Kitabı oku: «Weatherby's Inning: A Story of College Life and Baseball», sayfa 10
CHAPTER XXI
OFF TO COLLEGETOWN
Ere Professor White had finished Anthony was on his feet with hands stretching forth for the paper. The look of delight which he had flashed across at Jack and which still illumined his face caused that youth much wonderment.
“Guess it’s mine, all right,” Anthony cried. The professor yielded the paper, and Anthony read the article through in silence. When he handed it back his eyes were dancing behind the lenses of his spectacles. “It’s mine, sir; no doubt about it! The paper says all I need do is prove my ownership, and I can do that easily enough, for I have the number of the watch!”
“But, Anthony,” Jack objected, “you said that you’d – ”
“I’ll go over to Gerrydale in the morning,” Anthony interrupted hurriedly, shooting a warning glance at his friend. “I’m much obliged to you, sir; if you hadn’t seen that and told me I don’t believe I’d ever have got it back; I don’t read the papers very often myself.”
“Well, I’m glad I saw it, Tidball. When was it stolen?”
“About a month ago,” answered Anthony somewhat vaguely. “I left it in my room, and when I came back for it it was gone. Of course I never knew who’d taken it. But – I’m plaguy glad to find it again.”
“Of course, especially since it was presented to you. What is the story, Tidball?”
So Anthony told the professor about the rescue at Jonesboro, making it sound very casual and far from thrilling. But neither of his hearers was deceived, and insistent questioning and cross-examining finally gave the incident a different aspect.
“Well, yes,” Anthony acknowledged, “there was quite a sea running – Danger? Nothing to speak of if you knew how to manage a dory – The kid? Oh, he came round all right after a while; pretty near thing, though; another second or two would have finished him, likely. Father of the boy wanted me to take some money, but I wouldn’t; a fellow doesn’t take money for saving a life. So after he got home he sent me the watch. That’s all. Good deal of fuss about it.”
After the professor had taken his departure, insisting, for some reason, on shaking hands with the tall, ungainly junior, Jack turned upon Anthony and began his questions.
“I didn’t come right out, Jack, and say I’d pawned the watch,” Anthony explained, “but I gave you to understand that. The fact is I didn’t know what had become of it, and there wasn’t any use saying it had been stolen as long as I wasn’t certain about it. I left it in the room one morning when I went to recitation. I missed it in class, and came back, and couldn’t find it. I guess the tramp found the door open and walked in.”
“When was it?” asked Jack.
“Oh, well, about a month ago.”
Jack looked thoughtful, and Anthony eyed him uneasily. At last Jack brought one fist into the palm of his other hand and jumped up.
“Anthony! Was it the morning I went off?”
Anthony hesitated; but the boy’s face showed that he had no suspicion that Anthony had for a while connected him with the missing article.
“Why, yes, it was,” replied Anthony.
“I thought so!” Jack cried. “I remember now that I saw a trampish-looking fellow on the street when I came from breakfast. I passed him. I didn’t pay much attention, though, because I was – feeling sort of knocked out. But once I heard a noise in the entry here while I was packing. I’ll bet it was the tramp. And I remember seeing your watch on the table in your room, Anthony, when I took that note in there, and – why, come to think of it, I put the note under the watch!”
“He followed you in, I guess,” said Anthony.
“That’s just what he did. And when I went out he was in your room, I’ll bet. And – and he took my money, too, don’t you suppose? I must have left it out somewhere!”
“That’s about what happened,” Anthony replied, grinning jovially. “I wish you could get your money back; but I guess that’s too much to hope for.”
“I suppose so. Oh, I don’t care now. But I am glad you’re going to recover your watch, Anthony. Wouldn’t it have been funny if I’d gone back into your room again and found him there?”
“Yes, but you might have got laid out!”
“Laid out nothing! I’ll bet I could have whipped that chap. And I would have saved your watch, and – ”
“Missed your train!”
