Kitabı oku: «The Lucky Seventh», sayfa 9
Fudge walked painfully to first, reflecting how differently his hero would have performed. There was something distinctly humiliating to Fudge in gaining his base in such a manner, and so deeply did he feel the humiliation that he quite forgot to heed the warnings of Gordon, coaching behind the base, and was surprised to have Loring Townsend, without any provocation, punch him forcibly in exactly the spot that Mason’s in-shoot had collided with. That was too much for Fudge. The pain brought tears to his eyes and wrath to his heart. He sprang upon the first baseman with clenched fists, and only Gordon’s prompt interference prevented trouble. Gordon haled Fudge away, patiently explaining that Loring had tagged him with the ball while he had been apparently fast asleep a yard off the base. The explanation, however, was not entirely satisfactory to Fudge.
“What of it? He didn’t have to punch me in the ribs as hard as he knew how, did he?” demanded Fudge angrily. “What kind of a way is that to play ball?”
“Shut up, Fudge!” said Gordon exasperatedly. “Why the dickens weren’t you watching the pitcher? What’s the good of getting hit if you get put out the next minute?”
“Good of it!” exclaimed Fudge. “Good of it! There isn’t any good of it! I just wish he’d lammed you in the ribs the way he did me! Good of it!” And Fudge, still muttering, wandered disgustedly out to center field, one hand pressed to his side.
The seventh inning passed uneventfully. Tom had small difficulty with the last three men on the Point batting-list, and Mason disposed of Tom Haley and Harry Bryan with five balls apiece, and caused Will Scott to pop up a foul to first baseman. So the eighth inning started and Dick began to breathe easier, and the Clearfield sympathizers were jubilant. After all, three runs was a good lead, and even if the Point got to batting Tom in the next two innings, surely Clearfield could stop them short of three tallies. Thus argued Dick, and said as much to Harold, who, to-day, at least, was divided in his sympathies. Harold, having predicted great things of Mason, was a bit disgruntled with that youth, and expressed the wish once that Clearfield would wallop him out of the box. But when Dick voiced his belief that the game was pretty safe Harold took exception.
“You wait,” he said darkly. “Here comes Loring up. He hasn’t done anything yet, and he’s just bound to. And if he gets on Gil Chase will send him home. You wait!”
Loring Townsend let two balls go by, failed to size up the third delivery as a strike, and swung unsuccessfully at the next. With the score two and two, Tom sped a straight one over and Loring met it with his bat and set out for first. He didn’t run very fast, though, for the hit was a weak one and was bounding straight at Will Scott at third. But Will made a mess of that play. He got the ball, dropped it, found it again and threw hurriedly across the diamond. Gordon leaped into the air, just managed to tip the ball with his fingers, and then dashed off on a chase for it as it rolled toward the fence. When the shouting had died away, Loring was on second, Al Jensen was swinging his bat eagerly and impatiently, and Harold had dropped his score-book between his feet and didn’t know it!
That was a disastrous inning for Clearfield. Tom managed to strike out Jensen after that player had knocked six fouls into various parts of the field, and managed, too, to hold Loring on second. But when Gil Chase got the signal from first and trickled the ball into the pitcher’s box while Loring sped to third, Tom, with plenty of time to make the out at first, tossed the ball six feet over Gordon’s head and Loring slid home with the first run for the Point, while Chase got to second.
Then Tom had his troubles. His misplay had taken his nerve, and for a while he went thoroughly to pieces. Eight batsmen faced him in that inning, and four hits, for a total of six bases, and five runs were made off him before he finally managed to strike out Mason. When that inning was over the game had a different complexion. Instead of being three runs ahead, with the prospect of winning a shut-out, Clearfield was two tallies behind, and defeat stared her in the face.
The home team returned determinedly to the fray, but Mason was impregnable. In the last of the eighth not a man saw first and only four players faced him. In the first of the ninth, Rutter’s Point again started things with a whoop when Caspar Billings, first up, singled into left field, took second on Townsend’s sacrifice, and was advanced to third when Jensen hit past Will Scott. Then Jensen was caught off first and House flied out to Shores.
I would like to tell how Clearfield went to bat in the last half of that final inning and pounded Mason for enough hits to win the game. But as this isn’t one of Fudge’s romances I can’t do anything of the sort. As a matter of regrettable fact, Clearfield stood up to the plate and watched Mason’s “floaters” waft past them and listened to the fateful voice of the umpire calling strikes. Mason ended the day in a blaze of glory, striking out three men in order and sending his team off the field victors by the score of 5 to 3.
