The Catholic bulletin. [volume] (St. Paul, Minn.) 1911-1995, 1915-10-09

MONEYS eye lit up with joy; he
moved his hands along the arms of
his chair. then at the last words he
arranged his bandage impatiently,
muttering under his breath,
Let's walk Father Mitchell sug.
gested, tits too beautiful an evening
to waste sitting here. 81, Il s.ssq5
They strolled silently along the
gravelled path. The. wind rustled soft
" through the trees bearing strains
OF q violin from camp along a near
by lake; scraps of conversion and
bits of low laughter came to their
ears from groups of patients on
benches concealed behind frs and
thick bushes. Mooney was with his.
team over the game.
How is Conley getting along with
the Quakers?" Father Mitchell asked
cautiously. He used to go to college
with me"
Mooney was at first cautious, but
the priests apt questions and evil
dent understanding broke down his re-
serve and soon he was describing
the team, in general and in particular.
who discovered you?" the priest
inquired.
Matty. was pitching for the
Crescents; we had a game with the
Orioles, another amateur team. Matty
had the day off and he came over to
SEGA cousin of his play. I+got four
| hits out of four times up, two were
for extra bases He tipped me off to
the Quaker manager, who signed me
| up and sent me to Louisville to rub
some of the green off. was too good
a hitter to. pitch so they tried me at
third, then short, and finally at sec
ond. / made good there and the next
season was called the Big Ring. That
was in 1919" @
., Mooney lapsed into silence; he went
back lin mind to the days of strug.
gle; he recalled the exultant feeling
which was won't to surge over his
heart as he heard the stand re-echo
with the applause when he stepped to
the plate in crisis.
After q few seconds they parted
for the night Mooney was standing
before his mirror taking off his collar
when suddenly tiny interior voice
jeered, Getting confidential pretty
quickly with stranger, and a priest,
at that, aren't your" #
He stopped, one flap of the collar
Embossed. Slowly the surprise had
died away, he went over the evenings
chat. Truly, he confessed to himself,
the last two hours had robbed him of
his pet nickname, "Close-mouthed
Mooney" Whatever had caused him
to be so garrulous, he could not dis
cover. Dispassionately he called him
4 self forty various kinds of poll-par-
rots, adding adjectiyes more or less
pungent, then proceededt to disrobe.
But the last words he murmured
droWsily to himssR before sleep cap
tured his eyes, were Remember to
| apply for admission to the Dorcas
Sewing Society,"
The next morning Mooney was oys-
ter-still. Grunts or monosyllables
we're the only answers. he vouchsafed
the priest. The latter read the paper
aloud, but since MONEYS guinness
did not weaken, he left him in peace.
In the afternoon his attempts at con.
versation were rewarded in the same
manner. AT length he asked testify,
What is the matter with you? Did
you ge out of bed on the wrong side
this morning? I'm not an Orange.
man: I'll not hurt you!"
The, frank eyes and joking voice
shamed Mooney, who mumbled an ex-
cuse about the gloomy weather-the
sun was shining brightly-then rush
ed into gossip to hide his embarrass-
ment.
4 As the days passed Mooney reluc-
family grew to like Father Mitchell
more and more; the latter easily
grasped and fully appreciated the in.
tricaciesf of the inside game. In.
stances of. narvellously quick think
| ing were narrated, "boneheaded' mis-,
takes laughed toAscorn.' They fought
games over time and time and time
again, especially the last worlds
series. Mooney ridiculed his friends
fears that the national pastime would
degenerate into a sordid money-strug
gle between owners and players, yet
on reflection he admitted that the ar.
guments could not be dismissed with
mere wave of the hand.
i It was the last day OF MONEYS
stay. His eye had regained its old
| strength; except for a few discolored
| spots there was no trace Of the acct