*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 69206 ***

                           WINNING HIS GAME




By Ralph Henry Barbour


PURPLE PENNANT SERIES

  The Lucky Seventh
  The Secret Play
  The Purple Pennant


YARDLEY HALL SERIES

  Forward Pass
  Double Play
  Winning His Y
  For Yardley
  Around the End
  Change Signals


HILTON SERIES

  The Half-back
  For the Honor of the School
  Captain of the Crew


ERSKINE SERIES

  Behind the Line
  Weatherby’s Inning
  On Your Mark


THE “BIG FOUR” SERIES

  Four in Camp
  Four Afoot
  Four Afloat


THE GRAFTON SERIES

  Rivals for the Team
  Winning His Game


BOOKS NOT IN SERIES

  The Brother of a Hero
  Finkler’s Field
  Danforth Plays the Game
  Benton’s Venture
  The Junior Trophy
  The New Boy at Hilltop
  The Spirit of the School
  The Arrival of Jimpson


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, Publishers, New York




[Illustration: “The ball, curving inward, met his bat fairly and
screeched off into short center”]




                                WINNING
                               HIS GAME

                                  BY
                          RALPH HENRY BARBOUR
      AUTHOR OF “RIVALS FOR THE TEAM,” “THE PURPLE PENNANT,” ETC.


                            [Illustration]


                            ILLUSTRATED BY
                            WALT LOUDERBACK


                        D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
                         NEW YORK      LONDON
                                 1917




                          Copyright, 1917, by
                        D. APPLETON AND COMPANY


                Printed in the United States of America




CONTENTS


 CHAPTER                                  PAGE
      I. DUD WONDERS                         1
     II. THE ENTERING WEDGE                 13
    III. 29 LOTHROP                         25
     IV. A CHANCE MEETING                   36
      V. DUD LOSES HIS TEMPER               49
     VI. FIRST PRACTICE                     59
    VII. BEN MYATT ADVISES                  69
   VIII. A WILD PITCH                       81
     IX. JIMMY TAKES CHARGE                 93
      X. THE CHALLENGE                     104
     XI. WITH THE SCRUBS                   118
    XII. ON THE RIVER                      130
   XIII. CONFESSION                        138
    XIV. MAROONED!                         148
     XV. DUD SERVES THEM UP                160
    XVI. THE TRACK MEET                    172
   XVII. BASEBALL, TENNIS AND OYSTERS      184
  XVIII. DUD GOES TO THE RESCUE            192
    XIX. BACK TO THE BENCH                 207
     XX. JIMMY ENCOURAGES                  219
    XXI. ON THE MOUND                      230
   XXII. DUD COMES BACK                    240
  XXIII. BEN TELLS A SECRET                253
   XXIV. THE FIRST GAME                    264
    XXV. LEFT BEHIND                       274
   XXVI. THE BORROWED HAND-CAR             286
  XXVII. WINNING HIS GAME                  301




THE ILLUSTRATIONS


 “The ball, curving inward, met his bat fairly and screeched
    off into short center”                             _Frontispiece_

                                                              FACING
                                                                PAGE

 “‘You’re a sneaky little bounder, that’s what you are!’”         38

 “‘The canoes have gone!’”                                       144

 “Jimmy ... was rolling over on the platform and Dud ...
    with him”                                                    282




WINNING HIS GAME




CHAPTER I

DUD WONDERS


Jimmy Logan stood his skis in the corner behind the door and, tramping
heavily to get the clinging snow from his shoes, climbed the first
flight in Trow Hall slowly and then dragged wearied feet down the
corridor to Number 19. Once inside the room, he said, “Hello,” shied
his cap onto his bed and sank exhaustedly in the nearest chair,
stretching his legs across the rug and slumping down until the wet
collar of his mackinaw came in contact with his ears. Whereupon he
muttered, “Ugh!” and sat up another inch or two.

Across the room, one foot on the floor and the other doubled up
beneath him on the windowseat, was Jimmy’s roommate. His response to
the greeting had been brief and delivered in a preoccupied voice, for
Dudley Baker had a book open before him on the cushion and held a
stained and battered baseball in his right hand. His attention was
divided between book and ball and had no room for Jimmy. The latter’s
gaze presently came away from his shoes, which were trickling water to
the rug, and fixed itself on Dudley. He had to sit up still higher in
the chair to get an uninterrupted view of his chum, which proceeding
elicited a protesting groan from him, and after he had attained it he
instantly decided that it was not worth while and deeply regretted the
exertion it had caused him. He promptly descended again on his spine,
crossed his feet and sighed luxuriously.

