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“Now keep still and listen to me,” said Tidball in quiet, undisturbed tones. “I’m a peaceable fellow, and don’t fight. But if you don’t remember what I’ve told you, I’m going to grab you just like this some day – and it’ll be when there are plenty of men looking on, too – and I’m going to spank you with a trunk-strap. If you don’t believe me,” he added with a slight grin, “I’ll show you the strap!”
“I’ll – I’ll kill – ”
“No, you won’t do a thing,” the other interrupted sternly. “You’ll stay just where you are and behave yourself. If you don’t, I’ll lock you up in your bedroom; and that’s a liberty I don’t want to take.”
He released Tracy and stepped back. Tracy leaped to his feet, but something in the look of the eyes behind the steel-bowed spectacles persuaded him to keep his distance. Anthony picked up his hat from the floor, dusted it tenderly with his elbow, and walked to the door.
“Sorry there was any trouble, Gilberth,” he said soberly. “Maybe I lost my temper; it’s a mean one sometimes. Think over what I said.” He closed the door noiselessly behind him, and Tracy, shaking and choking with wrath, groaned futilely.
CHAPTER XII
A FLY TO LEFT-FIELDER
Jack sat on the players’ bench, chin in hands, elbows on knees, and watched Centerport High School go down in defeat. It was the first game of the season for the varsity, and, judged by high standards, it wasn’t anything to be proud of. At the end of the sixth inning the score was 9 – 0 in Erskine’s favor, and not one of the nine runs had been earned. The error column on the score-sheet was so filled with little round dots that, from where Jack sat, it looked as though some one had sprinkled it with pepper. If, so far, there had been any encouraging features they were undoubtedly Joe Perkins’s catching of Gilberth’s erratic curves and Knox’s work at shortstop. The outfield had conscientiously muffed every fly that had come its way, and only the quick recovery of the ball had, on several occasions, prevented High School from scoring.
Joe Perkins looked disgusted whenever he walked to the bench, and the expression on the countenance of Hanson, the head coach, was one of bewilderment. “It’s simply wonderful!” Jack heard him confide to Joe. “I don’t see how they do it. I can understand how they can muff every other ball, say; but the whole-souled manner in which they let every one slide through their fingers is marvelous!” And Joe had smiled weakly and turned away.
When the men trotted out for the beginning of the seventh, Jack slid along the bench to where Patterson, the team’s manager, was scowling over the score-book. Jack had never spoken to Patterson, and a week ago he would have hesitated a long while before risking a snub by doing so. But since his return from his “visit” with Professor White the treatment he had received from the other members of the team had been so decent that he was ceasing to look upon himself as a Pariah and was regaining some degree of assurance. He studied the book over the manager’s shoulder a moment. Then he asked:
“Pretty poor, isn’t it? Do you think Perkins will put any more subs in?”
Patterson glanced around with a flicker of surprise in his eyes. But his answer was friendly enough:
“I don’t know what he’ll do. But if the subs can play any better than the men he’s got in there he’d better give ’em a chance. Where do you play?”
“Almost anywhere, I guess. They’ve had me at left-field, right-field, and second base. I guess I’ll be in the outfield if I get in at all.”
“You’d better go out there and help Northup,” said the manager, as he credited Motter, at first base, with his third error. “I don’t suppose it matters much whether High School scores or not; only I would like to see Erskine have a clean record this year. And to get scored on in the first game looks pretty rotten. Who made that assist?”
“Stiles. Can’t Gilberth pitch better than he’s doing to-day?”
“Of course he can. He’s all right when he tries; he evidently thinks this game isn’t worth while. But I’ll wager that Hanson will have something to say to him afterward. Side’s out. Stiles at bat!”
Erskine managed to find High School’s pitcher to good effect in the last of the seventh and piled up four more runs, two of them fairly earned. When Erskine trotted into the field again Hanson and Perkins had materially altered her batting list. King, who had been playing in left-field, went into the pitcher’s box, and Jack was sent out to left-field. Griffin succeeded Joe as catcher, Mears took Motter’s place at first, and Smith went in at shortstop.