“Yes, so I would have. I wonder if it would have made any difference? I fancy it’s best the way it all happened.” He considered the subject for a moment in silence. Anthony beamed across at him happily. He was glad he was to get his watch back, but gladder still that the last doubt as to Jack’s honesty was dispelled; and, oh, so very glad that Jack knew nothing of his idiotic suspicions!
“There’s something I ought to tell you, Anthony,” said Jack suddenly. He looked rather ashamed and apologetic and very serious. “I’ve thought of owning up several times, but – I never did,” he continued.
“Owning up? Well – what is it, Jack? Murder?”
“No, it’s – it’s robbery!” Anthony stared.
“That morning I went away,” he continued, “I – I took something of yours with me. It wasn’t much, but I shouldn’t have taken it.”
“Why, what was it?” Anthony asked wonderingly. “I haven’t missed anything.”
“No; but then, I put it back afterward. It was a pencil.”
“A pencil!”
“Yes, the green one with the rubber tip; the one you used to have on your desk. I – I wanted something to remember you by,” he added shamefacedly. “And so I took that. I thought you wouldn’t care. I was going to write and tell you when I got home.”
“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” exclaimed Anthony. “I missed that pencil for two or three days, and then one morning it turned up again on the desk. But, hang it, Jack, you were welcome to the old thing, of course! I’m glad you took it – glad you cared to remember such a silly old codger as I! Why, that was nothing; not worth mentioning. Besides, you gave me that charm, and fair exchange is no robbery!”
“I’m glad you don’t mind now that you know,” said Jack simply. And, after a moment: “When you get your watch back again you can wear that bean, can’t you?” he asked.
“Well, I should say so!” replied Anthony with much decision. “And what’s more, Jack, I’ll wear it as long as the chain holds together!”
There was no difficulty the next day in recovering the watch. Anthony gave a detailed description of it, and explained the circumstances of the robbery, and his property was handed over to him at once. But it is needless to say that Jack’s roll of money was not among the objects recovered from the pawn-shop, nor was it found on the prisoner. Anthony was told that it might become necessary for him to attend the trial and give evidence. But he begged off very eloquently, and in the end the police decided that perhaps there would be evidence enough to convict the thief without calling upon Anthony. And, as it turned out, the decision was correct.
Jack never learned that Anthony had for a while suspected him of the theft of the watch; and it was better so. For while Anthony’s suspicions were certainly justified by circumstances, yet Jack could never have seen the matter in the same light, and would have been greatly hurt had he ever learned of it.
In the second week of June two things began simultaneously, final examinations and morning baseball practise. Naturally, the first seriously interfered with the second, and it was only by the most complicated arrangement on the part of Hanson that the players were able to report at the nets during the forenoons for batting practise. Three assistant coaches had put in appearance in response to his telegrams, among them the captain of the unsuccessful nine of the year before. Higgins was a good player and turned out to be as good a coach. His heart was set on witnessing a victory over the Brown and he worked enthusiastically and tirelessly. Afternoon practise began every day at three-thirty, and never let up as long as there was a ray of light left. The slump was a thing of the past, and every man responded well to the demands of the coaches. Stiles gradually recovered his form, and in the last game before the final contest – played on Thursday with Harwich Academy – he superseded Jack at second, and Jack, his hopes dead, sat on the bench and tried to be philosophic.
That Thursday game attracted the biggest audience of any thus far played; not because the Academy team was strong enough to promise a hard-fought battle, but for the reason that it was given out that the Erskine nine was to play just as it would in the game at Collegetown the next day but one. The batting list was as follows:
Perkins, catcher.
Gilberth, pitcher.
Motter, first base.
Bissell, center-field.
Stiles, second base.
Knox, shortstop.
Billings, third base.
King, left-field.
Northup, right-field.
Allowing for the fact that every man had been worked hard all the week up to the very beginning of the game, and that examinations were in progress, the exhibition of ball-playing made by them was decidedly encouraging. The cheering was a notable part of the contest. Led by the senior class president and five assistants, the stands did heroic work, and cheers and songs thundered forth unceasingly.