The dollar clock on Dudley’s chiffonier ticked briskly and loudly in
the ensuing silence. Outside the windows tiny flakes of snow were
falling. The shadows deepened in the room. In the corridor deliberate
footsteps sounded and suddenly the transom over the door showed yellow
and an oblong of light appeared on the ceiling. Mr. Crump, the school
janitor, was lighting the dormitories. Jimmy wished that his shoes were
off, and his mackinaw, and the woolen socks, but as yet he wasn’t equal
to the task. When Mr. Crump’s footsteps had died away on the stairs
Jimmy broke the silence.

“What’re you doing?” he asked uninterestedly. There was, however, no
reply from the window-seat, possibly because Jimmy’s tones had been too
faint to reach there. After a moment Jimmy turned his head and stared
across a pile of books on the study table at the three or four inches
of Dudley’s head that were visible. Then:

“_Dud!_” he bawled resentfully.

“Huh?”

“What are you doing, I asked you.”

“Oh, me? Oh, just trying to dope out some of this stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“Stuff about pitching. How to hold the ball, you know.”

“Oh!” Jimmy subsided again and another period of silence followed. Then:

“You don’t expect to play baseball for a while, do you?” he asked
lazily. “You’d better study how to throw a snowball!” He chuckled
faintly at his joke.

“It isn’t so long now,” responded Dud soberly. “They’re going to call
candidates the twenty-first.”

“Gym work,” grunted the other. “Take my advice and keep away from it.
Don’t go out for the team until it gets out of doors. Are you still
thinking of trying for the school?”

“Of course.”

Jimmy grunted. “You’ll have a fine show, I don’t think! Better try for
the second, Dud.”

“I don’t expect to make it, but it’s good practice, and maybe next
year――――”

“You’ll stand more chance with the second, and have a lot more fun.
The second’s going to have a regular schedule this year; five or six
games, maybe; going away for some of them, too.”

“If I don’t make the first, and I suppose I won’t, of course, I’ll try
for the second,” said Dud. “I asked Murtha this morning if he thought
it would be all right to try for the first, and he said――――”

“Guy Murtha said, ‘Yes, indeed, Baker, we want all the candidates we
can get!’ That’s what they always tell you, and then, when you get
out there, they inform you gently but firmly that you won’t do, and
hadn’t you better stay with your class team this year and try again
next? What’s the use? I like to play ball, Dud, but you don’t catch me
putting in a month’s grind in the cage and then getting the G. B. as
soon as we get outdoors. Me for the second――and safety.”

“You’re lazy,” replied Dud, shutting his book and stowing the ball back
of the pillows. “You could make the first this spring if you’d try for
it. You ought to, too.”

Jimmy shrugged. “Maybe so. But I’d rather have a sure place on the
second, thanks. Gee, but I’m tired!”

“Skiing?”

“Yes; Pete Gordon and Kelly and Gus and I. We climbed up to the
Observatory and then hiked half-way over to the Falls. It was piles of
fun going down the mountain. Gus Weston took a header and turned over
about forty-eleven times and then went into a snow bank head-first up
to his waist. But we tried to do too much. My legs feel as if they’d
never stop aching! What have you been doing? Been in here all the
afternoon? But, of course, you have. I forgot about your tooth. How is
it? Any better?”

“Yes. I guess I caught a little cold in it. I wish that dentist
chap would yank it out instead of practicing on it!” Dud turned the
lights on and perched himself across a chair at the opposite side of
the table, his arms on the back, and observed Jimmy in a thoughtful
fashion. Jimmy grunted.

“Shoot,” he said. “What’s on your mind?”

“I――I’ve been wondering, Jimmy.”

“Oh, gee!” Jimmy groaned deeply. “At it again, eh? Well, what is
it this time, Dud? The other day you were worrying yourself thin
because you were afraid you were costing your folks too much money, or
something.”

Dud smiled. “Not exactly worrying,” he replied. “Just――just wondering.”

“There isn’t much difference, the way you do it. If I――――”

“Not so much about how much I was costing them as whether they’re going
to get their money’s worth, Jimmy. Sometimes I wonder whether I’m
really doing any good here. Now you look at it this way――――”

“I won’t! I refuse! Besides, that’s an old one. What’s your latest
worry?”

“It isn’t a worry――exactly. I was only thinking that――――” He paused.
Then: “Oh, I guess it isn’t anything, after all. Say, you’d better get
out of those wet things, Jimmy.”

