The Sound of Silence

The Fesler Experiment

2009-03-02T22:12:00.000-08:00

An excerpt fromKen Stadler's The Pacific Coast League: One Man's Memories, 1938 - 1957:

"If you have ever played the game of softball, or followed it closely, you know that a talented, overpowering softball pitcher is extremely difficult, if not impossible to hit. The natural upward trajectory of the ball, the pitcher's ability to also make the ball sink, along with the accelerated speed of a sphere coming toward you from only 46 feet away, all prove my point. Having personally had more experience playing softball as opposed to baseball, believe me, I have had many moments of frustration facing some of these overwhelming pitchers.

One such super-talented softball hurler who sent opposing batters back to the bench muttering to themselves was Bob Fesler of Seattle, Washington. He had over 150 no-hitters to his credit. Fred Hutchinson, who piloted the Seattle Rainiers in 1955, became interested in Fesler, especially after seeing him strike out 11 Seattle and Sacramento batters in an exhibition game from the normal softball distance of 46 feet. Fred, himself a former great pitcher, believed Fesler could be a successful baseball pitcher using his own delivery, but of course pitching from 60 feet away. Seattle management agreed and signed Fesler to a contract during the '55 season.

I wish I could tell you that all went well for Fesler, but such was not the case. His failure to succeed was almost entirely due to a lack of control. I never saw him pitch, but listened to one of his games on the radio. I felt sorry for him as one by one opposing batters reached first base via the base on balls. Needless to say, he was soon out of the game, and all too quickly the interesting experiment came to an end. The added 14 feet from the mound to home plate was too great, and it negated Fesler's effectiveness, which was unbelievable from softball distance. Bob appeared in only four games and had a record of 0 and 2.

Should the thought have crossed your mind that Hutchinson encouraged Seattle management to sign Fesler strictly as a gimmick, I feel absolutely certain that he had no such thought. Bear in mind that Seattle was involved in a battle for the pennant, which involved no fewer than four teams. The Rainiers ultimately won the crown by three games. This they did in spite of Bob Fesler. Hutch believed they could win it with his help. Only four games separated the fourth-place Angels from Seattle. It was an interesting and tough race right down to the end.

No, Fred Hutchinson did not engage in any foolishness, and my hat is off to him for giving Bob Fesler the opportunity to become a professional baseball pitcher. Fesler, too, is to be commended for accepting the challenge. This experiment, though unsuccessful, was just another reason why the [Pacific] Coast League was tremendously exciting to follow."

Auld Lang Syne

2007-12-31T23:03:00.000-08:00

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o'auld lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We'll drink a cup o' kindness yet
For auld lang syne!

And there's a hand, my trusty fiere,
And gie's a hand o' thine;
And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught
For auld lang syne!

For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We'll drink a cup o'kindness yet
For auld lang syne!

Thy Little Ones

2007-11-23T06:23:00.000-08:00

Thy little ones, dear Lord, are we,
And come Thy lowly bed to see;
Enlighten ev'ry soul and mind,
That we the way to Thee may find.

With songs we hasten Thee to greet,
And kiss the dust before Thy feet,
O blessed hour, O sweetest night,
That gave Thee birth, our soul's delight.

O draw us to Thee, O Lord,
O draw us to Thee O Lord,
Draw us to Thee, draw us to Thee,
To Thee, to Thee, O draw us to Thee.

O draw us wholly to Thee, Lord.
Do Thou to us Thy grace accord.
True faith and love to us impart,
That we may hold Thee in our heart.

Choral Classics

2007-10-07T14:56:00.000-07:00

Here is a description of the pieces on my Myspace Music page, Choral Classics:

Agnus Dei - "Images of Christ"
composed by: Samuel Barber
performed by: The Cambridge Singers (conductor, John Rutter)

Barber's choral arrangement of his Adagio for Strings. The original adagio was written in 1936 and it's popularity led to requests for several rearrangements, including this choral version, written in '67.

