be a sad, sad wail when it was made public that the "King" was to go. But there were imperative reasons prompting his disposal. It was an open secret—else I would not exploit it here—that Kelly's habits were not conducive to the best interests of the club or his team-mates. He was of a highly convivial nature, extremely fascinating and witty, and his example was demoralizing to discipline. Particularly was his influence objectionable upon the younger members of the nine. Everybody in Chicago liked Kelly; all the players desired to be where he was—and to follow him was "to go the limit."
So one day I broached the subject of the proposed change to Captain Anson, asking him if he could spare Kelly.
"Spare him? Sure. Spare anybody," was the reply.
I then cautioned Anson to say nothing, as I felt that this matter was one which would have to be handled with gloves. So I sent for Kelly and asked him:
"Kelly, how would you like to go to Boston to play?"
"I don't want any Boston in mine; Chicago's good enough for me."
"Well, you're good enough for Chicago, too," I said. "But if there should be something nice in it for you, would you object? Wouldn't you like more salary?"
"Wouldn't Kelly like more salary? Well, I guess."
"What salary would you go to Boston for?" I continued.
He thought a moment, then said, almost as if ashamed to ask it, "Four thousand dollars." He was receiving $3,000 at Chicago, which was the limit in those days.