Harold Townsend, slapping his score-book shut, grinned at Dick as the last man went out. “What did I tell you?” he asked gleefully. “Say, you fellows can’t play ball for shucks, Lovering!”
Dick smiled imperturbably. He had the ability to smile in the face of disaster, had Dick.
“We’ll try you again some day,” he answered. “Good-bye, Harold. See you Monday.”
“I may not be home,” replied Harold airily.
But when Dick was accompanying his team-mates toward the dressing-room a minute or two later, he felt a hand on his arm and looked around to find that Harold had followed him.
“Say, Lovering, I – I’m sorry your team got beaten. And thanks for showing me about scoring, you know.”
CHAPTER XVII
HAROLD MAKES A PROMISE
The Clearfield Reporter was quite enthusiastic over the game in its Monday’s issue. There had been, it declared, for some time a demand for a baseball team to represent the city, a demand which had now been satisfied in the recent formation of the club which had given such a good account of itself on Saturday. It was to be hoped that the organization would prosper and receive the support of the many lovers of clean sport residing in the town. The Reporter gave the game almost play by play, indulging in a wealth of baseball slang and metaphor worthy of a metropolitan journal. It was quite evident that the writer had thoroughly enjoyed his task. He dealt out praise lavishly and was especially complimentary to the Rutter’s Point pitcher, who, it seemed, had struck out ten batsmen besides fielding his position perfectly. Incidentally the Reporter provided the information that the Clearfield players had failed to obtain.
“Melville Mason,” said the paper, “gives every promise of becoming a top-notch twirler, and there is no doubt a berth awaiting him in one of the big league teams if he wants it. He has been playing ball for six years, and last season was second-choice pitcher on the Erskine College team. He is nineteen years of age. The Rutter’s Point team is to be congratulated on securing the services of so accomplished a player. We are assured by Captain Billings that Mr. Mason receives no salary.” (“Bet you he’s having his expenses paid, though,” commented Gordon, when he and Dick read the Reporter that morning.) “We trust,” concluded the Reporter, “that a third and determining game will be arranged between Saturday’s adversaries and that it will be played on the local grounds, where, doubtless, a large audience will be on hand to enjoy it.”
“That isn’t a bad idea,” said Lanny. “We took in forty-three dollars Saturday. I dare say we could do even better the next time. And I don’t believe but what the Pointers would be willing to play here if they got their twenty-five per cent. again.”
“We might offer them a third of the receipts,” suggested Gordon.
Dick looked puzzled. “You fellows are frightfully keen on the financial end of it, seems to me,” he said. “What’s the idea, Lanny? What are we going to do with the money we get, anyway? We can’t buy balls with all of it.”
“Well, there’s no harm in having it,” replied Lanny evasively. “You never know when you’ll need money.”
“I know when I need it,” said Dick grimly. “That’s most of the time.”
“It wouldn’t be a bad scheme to sound Billings,” said Gordon. “You might tell him we’d like to play a deciding game, and that – er – that as Clearfield is interested in the series it would perhaps be best to play here. If Billings kicked, you could offer him a third. I dare say we’d get a couple of hundred people easily for the next game, and that would give the Point something like seventeen dollars.”
“I don’t believe they’re as much on the make as you Shylocks,” objected Dick. “Still, I’ll talk it over with him some day. Perhaps, though, it would be better to wait and see if they won’t propose the game themselves. Then we’d be in a better position to make conditions.”
“Isn’t he the nifty old diplomat?” asked Lanny admiringly.
“A regular fox,” agreed Gordon. “Work it your own way, Dick.”
“We can’t play them for about three weeks, anyway,” said Dick. “We’re filled up with games until the third of September. I got a letter from Tyson over in Springdale this morning. He says they’ll play us there a week from next Saturday if we’ll come over. What do you say?”
“I say yes, by all means,” replied Gordon, with enthusiasm. “And I guess we’re all eager to have another try at those chaps after what they did to us in June.”
“Well, it won’t be quite the same team, Tyson says, and they’re calling themselves the Independents.”
“We’ll call them down,” laughed Lanny. “We play Logan the day after to-morrow, don’t we?”
“Yes, and that reminds me that I must see to getting notices printed and sent around. I wish you’d do that, Gordon. I’ve got to go out to the Point in half an hour. I’ll write out the copy and all you’ll have to do is to take it down to the printers. They’ll strike them right off and distribute them for us this afternoon.”