“I’m going to just as soon as I have strength to move. But I want to
hear your new――er――problem, Dud. Come across. ’Fess up to your Uncle
Jimmy.”

Dud hesitated, smiling a bit embarrassedly. He was a good-looking
chap of fifteen, with clean-cut features, a rather fair complexion
and very bright blue eyes. He was small-boned and slim, and, since
he had been doing a lot of growing the past twelve months, he looked
a trifle “weedy.” In that respect he was a distinct contrast to his
roommate, for James Townsend Logan was a stocky lad, wide of shoulder
and broad of chest. Jimmy was sixteen, although only four months
divided the two boys in age. Jimmy’s features were nondescript, but
the result was pleasing. He wore his red-brown hair rather long――Dud
said it was because he was too lazy to have it cut oftener than once
every term――and had a short nose and a wide, humorous mouth and a very
square chin. He was a member of the upper middle class, while Dud was a
lower middler.

“I guess it’s sort of silly,” said Dud after a moment. “But I’ve been
wondering”――Jimmy groaned again――“why I don’t know more fellows, Jimmy,
why I don’t――don’t ‘mix’ better. I don’t believe I really care a whole
lot――――” He paused again. “Yes I do, too, though. I’d like to have
fellows like me, Jimmy, as they do you, and ask me to do things and go
places and――and all that. Of course, I know the trouble’s with me, all
right, but――but what is it?”

“Oh, piffle, Dud! Fellows _do_ like you.”

“Yes, about the way they like the steps in front of School Hall. That
is, they don’t exactly _like_ me; they just――just don’t _dislike_ me.
I guess I’d rather have them do that than not care a fig whether I’m
alive or dead. I suppose this sounds silly, but――――”

“Honest confession is good for the soul,” responded Jimmy lightly. “But
I think you’re wrong about it, Dud. Or, anyway――now look here――――”

“I suppose I’m just not cut out to be what you might call popular,”
interrupted Dud thoughtfully. “Well, but still――――”

“Shut up and let me talk! The trouble with you is that you don’t let
fellows find out whether they can like you or not. You don’t――don’t
‘mix’――do you see? If you’d get into things more――――”

“But that’s just it! How can I when I see that I’m not wanted?”

“That’s just imagination, Dud. You can’t expect fellows to fall all
over themselves and hug you! You’ve got to show ’em that you’re ready
to be friends. You’ve got to make the start yourself. What do you do
when someone says ‘Let’s do this or that’? You mutter something about
having to dig Latin or math and sneak off. Fellows naturally think you
don’t want to do the things they do. Now today, for instance――――”

“I couldn’t have gone, Jimmy, with this plaguey toothache!”

“Why, no, I guess you couldn’t. But, thunderation, Dud, if it isn’t
a toothache it’s something else. You’ve always got some perfectly
wonderful excuse for beating it about the time the fun begins. Not that
you missed much this afternoon, for you didn’t, barring a lot of tired
muscles, but you often do miss things. To be what you call a ‘mixer,’
Dud, you’ve got to ‘mix,’ and you don’t know the first thing about it.
Fellows like you, all right, what they see of you, but you don’t give
them a chance.”

Dud stared thoughtfully at the green shade before him. “Ye-yes, I
suppose that’s true, Jimmy. But I don’t like to stick around when
fellows are getting up things because I think that maybe they won’t
want me in on it and that if I’m there they’ll think they have to ask
me.”

“Huh! What if they do have to ask you? Let ’em! Then when they see that
you’re a regular feller they’ll ask you next time without having to.”

“But I wonder if I am.”

“Am what?” asked Jimmy ungrammatically.

“A ‘regular feller.’ Maybe I’m not. I wonder――――”

Jimmy threw up his hands in despair. “Oh, gee, he’s at it again!
Dud, what you want to do is stop wondering. You’re the finest little
wonderer that ever came down the pike, all right, but you spend so much
time at it that you don’t get anywhere. Now, you take my advice, old
chap, and stop wondering whether fellows like you or don’t like you.
Just get out and butt in a little. When you see a crowd walk right into
the middle of it and find out whether it’s a fight or a frolic. And,
whatever it is, take a hand. Now there’s some mighty good advice, Dud,
take it from me. I didn’t know I had it in me! And let me tell you
another thing, kid. If you expect to have a show for the first team you
want to crawl out of your shell and rub shoulders with fellows. Get
hunky with the first team crowd, do you see? Be――be more of a――well,
more of a regular feller, like I said before. Don’t try too hard to
be popular, though. Fellows get onto that and won’t stand for it.
Just――just be natural!”