Jack, sitting forlornly on the bench, wedged in between other substitutes quite as forlorn, found balm for his disappointed hopes in the fact that the song that went the best of any, and the one which was most often sung, was his. The way in which the throng emphasized the “Poor old Robinson!” was good to hear.
When the game was at an end – it was almost dark by then – the spectators marched back down William Street to the college, cheering and singing all the way. Jack, trotting over to the locker-house in the wake of the other players, heard from down the street the refrain arising splendidly to the summer sky:
“Purple is the color of the stalwart and the brave;
Purple are the banners that the conq’ring heroes wave;
Purple are the violets above the lonely grave
Of poor old Robinson!
Glory, glory to the Purple!
Glory, glory to the Purple!
Glory, glory to the Purple!
And down with Robinson!”
The enthusiasm didn’t cease until late at night. After dinner the fellows thronged the yard in front of Walton and the cheers and songs were gone through with again and again.
There was little work the following day for the players. Morning practise was omitted, and in the afternoon a little running and throwing to bases constituted the program. In the evening there was a reception to the nine and substitutes in Brown Hall, and again enthusiasm was rampant. The Glee Club sang, the college band played, the fellows cheered, the dean and Professor Nast and the coaches and Captain Joseph Perkins made speeches, and there was a grand hullabaloo until half past nine.
Jack bade good-by to Anthony that night, for the nine and substitutes were to go to Collegetown in the morning on a train that left at half past six. The supporters were to follow on a later train, but Anthony was not to be among them.
“I wish I were going,” he said, “but I just can’t afford it, Jack. But I’ll be down on the street in the afternoon, and while you’re knocking base runs and such things you’ll know that I’m flinging my cap for you here at home.”
“It’s little chance I’ve got,” said Jack sadly. “But I may get on for a while, Anthony. Anyhow, I wish you were going along.”
“So do I. Good night, Jack, and good luck to you and the nine and old Erskine. You’ll play, of course; they can’t win without you, Jack! Good night!”
CHAPTER XXII
AT THE END OF THE SIXTH
If you are so fortunate as to be occupying a seat in the stand running parallel with the line to first base, and if you are about midway between that base and the home plate, you may congratulate yourself upon being in the best place of all from which to watch the game. Under ordinary conditions you have a clear view of every player, the batsman, unless he is left-handed, is facing you, and the run to first base is made directly in front of you. Make yourself as comfortable as the narrow board seat and uncompromising back will permit, be grateful for the clear sky and warm sunlight, which, if it beats a little too ardently upon your cheek, makes up for it by limbering the joints and muscles of the players and urging them to their best efforts, and watch the game, prepared to applaud good work, joyfully if performed by your side, ungrudgingly if by the other, and to accept victory with gratitude and defeat with equanimity.
From where you sit you see first the Erskine players on their bench at the foot of the sloping stand, their purple caps thrust back on their heads or held in their hands. You can’t see their faces, but their broad shoulders suggest the best of physical condition. Beyond them to the right a white deal table is occupied by four men who are busy writing the history of the contest.
At the feet of the players the field begins, a level expanse of closely cropped turf, which stretches away for a quarter of a mile like a great green carpet. Beyond the field is a thicket of trees, elms, chestnuts, and maples. Beyond that, again, the warmly red roof of the gymnasium peers forth, the forerunner of many other roofs and turrets and towers set sparsely at first amid the foliage, but quickly grouping together about the campus. There lies Robinson College. To the left, where the white spire pierces the tree-tops and glistens against the blue sky, the village of Collegetown commences and straggles away to a tiny river, no wave or ripple of which is from here visible.
But you have wandered far afield. About you the tiers are gay with purple flags and ribbons, but farther along to your left the purple gives place grudgingly to brown, and from there on in a long sweep of color the brown holds sway even beyond third base. Four hundred among four thousand is as a drop in a bucket. Yet the four hundred is massed closely together, and every unit of it flaunts a purple banner, and is tireless in cheering and in song. Across the diamond the Robinson band plays lustily between the innings; you can see the leader swinging his little black wand, the cornetist’s cheeks rising and falling like a pair of red bellows, the player of the base drum thumping away with his padded stick; but you hear nothing – nothing save an occasional muffled boom from the big drum; how can you when all about you cheers are thundering forth for “Erskine! Erskine! Erskine!” Your throat is dry and parched, the perspiration is trickling down your cheek, and your eyes are dazzled with the sunlight; but you’re as happy as a clam at high tide, for the sixth inning has begun, neither side has yet scored, Erskine is at bat, and your heart’s in your mouth!