Jack watched events from his position over near the rail fence and was never once disturbed; for King retired the opposing batsmen in one, two, three order, and the sides again changed places. Jack didn’t have a chance to show what he could do with the stick, for High School, following Erskine’s lead, put a new man into the box, and the new man puzzled the batsmen so that only one reached first, and was left there when Billings, third-baseman, popped a short fly into the hands of High School’s shortstop. Jack trotted back to the rail fence very disgusted.
It was the last inning. The sun was getting low and the chill of early evening caused Jack to swing his arms and prance around to keep the blood circulating. Over by the bench he could see them packing the bats away, and a little stream of spectators was filling around behind the back fence toward the gate. High School had reached the tail-end of her batting list again, and, to all appearances, the game was as good as finished. But last innings can’t always be depended upon to behave as expected. The present one proved this. High School’s first man at bat heroically tried to smash a long fly into outfield and, all by good luck, bunted the ball into the dust at his feet. After a moment of bewilderment, he put out for first and reached it at the same time as the ball. High School’s noisy supporters took new courage and awoke the echoes with their fantastic war-whoop. King looked bothered for an instant, and in that instant struck the next batsman on the elbow. The latter, rubbing the bruise and grinning joyfully, trotted to first and the man ahead took second.
“Huh,” muttered Jack, rubbing his chilled hands together, “something doing, after all.”
But King settled down then, and, after three attempts to catch the High School runner napping at second base, struck out the next man very nicely. The succeeding one, finding a straight ball, bunted it toward first, and, while he was tagged out by King, advanced the runners. High School’s supporters, gathered into a little bunch on the stand, waved their flags and ribbons, and shouted frantically. For surely, with men on third and second and their best batter selecting his stick, a run was not unlikely. Hanson shouted a command and King, repeating it, motioned the fielders in. Jack obeyed, doubtingly, for he had watched the present player and believed him capable of hitting hard. And so, although he made pretense of shortening field, he remained pretty much where he had been. And a moment later he was heartily glad of it.
For the High School batsman, a tall, lanky, but very determined-looking youth, found King’s first delivery and raced for first. Along the base-lines the coaches were shouting unintelligible things and flourishing their caps. The runners on third and second were running home. In the outfield Bissell, center-fielder, was speeding back, cutting over into Jack’s territory as he went. Jack, too, was going up the field, yet cautiously, for the shadows were gathering and it was hard to tell where the little black speck up there against the purple sky was going to fall. Yet when, with a final glance over his shoulder, he took up his position, and heard Bissell, panting from his run, cry: “All yours, Weatherby!” he never doubted that he would catch it. To Jack a fly was merely a baseball that required catching; and he was there to catch it. So he took a step or two forward, put up his hands, and pulled it down. Then he threw it to second-baseman and trotted in.
When he reached the plate the applause had died away and the remainder of the audience was hurrying off the field. The players were finding sweaters and, having thrown them over their shoulders, were hurrying across to the locker-house. Jack, searching for his own, heard Hanson’s voice behind him:
“Well, Joe, we’ve got one man who can catch a ball, eh?”
Jack knew that he wasn’t supposed to hear that remark, and so he took his time at pulling his white sweater out of the pile. When he turned, the head coach and captain were walking away. Jack followed, feeling very thankful that he had not missed his one chance of the game. As he entered the door he almost ran against the coach. Hanson smiled into his face as he stepped aside.
“That was a very fair catch, Weatherby,” he said.
And a moment later, when, wrapped only in a big bath-towel, he was hurrying to the shower-room, “Baldy” Simson clapped him on the back with a big hand.
“That’s the lad now,” he cried heartily, adding then his invariable caution: “Easy with the hot water, and don’t go to sleep!”
At dinner-table Jack thought the other fellows looked at him with something like respect. And all, he reflected, because he had caught a ball he couldn’t help catching!
CHAPTER XIII
JOE IS PESSIMISTIC
“Have you seen the editorial in the Purple?” asked King.