“I guess I’m being natural,” answered Dud, with a smile, “and that
is where the trouble is. I guess I’ll have to wait until next year.
A lower middle fellow feels sort of fresh if he tries to mix in with
upper middlers.”

“Piffle! Lots of your class are thick as thieves with upper middle
chaps. Look at young Whatshisname――Stiles. He’s always traveling with
upper middlers――Ordway and Blake and that bunch.”

“Ned Stiles has more cheek than I have. Besides, I don’t think fellows
like him particularly, Jimmy. He sort of toadies, doesn’t he?”

“He’s a perfect ass, if you ask me. But they seem to stand for him.”

“Well, but I don’t want to be ‘stood for’; I want fellows to――to want
me.”

“All right. Give ’em a chance then. You’re all right, Dud, only
you’re shy. That’s what’s the matter with you, old chap, you’re just
plain shy! Never thought of it before. Look here, now, I’ll tell you
what you do. You forget all about your dear little self and get over
being――being――gee, what’s the word I want? Being self-conscious! That’s
it! That’s your trouble, self-consciousness.” Jimmy beamed approval at
himself. “Best way to do it is to――to do it! Tell you what, we’ll make
a start tonight, eh? Let’s go out and visit someone. Who do you know
that you’d like to know better?”

“I’d like to know Hugh Ordway, for one,” said Dud hesitatingly. “But I
guess he wouldn’t care about knowing me, and so――――”

“Stow it! That’s just what you mustn’t do, do you see? You mustn’t
‘wonder’ whether a fellow wants to know you or not. You just take
it for granted that he does. Say to yourself, ‘I’m a good feller, a
regular feller. I’m as good as you are. Of course you want to know me.
Why not?’ See the idea?”

Dud nodded doubtfully. “Still, Hugh Ordway’s a bit――――”

“A bit what?” demanded Jimmy impatiently.

“I mean he’s awfully popular and has piles of friends and he wouldn’t
be likely to――to want to know me.”

“Oh, piffle! Ordway’s just like any of us――except that he happens to be
English and have a Lord or a Duke or something for a father. I don’t
know him very well myself, but that’s just because he trains with the
football crowd――Blake and Winslow and that bunch. But I know him plenty
well enough to visit, and that’s just what we’ll do this evening, Dud.”

“Maybe we’d better leave it for some other night,” replied Dud
uneasily. “I’ve got a lot of lessons tonight and――――”

“Ha, ha!” laughed Jimmy mirthlessly. “Where have I heard that before?”
He pulled himself from his chair with a groan and pointed a stern
finger at his chum. “You’ll start right in with me this very evening,
Dud, and be a regular feller! And no more punk excuses, either! I’m
going to take you in hand, son, and when I get through with you you
won’t know yourself. Here, _stop that_!”

“What?” asked Dud startledly.

“You know what! You were beginning to wonder! I saw you! No more of
that, understand? The first time I catch you wondering I’ll――I’ll take
my belt to you!”




CHAPTER II

THE ENTERING WEDGE


If you have by any chance read a previous narrative of events at
Grafton School entitled “Rivals for the Team” you are sufficiently
acquainted with the scene of this story, and, also, with many of
the characters. But since it is quite possible that you have never
even heard of the former narrative, it devolves on the historian to
introduce a certain amount of descriptive matter at about this stage,
something he has as little taste for as have you. Descriptions are
always tiresome, and so we’ll have this as short as possible.

Grafton School, then, occupies a matter of ten acres a half-mile
east of the town of that name and at the foot of the hill which is
known as Mount Grafton. Like many another New England school, it is
shaded by elms, boasts many fine expanses of velvety turf and, so to
speak, laves its feet in a gently-flowing river. The buildings on the
campus consist of three dormitories, the more venerable School Hall,
the gymnasium and the Principal’s residence, and of these all save
the two latter stretch in a straight line across the middle of the
three-acre expanse. The gymnasium is slightly back from the line and
the Principal’s cottage is a bit in advance, its vine-covered porch
looking along the fronts of the other buildings and its rear windows
peering down into Crumbie Street. School Hall is in the center. Trow
comes next on the left, and then Lothrop. On the right of the older
building stands Manning, which shelters the younger boys, and somewhat
“around the corner” is the gymnasium.