“All right. I’ll go there first thing. I’m going to see Morris for a few minutes this morning. Any little message I can take from you, Dick?”
“Message? No, not that I know of. Tell him I hope he will hurry up and get well again.”
“Of course, but – ah! – is there any other member of the family – ”
“Oh, you run away!” laughed Dick.
If Dick expected to find a chastened and much reformed pupil at the Point that Monday morning, he was doomed to disappointment. He gathered from a remark that the boy let fall that Mrs. Townsend had kept her promise to speak to him, but Dick doubted if she had accomplished much. And yet there was improvement visible. Harold had actually mastered two of the four lessons and Dick gathered some encouragement.
“I guess we won’t go on with this,” he said toward the end of the period. “You haven’t studied it, Harold. We’ll take it over to-morrow. How did you like the game Saturday?”
“Oh, pretty well! You fellows going to play us again?”
“Maybe, some day. We play Logan Wednesday. Do you care to come over and see it? We might have another lesson in scoring.”
“I guess so. We’re going to play a team from Bay Harbor on Saturday. Say, Loring says if I’ll learn to score, I can be official scorer for the team. I guess I’ll do it.”
“Fine! Then you come over Wednesday, and we’ll try it again. You did very well the other day.”
“Did I really? Gee, but there’s a lot to put down, isn’t there? Caspar’s got six games arranged for the team. Loring says if I’m scorer they’ll take me with them when they go away to play.”
That was really no news to Dick, since it was at his suggestion that Loring had made the offer. But he pretended to be surprised and interested, and said all he could to encourage Harold to learn to score. And Harold became so enthusiastic that he walked over to the trolley car with Dick, talking volubly all the way.
“I wish you’d make a real try at those lessons to-day, Harold,” Dick said, at parting. “Won’t you?”
Harold grinned noncommittingly.
But the next morning he went through with flying colors, and when Dick complimented him he laughed. “Gee, I can get that stuff all right if I want to,” he said carelessly. “It’s easy.”
“Why don’t you, then?”
“Aw, what’s the use? I’d rather play around, anyway.”
“Don’t you want to go to Rifle Point, Harold?”
“I guess so. I don’t care much. If I do, Loring will be always bossing me about. I’d rather go somewhere else, I guess.”
“Loring’s being there will make things easier for you,” said Dick. “I fancy he’s pretty well liked and the fellows will be nice to you on his account. But I’ll tell you one thing plainly, Harold: You won’t get to Rifle Point this Fall.”
Harold opened his eyes widely. “I won’t?” he exclaimed.
“Certainly not. And you won’t get there next Fall unless you buckle down and learn something.”
“Loring said I could!”
“Loring probably thought you were more advanced than you are, then,” replied Dick. “I’m sorry, Harold; but facts are facts.”
“Then what’ll I do this Winter?” asked the boy lugubriously.
“How about another year where you were?”
“I won’t! I hate that place! I won’t go back there, no matter what anyone says!”
“Then you might have a tutor.”
That suggestion didn’t seem to make much of a hit. Harold scowled for a minute in silence. Then: “Don’t you think I could get in this Fall, Lovering, if – if I studied hard?”
Dick hesitated.
“I’m entered, you know,” pleaded Harold. “I should think I might, Lovering.”
“Yes, you might,” returned Dick grimly, “but it would mean studying a good deal differently than the way you’ve been studying, Harold. It would mean getting your nose right down into the books, putting your whole soul into it, and giving up a lot of playtime. Think you could do that?”
It was Harold’s turn to hesitate. Finally, though, he nodded.
“Well, do you think you would do it?” asked Dick.
“Sure, if – if you’ll help me!”
“I’ll help you, all right, Harold. But there must be no changing your mind about it later. If we start this thing, we’re going to keep it up. If you’ll work honestly and do the very best you know how, I’ll get you so you can pass the exams this Fall. What do you say? Is it a bargain?”
“You bet!” said Harold.
“All right. Hand me those books, please.” Dick turned the pages and made new marks on the margins of them. “There; we’ll start off with eight pages instead of four, Harold. We’ve got to pretty nearly break all existing records, I guess.”
Harold whistled softly. “Gee!” he murmured. “Eight pages of that stuff!” Dick looked across inquiringly. Harold squared his shoulders with the suggestion of a swagger. “Oh, I’ll do it, all right!” he said. “You just watch me!”