Joe Perkins, who had pushed his book away as the other entered his study, swung around in his chair and shook his head.
“About the mass-meeting?” he asked. “No, I haven’t seen the paper yet. What does it say?”
Gregory King leaned over the table until the inky-smelling sheets of the college weekly were under the green glass shade of the student-lamp.
“Listen, then, benighted one! ‘It is to be hoped that every student who can possibly do so will attend the mass-meeting to be held on Wednesday evening next in Grace Hall for the purpose of raising money for the expenses of the University baseball team. A victory over Robinson this spring decisive enough to obliterate – ’”
“Hear! hear!” cried Joe.
“Yes, elegant word, isn’t it?” grinned the other. “‘To obliterate the stigma of last year’s defeat is what every friend of the college hopes for and expects. But unless enough money is placed at the disposal of the management, to meet the expenses of the team, such a victory can not be secured. The nine has never been self-supporting and every spring it has started in with a deficit of from fifty to a hundred and fifty dollars, which has been paid by the Athletic Committee from the general fund. Heretofore the Committee has, besides making good the deficit, paid over to the baseball management sufficient money to carry the team through the first half of the season. This spring, however, the Committee is unable to do this. The football receipts last fall were scarcely more than half as large as usual, while the expenses were much greater. As a result, the sum at the disposal of the baseball team, the track team, and the crew is extremely small, and the former has received as its share the sum of one hundred and fifty dollars only – a sum not nearly sufficient to carry it through the first half of the season.
“‘It becomes necessary, therefore, to secure funds from some other source. Subscriptions have been invited from the alumni, but the result of this step is uncertain. A popular subscription is necessary and will be asked at the meeting on Wednesday. The amount required to insure the success of the nine is not large, and it is the duty of the student body to see that it is raised before the meeting is adjourned. Manager Patterson will make a statement of the association’s condition, and there will be addresses by Dean Levatt, Professor Nast, Coach Hanson, Captain Perkins, A. Z. Tidball, ’04, and others. It is to be hoped that the meeting will be attended by every member of the university.’”
“Not bad,” commented Joe. “But whether Patterson has made a mistake by stating frankly that the meeting is called to secure money remains to be seen.”
“What else could he say? The fellows aren’t going to be gulled into thinking that they’re invited to a mass-meeting to play ping-pong!”
“I know, but there are lots of fellows who won’t come if they know they’re to be asked to dive into their pockets.”
“Then let them stay away,” answered King forcibly. “Any chap that isn’t willing to give a dollar or two to beat Robinson isn’t worth bothering with!”
“I dare say; but we’ve got to have a lot of money, and if every fellow of that sort stays away – ” He shook his head doubtfully.
“Oh, get out! You’re pessimistic this evening. Cheer up; the tide’s coming in! We’ll get all the money we need, and lots more besides. You’ll see.”
“Hope so. Fact is, Greg, I’m a bit down in the mouth over the showing we made Saturday. If we don’t do better Wednesday I sha’n’t blame the fellows if they refuse to pony up for us. A nine that plays ball like a lot of girls doesn’t deserve support.”
“Well, we were pretty rotten Saturday, Joe, and that’s the truth. But we’ll stand by you better next time. We’ll give a good exhibition of union-made, hand-sewn baseball on Wednesday that’ll tickle the college to death. By the way, there’s a long fairy tale from Collegetown here in the Purple about Robinson’s team. To read it you’d think they expected to walk all over us and everybody else. They’re talking about beating Artmouth next week! How’s that for immortal cheek?”
“Oh, they’ve got a good nine, Greg, and they know it. And you and I know it. We might as well face it, too.”
“Well, what if they have? Great Scott, man, haven’t they had good nines lots of times before and been beaten out of their boots? What do we care for their old Voses and Condits and ‘Hard-hitting Hopkinses’? Maybe we’ve got a good battery ourselves, and a man or two who can slug the ball!”
“Maybe we have,” answered Joe dryly, “but you couldn’t just name them, could you?”
