Kitabı oku: «Four in Camp: A Story of Summer Adventures in the New Hampshire Woods», sayfa 12
CHAPTER XXIII
PROVES THE SCORE-BOOK IN ERROR AND CLOSES THE STORY
As the first ball left the pitcher’s hand Bryant trotted along to second, secure in the knowledge that catcher would not throw down there with a man on third. Chicora clamored for a home run. Bob watched the pitcher calmly. The first two balls were wasted, but the next sailed over the corner of the plate and was a strike. Bob refused to offer at the following one, and the umpire indorsed his choice. The score was three and one. It looked as though a base on balls was to be given in order to get Bob out of the way. But, whether that was the pitcher’s plan or not, Bob was not satisfied with so easy a victory. When the next delivery came to him he reached out for it, caught it on the end of his bat, and sent it sailing down the line over first-baseman’s head.
For a moment it looked like a home run, and the wearers of the blue and gray leaped and shouted. In raced Ridley and Bryant and around the bases flew Bob. Out in right field the ball had fallen untouched to the ground and was now speeding back to second-baseman, who had run out to relay it in. Bob passed second and reached third just as second-baseman turned and threw, and Loom held him there. The score was 6 to 5 and only one man was out.
Van Roden stepped to the plate looking determined. But he had no chance to distinguish himself very greatly, for the Wickasaw pitcher was pretty well rattled and four successive balls sent him to first at a walk. Kendall, who followed him at bat, was a substitute and owed his position on the team to his fielding rather than his batting ability. But even Kendall managed to connect with the second ball offered him, and might, with speedier running, have beaten it out to first. As it was, he made the second out and Bob’s hopes began to fall. Nelson was the next man up and Nelson had all day been unable to bat in anything like his real form. Bob decided that if the score was to be even tied in that inning, risks must be taken. “Two out, run on anything!” was his order, while Wickasaw’s catcher reminded his men to “play for the runner!”
Nelson went to bat resolved to do the very best he knew how, but not at all sanguine of success. The thought that with him probably rested the fate of the nine worried him. To be sure, Chicora might be able to do something in the next and last inning, but that wasn’t to be depended upon. The time was now, when, with two runners on bases, a clean hit would put them in the lead.
The first delivery looked such a palpable ball that he let it go by, discovering too late that it was an in-curve and a strike. Van Roden trotted to second and went on to a position half-way between that base and the next. Bob was ten feet away from his bag, on his toes, watching pitcher and catcher intently, ready to be off on the slightest pretext. Another ball went across the plate, and again a strike was scored against poor Nelson, who mentally called himself names and gripped his bat more fiercely. Bob decided that it was now or never. As the catcher, with a glance in his direction, threw the ball back to the pitcher, Bob started calmly up the line toward the home plate at a walk.
The pitcher was walking back to the box, and for three or four seconds Bob’s leave-taking went unnoticed. Then the third-baseman discovered his absence and yelled wildly for the ball. The pitcher, wheeling about, looked here, there, and everywhere save in the right direction, ran a few steps toward second, thought better of it, and finally obeyed the frantic injunctions of half the players to “put it home,” although he didn’t see why it was necessary, since Bob, who by that time had increased his pace slightly, looked like any of the other gray-and-blue-clad fellows behind him.
But Bob had been watching from the tail of his eye, even if he had seemed so unconcerned, and the instant the pitcher raised his arm to throw he dashed for the plate, now only fifteen feet away. For the last ten feet he was in the air and when he came down and slid across the plate in a cloud of dust he had beaten the ball by just a fraction of a second. He picked himself up, patted the dust from his jersey, and stepped back to where he could watch Nelson, while Chicora went wild with delight, laughed and shrieked and tossed its caps in air. There followed a delay during which Wickasaw strove to find some rule which would nullify that tally. But there is no law prohibiting a runner from becoming a walker if he so pleases, and finally, much disgruntled, Wickasaw went back to the game.
As may be supposed, Van Roden had not neglected his opportunity, and now he was on third. But his chances of getting any farther seemed very slim as Nelson stepped up to the plate again with two strikes and no balls against him. A hit would make the score 7 to 6 in Chicora’s favor, but he doubted his ability to secure it. The Wickasaw pitcher had suddenly become very deliberate. He eyed Nelson thoughtfully for quite five seconds before he wound himself up, unwound himself, and sped the sphere forward.
“Ball!” said the umpire.
Catcher returned to pitcher. On third Van Roden, coached by Dan, was eager to score, and was taking longer chances than even Bob approved of. As the pitcher poised himself to deliver again Van Roden made a dash up the line. His plan was to rattle both pitcher and catcher and secure a passed ball to score on. But although the pitcher threw wide of the base the Wickasaw captain refused to muff the ball, and Van Roden, sliding head foremost for the plate, felt the ball thump against his shoulder while he was still two feet away. But the crowd was close up to the line, and the umpire, back of pitcher, had not seen it very well. He shook his head and dropped his hand. A howl of angry protest arose from the Wickasaw players who had been near enough to see the out. In a moment Mr. Downer, the center of a wrathful group of players, had called “Time,” and was listening patiently to the protests. Van Roden, grinning with delight, climbed to his feet and walked off. Bob, in front of whom the affair had taken place, walked out to the center of the diamond. As soon as he might he gained the umpire’s attention.
“Could you see that very well, sir?” he asked.
“Not very, I’ll acknowledge, because of the crowd about the base. But it looked to me as though the runner touched base before he was tagged. And that’s my decision, boys.”
Again the protests arose. Bob raised his hand.
“Just a moment, please,” he said. “I was there, Mr. Downer, and saw it – ”
“Well, so was I there!” cried the Wickasaw catcher and captain angrily. “I tell you I caught him two feet off base!”
“That’s right!” cried the pitcher.
“I was there and saw it,” repeated Bob dryly. “The runner was out.”
There was an instant of silence during which the Wickasaw players observed the captain of the rival team as though they thought he had gone suddenly insane. Then:
“Their own captain says he was out!” exclaimed the pitcher, turning eagerly to the umpire, “and if he acknowledges it – ”
“I’m satisfied,” responded Mr. Downer, with a smile. “Out at the plate!”
Almost an hour later Chicora, cheering as though after a victory, steamed home in the launch or trudged back through the woods, while Wickasaw, apparently no less elated, took herself off across the lake to Bear Island. It was almost dark. The game had come to an end after thirteen innings with the score 6 to 6. Time and again Chicora had placed men on bases only to have them left there. For five innings Nelson had held the opponents down to a handful of scratch hits, none of which yielded a score. It had been a hard and well-fought contest and only darkness had brought it to a close. Although the score-book, sedulously guarded by the “Babe,” pronounced the game a tie, yet there were many among those that knew how the eighth inning had ended who credited a victory – and a gorgeous one – to Chicora. Scores do not always tell the whole story.
Two days later, while the sun was just peeping over the hills, Bob, Dan, and Nelson stood on the deck of the Navigation Company’s steamer, their trunks on board and their bags beside them. On the landing was assembled Camp Chicora in a body, and well in front, in momentary peril of an involuntary bath, stood Tom, a rather doleful Tom, whose eyes never for an instant left the faces of the three on deck.
The line was cast off, the propeller churned impatiently, and the head of the launch swung toward the foot of the lake, the railroad, and home. The departing ones had been cheered separately and collectively, and as the boat gathered way only a confused medley of shouts and laughter followed them. Only that, do I say? No, for as the boat reached the point and the group on the pier was lost to sight there came a final hail, faint yet distinct:
“Gu-gu-gu-good bu-bu-bu-by!”