Wednesday’s game with Logan attracted a smaller audience to the athletic field than had the Saturday contest but Tim Turner emptied his pockets of twenty-two dollars and fifty cents afterward, and as Logan received only her expenses there was nearly twenty dollars left. The game was one-sided, Clearfield winning by a score of 17 to 4. The Logan pitchers – she used two of them – were easy for the home-team batsmen, while Tom Haley was hit safely but thrice. Two of Logan’s runs resulted from errors, Jack Tappen, who had been reinstated, being one offender, and Gordon the other. Jack dropped an easy fly, and Gordon made an atrocious throw to second.
On Thursday Gordon was called to the telephone after breakfast. It was Louise Brent at the other end of the line, and Louise informed him that Morris wanted Gordon to come over there if he could. “It’s something about the automobile,” explained Louise. “There’s a man here to look at it, Gordon.”
Gordon promised to go right over, and did so. What passed in the sick chamber is not to be set down here, but later Gordon went out to the stable and stood around while a man with grimy hands and a smudge on the end of his nose inspected the blue runabout pessimistically and grunted at intervals. Finally:
“About fifty dollars will do it,” he said, in a sad tone of voice. “There’ll have to be new spokes set in that wheel, and them fenders’ll have to be straightened out again, and it’ll need a new lamp and the radiator’s sprung and likely leaks and – ”
“Fifty dollars will fix it as good as new?” asked Gordon.
“I don’t know how good it was when it was new,” responded the man dolefully. “But fifty dollars’ll fix it up in good shape, likely.”
“All right. I’ll tell him, and he will let you know. Could you start on it right away?”
“Likely I could. I’d have to haul it down to my place, though.”
“How long would it take?”
“Two or three weeks, likely.”
“All right. Much obliged. We’ll let you know for certain to-morrow. Fifty dollars is the cheapest you could do it for?”
“Well” – the man scratched his head reflectively – “maybe I could do it for forty-five, if I didn’t find anything else the matter with it. Likely there ain’t.”
They called him “Mr. Likely” during the following three weeks, for which period of time the runabout was in his care. Mr. Likely was a born pessimist, and about every two days he called up the Brents’ house to inform whoever answered the telephone that “that wheel’s a lot worse’n I thought it was, and’ll likely have to have a new rim,” or “I got to send out West for a new lamp, and it’ll likely take two weeks or more.” But, to anticipate, Mr. Likely made a good job of it, and in the course of time the blue runabout was returned to the Brents’ stable, shining and polished like a brand-new car. By that time the family had moved out to the cottage at the Point, and it was Gordon who saw the automobile run into the carriage-room under its own power and who locked the door afterward and pocketed the key.
Morris’ leg had knitted so well by the time Clearfield played Springdale that he was allowed to make the trip to the neighboring town in a carriage and witnessed the contest from a position far more comfortable than the sun-smitten boards of the grandstand. That was a pretty good game to watch, too. There was plenty of hitting on both sides, enough errors to add interest, and several rattling good plays. The game was in doubt until the last inning, when Clearfield, with a one-run margin, trotted into the field to do her best to hold the home team scoreless. Tom Haley had been touched up for eight or nine hits – Dick and Harold made it eight, but the Springdale scorer insisted on nine – and, as luck would have it, the head of the local batting list was up when the last of the ninth began. But Tom and Lanny worked together finely, and, although one runner got as far as second, the game ended with a spectacular catch by Fudge in deep center, and Clearfield went home with the ball. The final score was 7 to 6, and Clearfield derived a lot of satisfaction from that victory.
The Saturday before she had played Locust Valley, and had been pretty badly defeated, and the following Wednesday she had barely pulled out of the game against Corwin with a victory. Corwin had journeyed to Clearfield for the contest and the club treasury had had another twenty-odd dollars added to it. What puzzled Manager Dick Lovering those days was the interest displayed by the whole team in the condition of the exchequer. It seemed to Dick that every fellow was showing a strangely commercial spirit.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE LIVE WIRES
The matter of a new athletic field dragged. Two more meetings had been held by the committee, and several trips of inspection had been made to near-by fields, but no decision had been reached. In the meanwhile, the surveyors had shown activity and had run lines through the old field and even demolished a section of the fence. It was a question whether the team would be able to use the diamond much longer, although inquiries failed to elicit any definite information from the men who were doing the surveying. The football enthusiasts were becoming impatient. The prospect of having no better place to hold practice the next month than an empty lot somewhere in the neighborhood of the railroad didn’t please them, and they demanded action.