Coventry Carol - "Christmas with Chanticleer"
performed by: Chanticleer

Written in the 16th century, this is a Christmas carol of a different bent than usual: it's inspiration was King Herod's decree ordering the murder of all male children under the age of 2, depicted in the gospel of St. Matthew.

Sanctus - "From Chant to Renaissance"
composed by: Heinrich Isaac
performed by: Voices of Ascension (conductor, Dennis Keene)

From Isaac's Missa de apostolis, which is based on a series of chants from The Feast of the Apostles, the Sanctus is a short and glorious example of the piece's marriage of chant and polyphony, a part of the conservative liturgical procedures of Isaac's place and period (early 16th century).

Our Father - "God is Our Refuge"
composed by: Alexander Gretchaninoff
performed by: Choir of the West, Pacific Lutheran Univ. (conductor, Kathryn Lehmann)

An english version of the underrated Russian composer's work, the text being the Lord's Prayer. I'll never forget the first time I heard it--there were tears in my eyes (as the cliche goes) as I sat and listened, happily stunned.

Favorite Movies: Top 25

2007-04-30T22:14:00.000-07:00

25. The Bourne Identity (Doug Liman) 2002
24. Citizen Kane (Orson Welles) 1941
23. I Know Where I'm Going! (Powell & Pressburger) 1945
22. It's a Wonderful Life (Frank Capra) 1946
21. Bringing Up Baby (Howard Hawks) 1938
20. Rear Window (Alfred Hitchcock) 1954
19. The Godfather (Francis Ford Coppola) 1972
18. Double Indemnity (Billy Wilder) 1944
17. The Sting (George Roy Hill) 1973
16. The General (Clyde Bruckman & Buster Keaton) 1927
15. The Lady Vanishes (Alfred Hitchcock) 1938
14. Sullivan's Travels (Preston Sturges) 1941
13. The Blues Brothers (John Landis) 1980
12. The Empire Strikes Back (Irvin Kershner) 1980
11. The Third Man (Carol Reed) 1949
10. Rebecca (Alfred Hitchcock) 1940
9. Amadeus (Milos Forman) 1984
8. Singin' in the Rain (Stanley Donen & Gene Kelly) 1952
7. The Princess Bride (Rob Reiner) 1987
6. Mr. Smith Goes to Washington (Frank Capra) 1939
5. The Apartment (Billy Wilder) 1960
4. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (George Roy Hill) 1969
3. The Thin Man (W.S. Van Dyke) 1934
2. Casablanca (Michael Curtiz) 1942
1. Seven Samurai (Akira Kurosawa) 1954

Tearing Down Wrigley

2006-10-29T13:43:00.000-08:00

"Casey at the Bat" by Ernest Thayer

2006-10-01T15:26:00.000-07:00

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville Nine that day,
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play.

And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A pall-like silence full upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair.
The rest clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast.
They thought, "if only Casey could but get a whack at that.
We'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat."

But Flynn preceeded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake;
and the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake.

So upon that stricken multitude, grim melancholy sat;
for there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all.
And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball.

And when the dust had lifted,
and men saw what had occurred,
there was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
it rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;

it pounded through on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat;
for Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place,
there was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile lit Casey's face.

And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
no stranger in the crowd could doubt t'was Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt.
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them from his shirt.

Then, while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
defiance flashed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
and Casey stood a-watching it in haughty gradeur there.

Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped--
"That ain't my style," said Casey.

"Strike one!" the umpire said.
From the benches, black with people, there went a muffled roar,
like the beating of the storm waves on a stern and distant shore.

"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand,
and it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity, great Casey's visage shone,
he stilled the rising tumult, he bade the game go on.

He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew,
but Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two!"

"Fraud!" cride the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!"
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.

They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
and they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.

The sneer has fled from Casey's lip, the teeth are clenched in hate.
He pounds, with cruel violence, his bat upon the plate.

And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
and now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright.
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light.
And, somewhere men are laughing, and little children shout,

but there is no joy in Mudville--
mighty Casey has struck out.

