coming down toward them.
    “Hi there, boys,” he said genially.
    Neither rookie paid any attention. They had something else on their minds. The secretary stood to one side, his mouth open, as they passed. He watched them roll down the corridor and disappear at the end. He shook his head and moved along to Spike’s room, where he knocked at the door.
    Spike came down to breakfast the next morning at the William Penn with the Post-Gazette under his arm. Usually he went into the coffee shop where the team ate, but after the scene on the train the night before he wanted to avoid them all, so he went into the main dining room. At the door he ran into Charlie Draper who was leaving.
    “Hey, Spike! Good morning!” Notwithstanding a night on the train and an early morning rising at six-thirty, the little chap was cool and dapper in a thin summer suit. “Ya saw ’em, didn’t ya?”
    Spike nodded. He disliked recalling the scene.
    “They were mighty quiet lads at dinner last night on the train, so I figgered you laid ’em out properly.”
    Spike nodded and went inside. There were things he could talk over with Cassidy and
    Draper; other things he could discuss with Fat Stuff and the old timers; and some things like the trouble with Jocko Klein and the bench jockeys he couldn’t even mention to his brother. This was one of them.
    He sat down and ordered breakfast. That must be Bill Hanson over in the corner. Bill was anxious to know what happened; he had hinted as much last night on the train. Gosh, there’s some folks on this club think they know more about what’s going on than the manager. Bill’s into everyone’s affairs; probably reporting everything to Jack MacManus, the club president, in Brooklyn, too. Sometimes Spike wondered just how much Hanson was really for him, despite his bluff and agreeable manner. He buried himself in the sports pages. There was an Associated Press story from St. Louis about the team.
    “Although the Brooks dropped three out of four here, their playing impressed everyone, including their rivals. Lots of people thought that the newest and youngest pilot in the business was slightly wacky when he sold Slugger Case to the Braves for $2500 and an unknown fly-chaser named Clyde Baldwin, recently up from the Texas League. But the inside on this is that the Slugger has slowed up lately. Nor has the heavy hitting outfielder been carrying his weight at the plate, either, at least so far this season. According to the writers traveling with the club, the whole team has changed. They say there’s a new spirit visible, that the boys are really going all out for Spike. While he’s a youngster in years, he’s been around plenty, and knows most of the answers. He needs to know them to handle some of the temperamental men on his club.”
    Boy, you said something! You really said something that time!
    “Spike’s pitching staff is holding so far. This boy Hathaway lived up to everything said about him in his first appearance in Sportsman’s Park. He’s a real find, and if he lives up to his promise he might turn out to be the rookie of the year.”
    Someone passed by at the side, and a queer inner feeling caused Spike to look up. He glanced back again quickly at his paper. Bill Hanson was leaving the dining room.
    “Besides being the youngest manager in either league, Spike Russell is also the world’s greatest optimist. Asked by this reporter whether his club, which has been back in the rut most of the year, still had a chance at the pennant, he replied: ‘A chance? Sure we got a chance.’ If Spike ever gets thrown out of baseball, he can always get a job in radio on that one!
    “Here’s the youthful manager’s last word. ‘Our spirit? Great! The boys are hustling because they know if they don’t