Graveled walks lead across the campus, under spreading elm trees,
to Crumbie Street on one side, to River Street on the other, to
School Street straight in front. Beyond School Street is the Green, a
block-wide parallelogram on which, at the corner of School and River
Streets, two smaller dormitories stand. These, Morris and Fuller, are
converted dwellings of limited accommodations. The main walk from
the steps of School Hall continues across the Green to Front Street,
beyond which, descending gently to the Needham River, is Lothrop Field.
An ornamental wall and gate commemorate the name of the giver. The
Field House flanks the steps on the left and beyond lie the football
gridirons, the baseball diamonds, the tennis courts and the blue-gray
cinder track. The distant weather-stained building on the river bank is
the boathouse.

Grafton School looks after slightly over two hundred boys between the
ages of twelve and twenty. At the time of which I am writing, February
of last year, the number was, I believe, exactly two hundred and ten,
of which some thirty-five had attained to the senior class and about
eighty were juniors, leaving the upper middle and lower middle classes
to share the residue fairly equally. The faculty numbered twelve,
beginning with Doctor Duncan, the Principal, and ending with Mrs. Fair,
the matron. Doctor Duncan’s full title is Charles William Duncan, A.M.,
Ph.D., but he is better known as “Charley”! There was――and doubtless
are――also a Mrs. Duncan and a Miss Duncan, but they are not likely to
enter into this narrative. So much then for our stage setting. I might
keep on, but I fear you are weary, and I know I am!

Hugh Ordway roomed on the top floor of Lothrop, the newest and most
luxurious of the dormitories, sharing the suite of study and two
bedrooms with Bert Winslow. Hugh’s father was English and his mother
American, and, although Hugh had been born on the other side and had
spent most of his sixteen years there, he declared himself to be half
American. His full name was Hugh Oswald Brodwick Ordway, and in spite
of the fact that by reason of his father being the Marquis of Lockely,
Hugh had every right to the title of Earl of Ordway, he was generally
known at Grafton as “Hobo,” a nickname evolved from his initials. As he
was a straight, well-built, clear-skinned, young chap with quiet brown
eyes and an undeniable air of breeding, the nickname was amusingly
incongruous if one stopped to consider it. But Hugh had been known as
Hobo Ordway ever since fall, when his cleverness as a running halfback
on the first football team had surprised and delighted the school,
and nowadays the name was too familiar to excite any comment. Hugh’s
particular friends were more likely to call him “’Ighness,” however.

It was Hugh, alone in the study, who responded to the knock at the
door shortly after supper that evening and who successfully disguised
the surprise he felt when he recognized his visitors as Jimmy Logan
and Dudley Baker. He made them welcome quite as heartily as though he
had been expecting them all day, and Dud, who had hung back all the
way up the three flights of slate stairs, was vastly relieved. The
conversation skipped from one subject to another for the first few
minutes, during which time Hugh, perched on the window-seat, leaving
the easy-chairs to his guests, hugged his knees to his chin, piloted
the conversation and secretly wondered at the visit.

You are not to suppose, however, that Hugh was the only one of the
three at his ease. Such a supposition shows on your part a vast
ignorance of Jimmy Logan. Jimmy was a stranger to embarrassment. Had
Hugh been the President of the United States or the King of England
or――well, “Home Run” Baker, Jimmy would have been just as splendidly
at ease as he was this moment. He might have assumed a more dignified
attitude in the Morris chair and his voice might have held a more
respectful tone, but beyond that――no, not Jimmy! Just now Jimmy was
humorously recounting his skiing adventures that afternoon and Hugh
was chuckling over them. Dud smiled when Hugh laughed, sitting rather
stiffly in his chair, and tried his best to look animated and pleasant
and only succeeded in looking anxious and uncomfortable. Jimmy did his
best to get Dud to talk, but Dud’s conversation consisted largely of
“Yes” and “No” and Hugh secretly thought him a bit of a stick. Jimmy
was wondering whether to withdraw as gracefully as possible before
Dud created any worse impression when the door opened to admit a
black-haired, dark-eyed fellow of seventeen who, with less command over
his features than Hugh, looked frankly surprised when he saw who the
visitors were. The surprise even extended to his voice as he greeted
them.

“Hello, Jimmy,” said Bert Winslow. “What are you doing up here? Haven’t
seen you around here for ages.” He spoke to Dud then, hesitating a
moment as though not certain of the latter’s name. Dud, noting the
fact, felt his embarrassment increase and wished that Jimmy would
give the word to leave. But Jimmy had already abandoned thoughts of
withdrawing. He liked Bert Winslow, just as most fellows did, and
welcomed the chance to talk to him. Bert and Jimmy were both members of
“Lit”――short for Literary Society――and only two evenings ago had been
pitted against each other in one of the impromptu weekly debates and
had struggled along nip and tuck until Jimmy, abandoning facts, had in
a wild flow of rhetoric won the meeting. Bert alluded to it now as he
tossed his cap through the open door of his bedroom.