Let Us Dance

2006-08-24T23:08:00.000-07:00

Our feet, grass-stained, we’d shuffle, and
Our voices, pure sounding, we’d ring, below
Moonlit diamonds a-gleaming.
Trees, green, would whistle and sing,
Tickled by wind so chilling and clean;
Accompanied by owl’s hoots,
Chit’s twirps, and frog burps,
Beneath the moon a-blazing.

Oh, so dreary to be sitting or sleeping
Indoors. How dim and lifeless they be
Who whittle the Time away with a snore.
With nothing to do but sit and sigh
Or read a book; glance out the window:
Take a Look! There is Joy to be
Gleaned in the cool lit air, can’t you see?
Inside cannot hold a candle to the outdoors.

So doff your cap and socks and come join me
While the moon still shines and stars are
Glowing, and we’ll sing a sweet dance

To the nightlife a-harmonizing.

Psalm 25

2006-05-30T18:22:00.000-07:00

To You, O Lord, I lift up my soul.
O my God, I trust in You.
Let me not be ashamed;
Let not my enemies triumph over me.
Indeed, let no one who waits on You be ashamed.
Let those be ashamed who deal treacherously without cause.

Show me Your ways, O Lord; teach me Your paths.
Lead me in Your truth and teach me,
For You are the God of my salvation;
On You I wait all the day.

Remember, O Lord, Your tender mercies and Your lovingkindesses,
For they have been from of old.
Do not remember the sins of my youth, nor my transgressions;
According to Your mercy remember me,
For Your goodness' sake, O Lord.

Good and upright is the Lord;
Therefore He teaches sinniers in the way.
The humble he guides in justice,
And the humbles He teaches His way.
All the paths of the Lord are mercy and truth,
To such as keep His covenant and His testimonies.
For Your name's sake, O Lord,
Pardon my iniquity, for it is great.

Who is the man that fears the Lord?
Him shall He teach in the way He chooses.
He himself shall dwell in prosperity,
And his descendants shall inherit the earth.
The secret of the Lord is with those who fear Him,
And He will show them His covenant.
My eyes are ever toward the Lord,
For He shall pluck my feet out of the net.

Turn Yourself to me, and have mercy on me,
For I am desolate and afflicted.
The troubles of my heart have enlarged;
Oh, bring me out of my distresses!
Look on my affliction and my pain,
And forgive all my sins.
Consider my enemies, for they are many;
And they hate me with cruel hatred.
Ohm keep my soul, and deliver me;
Let me not be ashamed, for I put my trust in You.
Let integrity and uprightness preserve me,
For I wait for You.

Redeem Israel, O God,
Out of all their troubles!

Prop Poems: The Dagger

2006-05-25T01:39:00.000-07:00

The dagger lay
On velvet cloth
Behind the frozen glass,
And woke within me
Old desires
Long smothered
And dulled by
Happiness.

Bill Schuster, PCL Hall of Famer

2006-05-22T23:15:00.000-07:00

"Billy Schuster was a classic. First I played against him, then he became a teammate. He later became my manager in the Western International League. Oh man, did we put it on. Whether there was any baseball played or not, we got a crowd.

When I was with the Solons, one night Bill Schuster is batting against me at Wrigley Field. I throw over to first base five times, trying to pick the base runner off. The next thing I realize, Billy is standing next to first base, with bat at the ready, waiting for me to 'pitch' the ball to first base again."

~ Bud Beasley

"Bud Beasley is pitching for Seattle, and he's going through all the gyrations that he did. Schuster, no doubt, had been hoping for the moment. Bud starts out with the pumps, working his way up his body. The first time, Bill just leans on his bat.

Beasley starts again, and while Beasley is doing all that stuff Schuster starts doing the hula. He's not going to be outdone.

He hits one back to the mound and runs out there sticks his hand out, and shakes hands with Beasley."

~ Charles "Red" Adams

"We had a pitcher who had just come down from the Major Leagues, and he had never heard of Schuster before. He was pitching to Schuster in a game at Hollywood, and Schuster hit a ground ball right back to him. He bends down to pick up the ball, and when he straightens up, here's Schuster running right at him, sliding at him. He didn't know what to do. Someone had to yell at him to throw the ball to first base. He finally did, and he came back to the bench and said, 'That man is crazy.' That's something we already knew."