“Certainly I can name them! You’re just as good a catcher as that Condit wonder of theirs. And Gilberth can pitch all around Vose, when he wants to. And – ”
“Yes, when he wants to,” said Joe significantly.
“Well, he will want to when it comes to Robinson,” said King.
“Perhaps. And how about the hard sluggers?”
“Oh, well, there’s Motter, and Billings, and – ”
“Yourself; you’re a better batsman than either of them, Greg. But there’s no use in running down Hopkins; he’s a wonder at the bat; and we’ve got to get busy and turn out a few fellows like him. Saturday there wasn’t more than three decent hits made in the whole idiotic game.”
“My cheerless friend, please forget Saturday,” begged King. “It wasn’t nice, I know, but it showed up the weak spots, and that’s something to be thankful for.”
“Not when there’s nothing but spots,” lamented Joe.
“Besides, we kept them from scoring; and for a while it looked as though we couldn’t.”
“And even that was just a piece of good luck.”
“Good luck? Why, it didn’t seem so to me. I never saw a fielder look more certain of making a catch than Weatherby did. And the way he pulled down that ball was mighty pretty, too.”
“I don’t mean that it was luck for him; I mean that it was just by luck that I put him in your place when you went into the box; I almost sent Lowe out there. If I had it’s dollars to cents he wouldn’t have judged that ball so as to have caught it.”
“Well, all’s well that ends well, old chap. Cheer up! By the way, I was mighty glad Weatherby made that catch and kept our slate clean; for his sake, I mean. I’ve noticed that yesterday and to-day the fellows at the table have been very decent to him. I guess he rather made a hit with them Saturday.”
“I’m glad of that,” Joe responded heartily. “To tell the truth, Greg, Weatherby’s been bothering me a good deal; Hanson and I picked him out for a good man, and I think he is, but all this badgering by the fellows has made him pretty near worthless. I hope to goodness it’s done with now.”
“It’s been Tracy more than any one else,” said King. “He’s rather overdone it, I think.”
“I should say so! The trouble with Tracy is that he gets it into his thick head that he’s a sort of public conscience, and you can’t get it out. I don’t think he really intends to be mean; I’ve known him to do several mighty decent things – kind-hearted, you know.”
“Seems as though his sense of proportion was out of gear; and you can’t faze him, either.”
“Well, I don’t know; sometimes I manage to jar him a bit. I got at him last week and asked him to go easy on Weatherby, and so far he’s done it. I put it to him on the score of justice and that sort of thing, you know. I’ve noticed, by the way, that you’ve been kind of taking Weatherby’s part lately. Do you like him?”
“I don’t know whether I do or don’t,” answered King slowly. “I think maybe I could like him very well if he’d give me a chance, but the trouble is he won’t let you get near him. He’s the most independent, stand-offish sort of chap ever.”
“I know. It’s rather against him, that kind of thing. But I fancy, Greg, that that manner of his is sort of defensive; I don’t believe he’s really so independent as he is – well, shy. He thinks fellows don’t care to know him and so puts on that let-me-alone air just to hide the fact that he’s downhearted.”
“Do you? Well, maybe you’re right. It never occurred to me.”
“Yes; and something Professor White said the other day bears me out. He came up to see me about Weatherby. It seems he’s taken rather a shine to him, and had him home with him overnight last week. He says that Weatherby’s frightfully cut up over the way the fellows have been treating him; thinks no one wants to have anything to do with him on account of that affair down at the river, you know, and is just about ready to throw up the sponge and light out. In fact – ” Joe stopped, remembering that Anthony had requested him not to talk of Jack’s flight. “Anyhow, it seems rather a shame, don’t you think? The chap’s a nice-looking, gentlemanly sort, and apparently has lots of pluck, in spite of what happened at the wharf that day.”
“That’s what I think. I believe the truth of that business is that Weatherby doesn’t know how to swim, Joe.”
“Really? Did he ever say so?”