“Jimmy, that was a fine lot of hot air you got off the other night,” he
said with a grin. “Didn’t your folks ever teach you anything about the
beauties of truthfulness?”

Jimmy laughed. “Sure, but I had to beat you somehow, Bert. Besides,
what I said may be so for all I know!”

“Huh! You just said the first thing that came into that silly head of
yours! Did you ever hear such a mess of rot as he sprang, Hugh?”

Hugh smiled. “It sounded all right! Some of the figures were corking.
You must have a wonderful memory, Logan!”

“Memory!” snorted Bert, seating himself beside Hugh on the window-seat.
“There wasn’t a figure that was right! I looked it up afterwards. Did
you hear him, Baker? Oh, no, you’re Forum, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” replied Dud. He tried very hard to follow that up with something
brilliant or amusing in regard to Jimmy’s debating, but couldn’t think
of anything, possibly because Bert’s tone had held some of the careless
contempt with which members of a society spoke of its rival, and Dud
wished just for the moment that he, too, was “Lit.”

Perhaps Hugh thought that his chum had verged on discourtesy, for
he observed quickly: “They tell me you chaps have some awfully good
talkers in Forum, Baker.”

Dud agreed. “I guess Joe Leslie is our best; he and Guy Murtha.”

“Murtha’s better than Joe, I think,” said Jimmy. “Anyway, he did a lot
better last year in the debate with Mount Morris.”

“Joe’s a wonder at hammering home facts,” said Bert. “Guy’s better at
the eloquence stuff, though. Speaking of Guy, Hugh, reminds me that I
told him you were going to try for the outfield this spring and he said
he was mighty glad because if you could get on the base he was certain
you could get around.”

“Oh, but I say, Bert, I don’t know that I shall! Try for baseball, I
mean.”

“Of course you will!”

“But I don’t know much about it. You say it’s quite different from
cricket, eh?”

“Quite, ’Ighness! You’ve seen baseball played, haven’t you?”

“Oh, yes, once or twice, but――――”

“I should think a fair cricket player would easily get the hang of
baseball,” said Jimmy. “I guess it’s as hard to catch a cricket ball as
a baseball, isn’t it? I suppose you’re a rattling good cricket player,
Ordway.”

“Oh, no, really I’m not,” exclaimed Hugh. “I’ve played a bit at it, of
course. You chaps bowl――I mean pitch to the batters so like thunder,
don’t you? I fancy I’ll be scared to stand up there, eh?”

“You might if Gus Weston was pitching,” laughed Bert. “You going to
play this year, Jimmy?”

“Oh, I guess so. What would the dear old second do without me?”

“Aren’t you trying for the first, though? You’re as good a fielder as
Parker, I guess.”

“I may. The fact is, Bert, I’m sort of used to the dear old second. It
would be like leaving home to go to the first. Still, I may decide to
break home ties and meet you fellows there.”

“I fancy you’re not likely to meet me there,” said Hugh. “I’ll be an
awful dub if I try it, I know. Do you play, Baker?”

“A little,” answered Dud.

“Dud’s the coming Mathewson,” said Jimmy. “Got to watch him, we have.
Some twirler!”

“Really?” asked Bert, evidently not much impressed. “That’s fine,
Baker. The second rather needed pitchers last spring.”

“He’s going out for the first,” said Jimmy. “Dud’s like me, you know.
When Duty calls――――” Jimmy smiled eloquently.

“I say, though, Logan, who is this Johnnie you spoke of? Mathews,
wasn’t it?”

“Not Johnnie; Christopher,” replied Jimmy gravely. “I referred to Mr.
Christopher Mathewson, better known as ‘Matty,’ the Dean of American
Pitchers. Dud and ‘Matty’ are as thick as thieves; that is, Dud is!
Dud reads everything ‘Matty’ writes and can tell you off-hand how
many games ‘Matty’ pitched last year and all the other years, and how
many he won, and what his averages are and all the rest of it. He has
a gallery of Mathewson pictures and he’s the proud possessor of a
ball that Mathewson used in a game with Philadelphia back in 1760 or
thereabouts. I don’t know how he got that ball, but I suspect that he
swiped it.”

“It was given to me,” said Dud defensively. Then he added, embarrassed:
“You mustn’t mind what Jimmy says. He talks a lot of nonsense.”