~ Rugger Ardizoia

"You know, that dirty rat, when I joined the Portland club and we were in Los Angeles, I was his seventh hidden-ball-trick victim. And this was my friend! We were both from Buffalo. I hit a double, and he's talking to me about Warren Spahn and Frankie Drews and Sibby Sisti and I'm not paying attention.

All of a sudden, he's standing next to me and says, 'Hey Ed, look what I've got.' He said, 'Why don't you make a dive for it and we'll make it look good.' I said, 'Like hell.' So he hit me on top of the head. And here's Jim Turner thinking, 'This guy's been in the Major Leagues?' I could have killed Schuster that day, the dirty rat."

~ Eddie Basinski

"We picked him up for pennant insurance in '52. No telling what he was going to do. The first time I ever saw him, he scored a run, but he didn't stop. He kept running and climbed the screen behind home plate at Wrigley Field.

You've got to have guys like that on the ball club. You've got to keep a club loose.

He and I did a TV program at one of the studios in Hollywood on the afternoon before a night game, so I rode to the ballpark with him. We didn't stop at a stop light the whole trip from the studio! He cut across filling stations and everything, scared the hell out of me! He never stopped until we were in the parking lot. He gets out nonchalantly, and as we're walking to the clubhouse, I ask him, 'Do you always drive like this?' He says, 'Every day.'"

~ Chuck Stevens

"I remember one time over in San Francisco, it's a clutch situation, and Bill hits a big pop-up, straight up. He starts to run, then realizes it's going foul. Bill runs over behind the catcher with his bat. While the catcher is waiting for the ball to come down, Bill gets over behind him and--whomp . . . whomp . . . whomp--like he's hitting him over the head.

Now the catcher knows Bill's there, and he's got to concentrate on the ball and the wind blowing while all this is going on behind him.

Bill was called out on strikes at a game at Wrigley Field, and he stiffened up, as if he had been shot, and fell straight back. Well, a photographer just happened to catch the picture in mid-fall, so here's this picture of Bill falling dead backwards in the newspapers."

~ Charles "Red" Adams

"I saw him get decked one night in Hollywood. Roy Joiner was pitching. It was the first of the ninth, two outs and nobody on. We were leading and Billy Schuster tried to drag-bunt one. Joiner threw him out, and when Billy crossed the mound on the way back to his dugout, Roy was waiting for him. He busted him right in the mouth, laid him out cold!

Schuster was laying on the mound. The groundskeepers were turning out the lights. He was the only guy there."

~ Eddie Erautt

"I was there when Bill got decked. The game was over, and they turned off the lights right away. I didn't see it. But someone came into the clubhouse and said, 'Schuster's laying out there on the field.' Joiner's walking off, and Schuster ran up to him, I guess, and stopped. Schuster liked to do that. Joiner popped him!

When he came in the clubhouse that night, he looked like a guy who had just seen a ghost. His eyes were that big. He had just come to."

~ Charles "Red" Adams

"Bill said, 'I woke up and the place was dark'"

~ Marion Schuster

[Dick Dobbins, The Grand Minor League: An Oral History of the Pacific Coast League]

I must interject at this point something that should have been said earlier, and that is the fact that Bill Schuster cannot be overlooked when it comes to Coast League buffoons. I would not be at all surprised if a majority of players who were in the League during Schuster's time would say without hesitation that he had no equal in this regard. . . .

There were two reasons why I did not mention this man while on the subject of "characters." The first is that I was perhaps too young when Bill was at his best, thereby missing or not fully appreciating all his antics. . . . Secondly, I did not mention Bill earlier because I wanted you to see first and foremost Bill Schuster, the baseball player, the man I personally consider to be the best shortstop during my time. . . . According to my calculations, Bill had a lifetime batting average of .277 and four times he finished second in fielding percentage among Coast League shortstops.

Now that I have openly stated my feelings, and only if you will promise to remember Bill's exploits as a player, I will give you two quick stories on him that took place during contests involving the Angels.

