11 
“Not Bumpsy,” the big voice said, “I am terrific.”
“You now hold the record of the most consecutive games lost in the whole league history, the most strikeouts, the most errors —”
“Not Bumpsy —”
“— the most foolishness and colossal stupidities. In plain words, you all stink. I am tempted to take pity on those poor dopes who spend a buck and a half to watch you play and trade the whole lousy lot of you away.”
Bump dropped down on his knees and raised his clasped hands. “Me first, Lawdy, me first.”
“— and start from scratch to build up a team that will know how to play together and has guts and will fight the other guy to death before they drop seventeen games in the cellar.”
The players in the locker room were worn Out but Bump was singing, “Many brave hearts are asleep in the deep.”
“Beware,” he croaked low in his throat, “bewaaare —”
Pop shook a furious finger at him that looked as if it would fly off and strike him in the face. “As for you, Bump Baily, high and mighty though you are, some day you’ll pay for your sassifras. Remember that lightning cuts down the tallest trees too.”
Bump didn’t like warnings of retribution. His face turned surly.
“Lightning, maybe, but no burnt out old fuse.”
Pop tottered. “Practice at eight in the morning,” he said brokenly. But for Red he would have tumbled off the chair. In his office behind the slammed and smoking door they could hear him sobbing, “Sometimes I could cut my own throat.”
It took the Knights a while to grow bones and crawl out after Bump. But when everybody had gone, including the coaches and Dizzy, Roy remained behind. His face was flaming hot, his clothes soaked in sweat and shame, as if the old man’s accusations had been leveled at his head.
When Pop came out in his street clothes, a yellowed Panama and a loud sport jacket, he was startled to see Roy sitting there in the gloom and asked what he was waiting for.
“No place to go,” Roy said.
“Whyn’t you get a room?”
“Ain’t got what it takes.”
Pop looked at him. “Scotty paid you your bonus cash, didn’t he?”
“Two hundred, but I had debts.”
“You shoulda drawn an advance on your first two weeks’ pay from the office when you came in today. It’s too late now, they quit at five, so I will write you out my personal check for twenty-five dollars and you can pay me back when you get the money.”
Pop balanced his checkbook on his knee. “You married?”
“No.”
“Whyn’t you ask around among the married players to see who has got a spare room? That way you’d have a more regular life. Either that, or in a respectable boarding house. Some of the boys who have their homes Out of town prefer to stay at a moderate-priced hotel, which I myself have done since my wife passed away, but a boarding house is more homelike and cheaper. Anyway,” Pop advised, “tonight you better come along with me to the hotel and tomorrow you can find a place to suit your needs.”
Roy remarked he wasn’t particularly crazy about hotels.
They left the ball park, got into a cab and drove downtown. The sky over the Hudson was orange. Once Pop broke out of his reverie to point out Grant’s Tomb.
At the Midtown Hotel, Pop spoke to the desk clerk and he assigned Roy a room on the ninth floor, facing toward the Empire State Building. Pop went up with him and pumped the mattress.
“Not bad,” he said.
After the bellhop had left he said he hoped Roy wasn’t the shenanigan type.
“What kind?” Roy asked.
“There are all sorts of nuts in this game and I remember one of my players — seems to me it was close to twenty years ago — who used to walk out on the fifteenth floor ledge and scare fits out of people in the other rooms. One day when he was walking out there he fell and broke his leg and only the darndest luck kept him from rolling right overboard. It was beginning to rain and he pulled himself around from window to window, begging for help, and everybody went into stitches at his acting but kept their windows closed. He finally rolled off and hit bottom.”
Roy had unpacked his valise and was washing up.
“Lemme tell you one practical piece of advice, son,” Pop went on. “You’re starting way late — I was finished after fifteen years as an active player one year after the age you’re coming in, but if you want to get along the best way, behave and give the game all you have got, and when you can’t do that, quit. We don’t need any more goldbrickers or fourfiushers or practical jokers around. One Bump Baily is too much for any team.”
He left the room, looking wretched.
The phone jangled and after a minute Roy got around to lifting it.
“What’s the matter?” Red Blow barked. “Don’t you answer your telephone?”
“I like it to ring a little, gives ‘em a chance to change their mind.”
“Who?”
“Anybody.”
Red paused. “Pop asked me to show you around. When are you eating?”
“I am hungry now.”
“Meet me in the lobby, half past six.”
As Roy hung up there was a loud dum-diddy-um-dum on the door and Bump Baily in a red-flowered Hollywood shirt breezed in.
“Hiya, buster. Saw you pull in with the old geezer and tracked you down. I would like for you to do me a favor.”
“Roy is the name.”
“Roy is fine. Listen, I got my room on the fourth floor, which is a damn sight classier than this mouse trap. I would like you to borrow it and I will borrow this for tonight.”
“What’s the pitch?”
“I am having a lady friend visit me and there are too many nosy people on my floor.”
Roy considered and said okay. He unconsciously wet his lips.
Bump slapped him between the shoulders. “Stick around, buster, you will get yours.”
Roy knew he would never like the guy.
Bump told him his room number and they exchanged keys, then Roy put a few things into his valise and went downstairs.
Coming along the fourth floor hall he saw a door half open and figured this was it. As he pulled the knob he froze, for there with her back to him stood a slim, redheaded girl in black panties and brassiere. She was combing her hair before a mirror on the wall as the light streamed in around her through the billowy curtains. When she saw him in the mirror she let out a scream. He stepped back as if he had been kicked in the face. Then the door slammed and he had a splitting headache.
Bump’s room was next door so Roy went in and lay down on the bed, amid four purple walls traced through with leaves flying among white baskets of fruit, some loaded high and some spilled over. He lay there till the pain in his brain eased.
At 6:30 he went down and met Red, in a droopy linen suit, and they had steaks in a nearby chophouse. Roy had two and plenty of mashed potatoes. Afterwards they walked up Fifth Avenue. He felt better after the meal.
“Want to see the Village?” Red said.
“What’s in it?”
Red picked his teeth. “Beats me. Whatever they got I can’t find it. How about a picture?”
Roy was agreeable so they dropped into a movie. It was a picture about a city guy who came to the country, where he had a satisfying love affair with a girl he met. Roy enjoyed it. As they walked back to the hotel the night was soft and summery. He thought about the black-brassiered girl in the next room.
11 