Five innings without a tally doesn’t sound exciting, and yet, if we except the second, every one of those five innings had kept the audience on the edges of the seats. In every inning save the second Robinson had placed men on bases, and at the end of each the supporters of the Purple had heaved sighs of heartfelt relief, finding sufficient satisfaction in the fact that the Brown had not scored. Only once had Erskine dared hope for a tally. That was in the third. The tally didn’t come. It had been a pitcher’s battle, and the palm had gone to Vose, the tall, thin fellow whose spindle-shanks were encased in brown stockings. Not a single hit had been made off him, while Gilberth had been struck freely, yet had frequently managed to puzzle the batsman when a single would have brought in a run, or possibly two. When summed up it came to this: Erskine had been outplayed, and that Robinson did not now lead by several tallies was due to her inability to make her hits at the right time. The players of each college, in batting order, were as follows:
Erskine
Perkins, catcher, captain.
Motter, first base.
Gilberth, pitcher.
Bissell, center-field.
Knox, shortstop.
King, left-field.
Northup, right-field.
Stiles, second base.
Billings, third base.
Robinson
Cox, first base.
Condit, catcher.
Hopkins, third base.
Morgan, shortstop.
Devlin, left-field.
Wood, center-field, captain.
Richman, second base.
Regan, right-field.
Vose, pitcher.
At the beginning of the sixth inning it was anybody’s game. Billings, the tag-ender, went to bat. On the Erskine stand the cheering died away and the purple flags ceased waving and fluttering in the still afternoon air. Across the diamond the band laid aside its instruments, and the shadow of the western stand crept along the turf until its edge touched the line of white that marked the coacher’s box. On the players’ benches the men leaned forward anxiously and watched Billings thrust his cap back and grip his bat determinedly.
But it was soon evident to the watchers that Erskine was not to score. Billings hit a short grounder to first-baseman who scooped it up and tagged the bag before the batsman was half-way toward it. Joe Perkins had two strikes called on him ere he found the ball, and sent a high foul into the hands of left-fielder. He tossed aside the bat with a look of disgust and paused on his way back to the bench to whisper into the ear of Motter, the next victim to the deceptive curves of the merciless Vose. Joe crowded into a space between Billings and Tracy Gilberth.
“I can’t find him,” he sighed.
“No, hang him,” growled Tracy, “he’s too much for any of us. But I’ll bet he’ll let down before the game’s over; and then – well, then we want to be ready, Joe!”
“Do you think he will? It doesn’t look like it.”
Tracy nodded knowingly.
“His arm’s getting stiff. I know the signs. So’s mine, for that matter, and I’ve pitched perfectly rotten ball, Joe!”
“Nonsense, you’ve done good work. But let me know as soon as you want to quit, Tracy. How about the next inning?”
“That’s for you to say,” answered Tracy. “But I guess I can hold out through the seventh, if you don’t mind.”
“All right; I’ll put King in for the eighth. Oh, hang! Come on, fellows! Out on the run!”
Motter had struck out, and was trotting to his position at first, drawing on his glove and looking wofully sad. The Robinson band struck up again, and the Erskine contingent, not to be outdone, started the cheers once more, while the purple-sleeved players spread out over the diamond.
Joe thumped his big mitten and Tracy picked up the ball. The umpire, a rotund little man in a navy-blue blouse shirt, ran nimbly to his position.
“First man!” cried Joe confidently.
The batsman was the Robinson captain and center-fielder, Wood. Tracy was not greatly afraid of Wood, and so saved his arm by pitching a few slow balls, none of which the Robinson captain was able to touch. When he struck out the Erskine cheers rang across the field. Richman came next. He was the first of the Brown’s tail-enders on the batting list, and he followed the way of his captain, while the purple flags fluttered joyously.