“I say, though,” exclaimed Hugh, “I do hope you get on the first,
Baker. It must be a lot of fun to do the pitching, eh? More fun than
fielding, I fancy.”

“Have you pitched much?” inquired Bert politely.

“I’ve been trying to for a couple of years,” answered Dud. “I don’t
suppose I’ll make the first this year, of course, but Murtha said he’d
be glad to have me try, and so――――”

“You must make allowances for his modesty,” said Jimmy. “He’s really
rather a shark at it. He can tell you just how to pitch any ball ever
discovered, from a straight one to a ‘floater.’”

“Question is, I guess,” Bert laughed, “whether he can _pitch_ ’em. I
know _how_ to pitch a ‘knuckle ball,’ but I can’t do it. I remember
now, Baker, you pitched some on the second last year, didn’t you?”

“Only three games, or parts of them, Winslow. I dare say I won’t be
good enough this year, but――I thought I’d try.”

“Of course,” said Bert heartily. “Nothing like trying. The trouble is,
though, you’ve got some good ones to stack up against, eh? There’s Nate
Leddy and Ben Myatt――――”

“And Gus Weston,” observed Jimmy gravely.

Bert smiled. “Just the same, Gus has pitched some good games for us.
But isn’t he a wonder when he goes up?”

Jimmy chuckled. “Gus Weston can go up quicker and higher than any
fellow I ever saw,” he said. “And when he _is_ wild――――” He ended with
an impressive whistle.

“He looked pretty promising last spring,” continued Bert. “Remember the
game he pitched against Middleboro? They only got six hits off him, I
think.”

“Yes, and Kelly is another chap that is likely to make good this year,”
said Jimmy. “Oh, we’re pretty well off for twirlers, but you wait until
Dud gets going. And speaking of going, Dud, what do you say if we do a
little of it?”

“Don’t rush off,” said Bert. “Well, come around again, Jimmy.”

Probably the invitation was meant to include Dud, but Hugh thought that
Dud might not interpret it so and added cordially, “Yes, do, fellows!”

On the way downstairs Jimmy said: “Well, we got out of that pretty
well, Dud. I thought for a while you were going to spoil everything by
monopolizing the conversation the way you did, but――――”

“I don’t seem to know what to talk about,” said Dud ruefully. “I guess
Ordway thought me an awful ass.”

“Well, he rather pointedly invited you to come back, so I don’t think
you need to worry about that. The next time――――”

“There won’t be any next time,” interrupted the other. “It’s just like
you said, Jimmy. I can’t mix and there’s no use trying.”

“Oh, yes, there is! We’ve just started. That was the――the entering
wedge, so to say. We’ll drop around again next week. And between now
and then I’ll put you through a course of sprouts, old chap. We’ll mix
in society. Just as soon as you can learn to forget your plaguey self,
Dud, you’ll get on finely. The trouble is with you that you just sit
and worry about what fellows are thinking of you. But I’ll break you of
that quick enough.”

“I guess we’ll call it off,” muttered Dud.

“And I guess we won’t,” was the firm response. “Having set my hand
to the plow, Dudley, I never look back. That’s me. My full name is
Grim Determination. All others are impostors. Accept no substitutes.
Guaranteed to comply with the Pure Food Law. After you, Dud. One flight
and turn to the right, please.”




CHAPTER III

29 LOTHROP


True to his promise――or threat, if you think with Dud――Jimmy haled his
protesting friend from room to room in the evenings, made him join
the throngs on the ice or the toboggan slide in the afternoons and on
all occasions dragged him into the conversations and, to use his own
expression, “got him in the spot-light.” It can’t be truthfully said
that his efforts met with overwhelming success, however. Dud didn’t
shine as a conversationalist or display any traits calculated to win
popularity. No one disliked him in the least. Most of the time few were
really conscious of his presence, in spite of Jimmy’s untiring efforts.
Personally, as has been suggested, Dud didn’t take kindly to being
exhibited and exploited, and when a fortnight or so after the inception
of the undertaking Jimmy actually got to telling jokes and crediting
them to Dud, the latter was supremely uncomfortable. Jimmy would
chuckle and say: “Dud got off a good one the other day, fellows.” And
then he would follow with some more or less brilliant remark or joke
that sounded to Dud horribly flat. Generally the hearers laughed and
shot surprised glances at the silent and embarrassed Dud, but he didn’t
win recognition as a wit or a sage for all of that. Had they heard the
things from Dud first-hand they might have been more impressed. As it
was the credit went rather to Jimmy than Dud.