Bill related some fun he had at the expense of home plate umpire "Frisco" Edwards during a game at Portland. Frisco was a former catcher and his throwing hand showed the wear and tear that all receivers experience if they stay behind the plate for too many years. It came time for Schuster to come to bat, and he worked the pitcher for a walk. Edwards pointed to what he thought was first base, but his index finger was pointing right at second base. Bill, taking the umpire at his word, cut across the pitcher's box and went into second base. He was immediately tossed out of the game by a furious and sensitive Frisco Edwards.

The second incident Bill laughingly tells about took place in old Lane Field in San Diego. He came to bat and quickly grounded out. As he turned to head back toward the dugout, he caught some abuse from a bald-headed Padre fan in the first row of the box seats. On a typical Schuster impulse, he abruptly stopped and kissed the fan right on his balding pate! Again, Bill was tossed out, this time for fraternizing with a fan. This story really grows on me. The more I reflect on it, the more I lose my composure. . . .

Again let me remind you that Bill Schuster was a super ballplayer. I am proud to have placed him on my PCL All-Star Team.

~ Ken Stadler, The Pacific Coast League: One Man's Memories, 1938 - 1957

"The Secret Life of Walter Mitty" by James Thurber

2006-05-11T00:06:00.000-07:00

"We're going through!" The Commander's voice was like thin ice breaking. He wore his full-dress uniform, with the heavily braided white cap pulled down rakishly over one cold gray eye. "We can't make it, sir. It's spoiling for a hurricane, if you ask me." "I'm not asking you, Lieutenant Berg," said the Commander. "Throw on the power lights! Rev her up to 8,500! We're going through!" The pounding of the cylinders increased: ta-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa. The Commander stared at the ice forming on the pilot window. He walked over and twisted a row of complicated dials. "Switch on No. 8 auxiliary!" he shouted. "Switch on No. 8 auxiliary!" repeated Lieutenant Berg. "Full strength in No. 3 turret!" shouted the Commander. "Full strength in No. 3 turret!" The crew, bending to their various tasks in the huge, hurtling eight-engined Navy hydroplane, looked at each other and grinned. "The Old Man'll get us through," they said to one another. "The Old Man ain't afraid of Hell!" . . .

"Not so fast! You're driving to fast!" said Mrs. Mitty. "What are you driving so fast for?"

"Hmm?" said Walter Mitty. He looked at his wife, in the seat beside him, with shocked astonishment. She seemed grossly unfamiliar, like a strange woman who had yelled at him in a crowd. "You were up to fifty-five," she said. "You know I don't like to go more than forty. You were up to fifty-five." Walter Mitty drove on toward Waterbury in silence, the roaring of the SN202 through the worst storm in twenty years of Navy flying fading in the remote, intimate airways of his mind. "You're tensed up again," said Mrs. Mitty. "It's one of your days. I wish you'd let Dr. Renshaw look you over."

Walter Mitty stopped the car in front of the building where his wife went to have her hair done. "Remember to get those overshoes while I'm having my hair done," she said. "I don't need overshoes," said Mitty. She put her mirror back into her bag. "We've been all through that," she said, getting out of the car. "You're not a young man any longer." He raced the engine a little. "Why don't you wear your gloves? Have you lost your gloves?" Walter Mitty reached in a pocket and brought out the gloves. He put them on, but after she had turned and gone into the building and he had driven on to a red light, he took them off again. "Pick it up, brother!" snapped a cop as the light changed, and Mitty hastily pulled on his gloves and lurched ahead. He drove around the streets aimlessly for a time, and then he drove past the hospital on his way to the parking lot.

. . . "It's the millionaire banker, Wellington McMillan," said the pretty nurse. "Yes?" said Walter Mitty, removing his gloves slowly. "Who has the case?" "Dr. Renshaw and Dr. Benbow, but there are two specialists here, Dr. Remington from New York and Mr. Pritchard-Mitford from London. He flew over" A door opened down a long, cool corridor and Dr. Renshaw came out. He looked distraught and haggard. "Hello, Mitty," he said. "We're having the devil's own time with McMillan, the millionaire banker and close personal friend of Roosevelt. Obstreosis of the ductal tract. Tertiary. Wish you'd take a look at him." "Glad to," said Mitty.