“Oh, thunder, no! He never’s talked about it to me; I’d be scared to death to ask him. But that seems a reasonable sort of explanation, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, it does. And it’s funny that it never occurred to me. Somehow, you take it for granted here that every fellow knows how to swim; we’re such a lot of water-rats, you know. I believe you’ve hit it, Greg. But if that’s the case, why didn’t he out and say so?”
“Well, I don’t know. Maybe we didn’t give him a chance at first, and then, when he did have a show, maybe he got spunky and wouldn’t. It’s the sort of thing I could understand his doing.”
“Yes, it is. Well, anyhow, he’s cut up more rumpus and made more worry than any freshie I ever knew. And I hope to goodness it’s over. I want him to play ball. Going? Don’t forget to drum up the meeting. Bring a crowd with you and start the enthusiasm early in the game. And, by the way, if you ever have a chance, you might just try and find out about Weatherby; whether he can swim, you know. So long, Greg.”
Jack would have been distinctly surprised had he known that he was the subject of so much discussion. He was beginning to congratulate himself that the men with whom he associated seemed to have forgotten the unpleasant incident, and were, in a manner, making his acquaintance all over again. There was no denying the fact that since his performance of Saturday on the diamond the fellows at the training-table had shown themselves very friendly toward him. Of old he had usually eaten his meals in silence, save for an occasional word with Joe or King or the trainer. Nowadays the fellows greeted him as one of themselves, included him in their conversation, and even asked his opinion sometimes. And unconsciously he was bidding for their friendship. He no longer answered all inquiries with monosyllables, but forgot his rôle of injured innocence and entered into the talk with sprightliness and interest. Once he had even made a joke. It was a good joke, but its effect was embarrassing. Every one was so surprised that for a full quarter of a minute not a sound greeted it. Then the table broke into laughter. But by that time Jack was all self-consciousness once more, and for the rest of the meal ate in silence.
But his shyness wore off again, and by the middle of the week his companions had adopted a way of listening when he spoke as though what he had to say was worth hearing. The effect of this was like a tonic to Jack’s vanity. He began to recover his naturally good spirits and the change in him was noticeable. Anthony saw and was delighted.
The friendship between him and the younger boy had worked back into its old lines. Sometimes, more and more infrequently as time passed, Jack thought he could detect a difference in Anthony’s attitude toward him; fancied that the other was reserved in manner. But the difference, if difference there was, was slight and did not seriously impair Jack’s enjoyment of Anthony’s friendship.
Anthony himself in those days was not aware that he showed at times any of the doubts that assailed him. He did not mean to. He had argued with himself over the matter of the lost watch and had at length practically convinced himself that, despite all evidences against his friend, Jack was not guilty of theft. It is probable that even had Anthony detected Jack in the act of stealing he would still have kept much of his liking for the boy, even while detesting his offense. Anthony was big enough morally to view wrong-doing with pity as well as disfavor, and his affection for Jack – a big-hearted, generous affection – would have weighed in the boy’s favor.
But Anthony had made up his mind to believe in the other’s innocence, and believe he did. Sometimes the doubts would creep back despite him, and it was at such times that Jack believed he detected a difference in Anthony’s manner toward him. Meanwhile, Anthony had purchased a wonderful alarm-clock for the sum of eighty-five cents; wonderful for the reason that it gained an hour each day as long as it stood on its feet, and lost twenty minutes each day if laid comfortably on its back. Anthony corrected it every evening by Jack’s watch, and persevered in his efforts to lead it back into a life of veracity and usefulness.
“There’s some position,” he declared, “in which that thing will keep exact time. ’Tisn’t on its feet, and ’tisn’t on its back; it’s somewhere between. Patience and study will find the solution.”
So he propped it at various angles with his books, and even laid it on its head, but whether the numerals XII pointed toward the floor, the ceiling, or the dormer-window the result was always surprising and never satisfactory. And finally, after he had once awakened and prepared his breakfast before discovering that the alarm had gone off at five instead of half-past six, he gave up the struggle, settled the timepiece firmly on its little legs, and accustomed himself to being always one hour ahead of the rest of the world.