Unfortunately, Mr. Grayson, the principal, had left Clearfield on his summer vacation, and several other members of the High School faculty were also out of town, and the committee showed a disposition to await their return. The hope was several times expressed that, since Mr. Brent had done nothing with the field so far, he might postpone cutting it up until next year. But when the surveyors got to work that hope seemed idle, and at last a public meeting was called at which the Athletic Committee was to make a report and recommend the leasing of what was known as Tilden’s Meadow for a term of two years. The meadow was a mile from Clearfield and on the trolley route to Rutter’s Point, and consisted of about fourteen acres of fairly level turf. Only sufficient space for a football field and diamond was to be used, and the rest of the land was to remain as at present. Mr. Tilden was to keep the grass cut in return for the hay and was to receive one hundred dollars a year. There was no question of having a running track, for the owner absolutely refused to allow one to be laid out, and that, at first glance, seemed a great objection to the project. But, as several of the committee pointed out, there was no money on hand to build a track even if Mr. Tilden would allow it. The plan was to make use of the Y. M. C. A. field, a small enclosure behind the Association’s building on Lafayette Street, for training purposes, and hold the meets with Springdale at the latter’s grounds until Clearfield could secure a track of its own.
A piece of land sufficiently large for all athletic purposes was to be had across the river and fairly handy to the G Street Bridge, but it was next to the railroad tracks and the mills and the sentiment of the female members of the High School was strongly opposed to it. “It would be horrid!” they declared indignantly. “The smoke and soot from the engines and the mill chimneys would spoil our dresses and hats. And, besides, we’d have to walk a whole block through dust up to our shoe-tops!”
In the face of such weighty opposition the committee gave way, and the North Side location was abandoned. Only Tilden’s meadow remained then, and to that, too, there was much opposition. Many thought it too far from town; others pointed out that, since it was unfenced, there would be no way of keeping persons from witnessing games without paying, and still others dwelt on the lack of a track. The Athletic Committee was not to be envied.
Dick talked it over with Louise Brent one morning. Dick had got into the habit lately of walking over to the Brents’ in the morning before going out to the Point. Brentwood was hardly on his direct line to the car, although it is true that by retracing his steps two blocks he could get the trolley at B Street and consequently went only seven blocks out of his way. But seven blocks, when you have to do it on crutches, is quite a distance, and doubtless Morris was much flattered by the interest in his recovery which led Dick so far afield four or five mornings a week. Dick began by taking books to Morris, but his library was soon exhausted, and after that he continued to call just the same. Of course he always saw Morris, and equally of course Louise appeared at some period of his visit. I think that eventually Morris began to have doubts as to being the chief attraction. At all events he very frequently left Dick for his sister to entertain and it wasn’t apparent that Dick mourned his absence. Louise was good to look at and jolly and sympathetic, and there was no reason why Dick should not have been quite satisfied with her company.
On the morning in question, the morning of the Wednesday following the Springdale game, Morris had, after offering to race Dick on crutches to the gate and back and having his proposition declined, wandered away toward the tennis court, leaving Dick and Louise on the front steps, which, at nine o’clock in the morning, were shaded and cool. Dick had brought up the subject of the athletic field and both Morris and Louise had had their say. Morris, who was an ardent football enthusiast and played a good game on the High School team, had bewailed the fact that, with practice commencing in another three weeks or so, no place had been provided for it. Louise had reminded him gently that the doctor held out slight hope of his being able to play this Fall and Morris had briefly and succinctly informed them that the doctor was an old granny and didn’t know what he was talking about. When he had gone Louise said:
“You know, Dick, both Morris and I begged papa not to take the field, but he wouldn’t listen to us. He said the school could find another place to play on without trouble. He seems to think that all we need is a back yard or a vacant lot! I don’t think papa ever saw a game of baseball or football in his life.”
“It is too bad that he has to cut that field up,” replied Dick, “but I don’t see any reason why he should consider us any. He’s been very good to let us use it so long. And he’s never charged us a penny, you know.”
“May Scott told me yesterday that her father had told her that the field might not be cut up after all. It seems that the mayor or whoever it is that has the say about such things doesn’t want papa to put the street through there unless he builds it up to some grade or other. I don’t understand about it. And papa doesn’t want to do that.”