In the operating room there were whispered introductions: "Dr. Remington, Dr. Mitty, Mr. Pritchard-Mitford, Dr. Mitty." "I've read your book on streptothricosis," said Pritchard-Mitford, shaking hands. "A brilliant performance, sir." "Thank you," said Walter Mitty. "Didn't know you were in the States, Mitty." grumbled Remington. "Coals to Newcastle, bring Mitford and me up here for a tertiary." "You are very kind," said Mitty. A huge, complicated machine, connected to the operating table, with many tubes and wires, began at this moment to go pocketa-pocketa-pocketa. "The new anesthetizer is giving way!" shouted the interne. "There is no one in the East who knows how to fix it!" "Quiet, man!" said Mitty, in a low, cool voice. He sprang to the machine, which was now going pocketa-pocketa-queep-pocketa-queep. He began fingering delicately a row of glistening dials. "Give me a fountain pen!" he snapped. Someone handed him a fountain pen. He pulled a faulty piston out of the machine and inserted the pen in its place. "That will hold for ten minutes," he said. "Get on with the operation." A nurse hurried over and whispered to Dr. Renshaw, and Mitty saw the man turn pale. "Coreopsis has set in," said Renshaw nervously. "If you could take over, Mitty?" Mitty looked at him and at the craven figure of Benbow, who drank, and at the grave, uncertain faces of the two great specialists. "If you wish," he said. They slipped a white gown on him; he adjusted a mask and drew on thin gloves; nurses handed him shining. . . .

"Back it up, Mac!" Look out for that Buick!" Walter Mitty jammed on the brakes. "Wrong lane, Mac," said the parking attendant, looking at Mitty closely. "Gee. Yeh," muttered Mitty. He began cautiously to back out of the lane marked "Exit Only." "Leave her sit there," said the attendant. "I'll put her away." Mitty got out of the car. "Hey, better leave the key." "Oh," said Mitty, handing the man the ignition key. The attendant vaulted into the car, backed it up with insolent skill, and put it where it belonged.

They're so damn cocky, thought Walter Mitty, walking along Main Street; they think they know everything. Once he had tried to take his chains off, outside New Milford, and he had got them wound around the axles. A man had had to come out in a wrecking car and unwind them, a young, grinning garageman. Since then Mrs. Mitty always made him drive to the garage to have the chains taken off. The next time, he thought, I'll wear my right arm in a sling and they'll see I couldn't possibly take the chains off myself. He kicked at the slush on the sidewalk. "Overshoes," he said to himself, and he began looking for a shoe store.

When he came out into the street again, with the overshoes in a box under his arm, Walter Mitty began to wonder what the other thing was his wife had told him to get. She had told him, twice, before they set out from their house for Waterbury. In a way he hated these weekly trips to town--he was always getting something wrong. Kleenex, he thought, Squibb's, razor blades? No. Toothpaste, toothbrush, bicarbonate, carborundum, initiative and referendum? He gave it up. But she would remember it. "Where's the what's-its-name?" she would ask. "Don't tell me you forgot the what's-its-name." A newsboy went by shouting something about the Waterbury trial.

. . . "Perhaps this will refresh your memory." The District Attorney suddenly thrust a heavy automatic at the quiet figure on the witness stand. "Have you ever seen this before?" Walter Mitty took the gun and examined it expertly. "This is my Webley-Vickers 50.80," he said calmly. An excited buzz ran around the courtroom. The Judge rapped for order. "You are a crack shot with any sort of firearms, I believe?" said the District Attorney, insinuatingly. "Objection!" shouted Mitty's attorney. "We have shown that the defendant could not have fired the shot. We have shown that he wore his right arm ina sling on the night of the fourteenth of July." Walter Mitty raised his hand briefly and the bickering attorneys were stilled. "With any known make of gun," he said evenly, "I could have killed Gregory Fitzhurst at three hundred feet with my left hand." Pandemonium broke loose in the court room. A woman's scream rose above the bedlam and suddenly a lovely, dark-haired girl was in Walter Mitty's arms. The District Attorney struck at her savagely. Without rising from his chair, Mitty let the man have it on the point of the chin. "You miserable cur!" . . .

