Philadelphia, Pa., July 31.—[Special.]—Had Bill Duggleby used a little high grade self-control and refrained from playing horse with James J. Slagle in the ninth round he would have beaten the Cubs 1 to 0.
It is indeed provoking to be It for eight spellbinding rounds and then become a goat. But such is life in the ball yard. We cannot expect the Phillies to reform in one day. The eight innings were all right—not necessarily for publication but as a guarantee of good faith.
When Duggleby picked up the ball he beheld Slagle teetering on his toes midway between second and third. Bill at once cut out his regular job and became a fielder. He pursued James with great speed and vindictiveness. Up and down the lane they dodged. Big, fat Bill, the ball in his fist, was bent on tagging James, while the little athlete wiggled and squirmed like an angleworm. Finally on the dash back to second Slagle fell and Bill sprawled over him. James breathed loudly, and Bill’s intake also was working hard. In the fall Duggleby tagged his man and dropped the ball at the same time. Up jumped James and scampered for third. Bill struggled to his rear platform, reached for the ball and, and hurled it with mighty desperation at the fleeing Spud. The shot hit the small cuss on the heel and squirted off to the Phillie bench. Meanwhile the human angleworm from Worthville, Pa., wiggled the rest of the way and tied up our almost game. Such cheesy luck!
Chance busted off a single that scored the winning run. Husk always does that. Last time here he blew Mr. Sparks’ lamps out in the ninth round and won the game for the Spuds. If any one should call up, tell him, her, or it that the California prune culturist is a valued asset. He is worthy to ride behind the real horse blankets next year.