“Yes, I heard something of that sort. I believe the matter is to come up at a meeting this week. It’s the board of aldermen, I think, who are against it. It seems that the city has established a new grade out there and the present grade is several feet below it. I suppose it means that your father would have to do a good deal of filling in if he put the street through. Otherwise the city wouldn’t accept it.”
“It sounds awfully complicated to me,” said Louise. “I just wish father would change his mind about it. I almost wish the – the aldermen would tell him he couldn’t do it!”
“Perhaps they will,” laughed Dick. “But in that case your father would probably build to the new grade. So there isn’t much hope, I fear. No, I guess it’s up to us to move to new quarters. It’s a queer thing that in a town of this size there isn’t a place we can use.”
“I know. And that field they’re talking about now is so hard to get to! Of course, there’s the trolley, but it’s been such fun to walk out to the games and have the field so near home. Your team plays a game this afternoon, doesn’t it, Dick?”
“A sort of a game. We’re going to play a team called the Live Wires at four o’clock. They’re fellows in the mills and I guess they haven’t played together much. It’ll be sort of a practice affair for us. Tom Haley can’t play and Curtis Wayland is going to pitch for us. You haven’t been to any of the games, have you?”
“No one has asked me,” she laughed. “Morris has been laid up and – ”
“Would you care to go Saturday? We play the Hemlock Camp fellows. I guess they have a pretty good team.”
“I’d love to!”
“Then I – ” Dick paused and frowned. “The trouble is,” he went on apologetically, “I’ll have to be on the bench a good deal of the time. Perhaps you’d rather not go.”
“I shouldn’t mind. Just come and see me now and then, Dick.”
“Really? Then I’ll get Gordon or one of the fellows to call for you about half-past two.”
“Indeed?” asked Louise coldly. “Why Gordon – or one of the fellows, please?”
“Why – why – because,” stammered Dick, “I thought probably you’d rather not – That is, I get along so slowly, you know – ”
“Dick Lovering, you were going to say you thought I wouldn’t want to walk with you! Weren’t you?”
“Well, something of the sort. You see – ”
“No, I don’t see at all,” she responded with suspicious sweetness. “I shall be very glad to go to the game with you, Dick, but I refuse to be palmed off on ‘Gordon or one of the fellows!’”
“Then I’ll be here for you at two-thirty, Louise. It isn’t very far, after all; only three blocks, you know.”
“I ought to know,” she said dryly, “since I can see the top of the grandstand this minute. I may decide, however, that I want to go by way of the Common, Dick.”
Dick smiled doubtfully. “We-ell, that’s all right. I’m game! Now I guess I’d better be getting along.”
“The car just went in,” said Louise. “You’ve got nearly a quarter of an hour yet. How are you getting along with your pupil?”
“Finely! I tell him two or three times a week that we’ll never be able to do it, and he doubles up his fists and glares at me and wants to fight – almost. He’s an awfully stubborn little chap and he’s simply made up his mind that he’s going to get into school this Fall, and I think he will, too. He will if I can keep him mad!” And Dick, smiling, went swinging off to catch the car.
That game with the Live Wires wasn’t as easy for Clearfield as Dick and Gordon and most of the others expected it to be. Of course Way wasn’t much of a pitcher, and that had to be reckoned with, but even allowing for that the Live Wires showed up a lot better than anticipated. From a financial standpoint the game was a huge success, in spite of the fact that the admission had been lowered to fifteen cents to entice the mill workers to attend. Attend they did, and “rooted” so lustily and incessantly for their team that poor Way was more than once up in the air. Young Tim Turner played in right field and Jack Tappen went over to left in place of Way. Tim didn’t do so badly, since out of three chances he got two flies and only muffed the third because the crowd hooted so loudly.
It was quite a tight game up to the fifth inning, with both pitchers suffering badly at the hands of the opposing batsmen and both infields guilty of many stupid errors. But in the fifth Clearfield landed on Kelly, the Live Wires’ pitcher, and batted around before they were stopped, adding seven runs to the six already accumulated. In the seventh the opposing team returned the compliment and had Way dancing out of the path of liners and giving bases on the least provocation. But the infield steadied down then and only three runs came over for the Live Wires. The final score was fourteen to eight and Dick, who had acted as gateman in Tim’s absence, turned over nearly seventeen dollars to himself as treasurer. So, on the whole, the game was a success.