"Puppy biscuit," said Walter Mitty. He stopped walking and the buildings of Waterbury rose up out of the misty courtroom and surrounded him again. A woman who was passing laughed. "He said 'Puppy biscuit,'" she said to her companion. "That man said 'Puppy biscuit' to himself." Walter Mitty hurried on. He went into an A. & P. , not the first one he came to but a smaller one farther up the street. "I want some biscuit for small, young dogs," he said to the clerk. "Any special brand, sir?" The greatest pistol shot in the world thought a moment. "It says 'Puppies Bark for It' on the box," said Walter Mitty.

His wife would be through at the hairdresser's in fifteen minutes, Mitty saw in looking at his watch, unless they had trouble drying it; sometimes they had trouble drying it. She didn't like to get to the hotel first; she would want him to be there waiting for her as usual. He found a big leather chair in the lobby, facing a window, and he put the overshoes and the puppy biscuit on the floor beside it. He picked up an old copy of Liberty and sank down into the chair. "Can Germany Conquer the World through the Air?" Walter Mitty looked at the pictures of the bombing planes and of ruined streets.

. . . "The cannonading has got the wind up in young Raleigh, sir," said the sergeant. Captain Mitty looked up at him though tousled hair. "Get him to bed," he said wearily. "With the others. I'll fly alone." "But you can't, sir," said the sergeant anxiously. "It takes two men to handle that bomber and the Archies are pounding hell out fo the air. Von Richtman's circus is between here and Saulier." "Somebody's got to get that ammunition dump," said Mitty. "I'm going over. Spot of brandy?" He poured a drink for the sergeant and one for himself. War thundered and whined around the dugout and battered at the door. There was a rending of wood and splinters flew through the room. "A bit of a near thing," said Captain Mitty carelessly. "The box barrage is closing in," said the sergeant. "We only live once, sergeant," said Mitty, with his faint, fleeting smile. "Or do we?" He poured another brandy and tossed it off. "I never see a man could hold his brandy like you, sir," said the sergeant. "Begging your pardon, sir." Captain Mitty stood up and strapped on his huge Webley-Vickers automatic. "It's forty kilometers through hell, sir," said the sergeant. Mitty finished one last brandy. "After all," he said softly, "what isn't?" The pounding of the cannon increased; there was the rat-tat-tatting of maching guns, and from somewhere came the menacing pocketa-pocketa-pocketa of the new flame-throwers. Walter Mitty walked to the door of the dugout humming "Auprès de Ma Blonde." He turned and waved to the sergeant. "Cheerio!" he said. . . .

Something struck his shoulder. "I've been looking all over this hotel for you," said Mrs. Mitty. "Why do you have to hide in this old chair? How did you expect me to find you?" "Things close in," said Walter Mitty vaguely. "What?" Mrs. Mitty said. "Did you get the what's-its-name? The puppy biscuit? What's in that box?" "Overshoes," said Mitty. "Couldn't you have put them on in the store? "I was thinking," said Walter Mitty. "Does it ever occur to you that I am sometimes thinking?" She looked at him. "I'm going to take your temperature when I get you home," she said.

They went out through the revolving doors that made a faintly derisive whistling sound when you pushed them. It was two blocks to the parking lot. At the drugstore on the corner she said, "Wait here for me. I forgot something. I won't be a minute" She was more than a minute. Walter Mitty lighted a cigarette. It began to rain, rain mixed with sleet in it. He stood up against the wall of the drugstore, smoking. . . . He put his shoulders back and his heels together. "To hell with the handkerchief," said Walter Mitty scornfully. He took one last drag on his cigarette and snapped it away. Then with that faint, fleeting smile playing about his lips, he faced the firing squad; erect and motionless, proud and disdainful, Walter Mitty the Undefeated, inscrutable to the last.

[1942]