taking the field, Swift received a telegram. It read:
Wife's condition serious. Come home if possible.
The wire was signed by the name of the family doctor back in Iowa.
Swift turned pale and hesitated. For a moment he had an impulse to throw down his glove, dash for the clubhouse, change his clothes and board a train for the West at once. But to do so would cripple his team in the game. His substitute was a raw rookie. The game would be lost and Tom Swift, on top of a month of indifferent performance, would be blamed for it. He had had telegrams from his wife's bedside before, bespeaking a serious condition. And always she had recovered. Two hours more now would make no difference. He would board a train that night for home and collect his World's Series money later.
So, arguing in spite of himself, he played in the game. What happened is history. His mind in Iowa, Swift was an abject failure at the bat. His fatal fumble of a hot liner in the ninth inning cost New York the world's championship. To cap the climax, he did not wait to listen to Manager McGinnis as the latter roared censure, but instead tore for his locker to change into street clothes.
A fatal telegram awaited him there. It said that his wife was dead and that he was the father of a son. Broad shouldered Tom Swift sat in his underwear in front of his locker and sobbed as if his heart would break. His teammates stood helplessly