Perhaps Tracy was overconfident, for when Regan, the enemy’s right-fielder, stepped to the plate, he shook his head at Joe’s signal for an outshoot, and sent a straight, slow ball over the corner of the base. And Regan got it on his bat and sent it arching in easy flight toward second, and raced for the bag.
“Mine!” called Stiles.
“Take it!” shouted little Knox, backing him up.
But Stiles didn’t take it. Instead he let it slip through his fingers, and so when Knox had recovered and fielded it to Motter the runner was safe.
“Twenty minutes!” yelled the Robinson coach derisively. Then he began a desperate effort to rattle Gilberth. “On your toes!” he shrieked. “Go on, go on! He daren’t throw it! Way off now! I’ll look out for you! Way off! Now! Now! NOW!”
Tracy was disgusted because he had allowed Regan to hit him, and the shrieks of the coacher annoyed him. Earlier in the game he would not have minded twenty coachers, but now his arm was aching and growing stiff and tired and his temper and nerves were not so well in command. The next batsman was Vose, the Robinson pitcher. Vose was the poorest performer with the stick of any of his team, and in the natural order of things should have been struck out without difficulty. But this time he found the second ball that came to him and hit it safely into right-field, and Regan took second. Then came Cox, the head of the batting list, and swung his ash wickedly while he waited.
There were coaches behind both first and third now, and their shrieks hurtled back and forth across the diamond. Tracy looked bothered, and Joe strove to hide his anxiety under a show of confidence.
“Next man, fellows!” he called cheerily. Motter took his cue from him and added his voice. “He’s a goner, Tracy! Strike him out, old man!”
And for a while it seemed that Tracy would do it. But when the little fat umpire had called two strikes and two balls on him Cox managed to find something that suited him, and cracked it out past shortstop. Regan reached third, and, with two out, the bases were full. Joe and Tracy had a whispered consultation, while the Robinson stands hooted derisively, and then took their places again. Condit, the Brown’s catcher, and one of the best batters, tapped the plate and looked as though he meant to bring in a run. The coachers kept up their medley of taunts and warnings, but Tracy had found his head again and paid not the slightest attention.
The first ball went wide, and Joe’s brilliant stop brought forth a burst of applause. Tracy hurried up, apologetic, keeping an eye on the bases. “Sorry, Joe,” he said.
“All right, old man,” answered the captain cheerfully. “Now let’s put him out.”
Two strikes followed.
“Good eye, Tracy!” “Fine work, old man!” “That’s the pitching!” encouraged the infielders. Then the batsman elicited laughter and applause from his supporters by crossing the plate and suddenly becoming a left-handed batter. Tracy looked surprised, and his next two efforts were pronounced balls. Joe leaned far to the left and squeezed his hands between his knees. Tracy nodded. But the batsman was an old hand, and was not deceived by the inshoot that followed. “Three balls!” cried the umpire. Everything depended on the next pitch. Tracy straightened his arms, swung his foot, and hurled a straight ball waist high for the plate. Condit met it with his bat, but failed to hit it squarely, and it went high into the air, and the men on bases raced toward home.
When the sphere came down it was undeniably second-baseman’s ball, and Stiles stood ready for it. Regan reached home, and the next man, Vose, swung around third. Suddenly a shout of joy burst from the Robinson stands and the coachers were screaming like mad. Stiles had muffed!
Vose, with a coacher racing along beside him, sped for home. But Knox had seized the ball almost before it had touched the ground, and now he threw it straight and sure toward the plate. Vose hurled himself forward when fully ten feet distant, and slid for his goal, but the ball was there before him, and Joe’s right hand swept down and tagged him. The side was out. The Erskine players hurried in to the bench, and Gilberth picked out his bat.
It was the beginning of the seventh inning, but the score was no longer a blank; Robinson led 1 to 0. The band played wildly. Jack Weatherby, on the bench, felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked up to find Hanson speaking.
“You cover second, Weatherby,” said the coach.