Jimmy played Boswell to Dud’s Doctor Johnson with remarkable enthusiasm
and patience. He evolved all sorts of schemes, most of which his chum
promptly refused to consider, designed to waft Dud into the white light
of publicity. For instance, he conceived the brilliant idea of having
Dud write a notable article for _The Campus_, the school monthly. Dud
had no serious objection to that project, but it fell through because
neither of them could think of a subject to write on. Then Jimmy
suggested that Dud get someone to break through the ice on the river
so Dud could rescue him. Jimmy said he would be glad to impersonate
the drowning character if he wasn’t afraid of catching cold and having
rheumatism in his throwing arm. It was all highly entertaining for
Jimmy and he thoroughly enjoyed it, but Dud was getting very tired
of it. Every now and then Jimmy had what he called a “show down.” At
such times he would take a list from his drawer in the study table and
check off the names of fellows whose acquaintance Dud had succeeded in
making since the last time.

“Churchill, we got him. Check for Churchill. He was a brand new one,
wasn’t he? Roy Dresser, check. Dresser was rather a success, Dud. I
think he rather took to you. We must call there again. I’ll make a note
of that. Dresser’s room is a good place to meet fellows. Parker, check.
Parker’s an ass, anyway. Ayer――I say, Dud, we haven’t met Neil Ayer
yet. Do you know him at all?”

“Only to speak to.”

“We’ll go after Ayer this evening, then. I know where to find him. He
will be in Joe Leslie’s room, I guess. Foster Tray, check. Tray’s a
good sort. Zanetti――that’s another chap we’ve missed. We’ll have to
find him with Nate Leddy some time. I don’t know him at all. He’s a
good fellow to know, though. Stands in with the football and the track
crowds. I tell you what, Dud! Why not go out for the Track Team?”

“Because I can’t do anything,” laughed Dud.

“How do you know you can’t?” asked Jimmy, untroubled. “Besides,
you wouldn’t have to really _do_ anything. You could have a try at
something and you’d meet a lot of fellows. Jumping isn’t awfully hard.
Why not try the broad jump?”

“I couldn’t do that and pitch too, you idiot.”

“That’s so. I forgot. Still, some fellows do go in for baseball and
track. There’s Cherry, for instance. Well, never mind. Maybe we’d
better――er――concentrate.” Jimmy sat back and studied Dud speculatively,
tapping his pen against his teeth the while. “What we’ve got to do,
Dud,” he continued presently, in the tones of one who has reached a
weighty conclusion after much thought, “is to put it all over those
other box artists. That’s our line, Dud. We’ve got to spring you as a
startling phenom! Yes, sir, that’s the game!”

“That’s all well enough, Jimmy, but suppose I can’t pitch a little bit
when the time comes?”

“By Ginger, you’ve got to! Look here, you’re wasting time. You ought
to be at it every day. You ought to get down in the cage in the gym
and practice. What time is it now? Nearly six, eh? Too late today,
then. But tomorrow we’ll put in a half-hour, and the next day, too, and
right along until they call candidates. I’ll catch you. I’ll borrow a
mitt somewhere. It’ll be good fun, too. Practice for both of us. Great
scheme, eh?”

“Do you mind?” asked Dud eagerly.

“Love to! We’ve got a week yet and you ought to be able to get a lot
of practice in a week. That’s settled, then. But we mustn’t forget
the――er――the social side of the campaign. So let’s see.” Jimmy
bent over his list again. “Quinn, check. Milford――had him before.
Forbes――――”

The second visit to Hugh Ordway’s study came off right on schedule,
nine days after the first call, but on this occasion Dud and Jimmy
found the room jammed from door to windows with fellows and a loud
and even violent argument going on. Their appearance went practically
unnoticed and they found seats with some difficulty and became for a
while silent listeners. The argument proved to be concerned with the
election the evening before of one Starling Meyer as captain of the
Hockey Team. The hockey team had just finished a disastrous season,
ending with a second defeat by Grafton’s ancient rival, Mount Morris.
Lack of hard ice had aided in the team’s demoralization, but besides
that things had gone badly from start to finish, and there were many
who credited the afore-mentioned Meyer with having been largely to
blame. “Pop” Driver, who played right guard on the eleven and was
normally good-natured to a fault, expressed the views of the anti-Meyer
faction.

“Meyer,” Pop was saying, “has caused more trouble all the winter than
he’s worth. Everything that Yetter’s wanted to do one way, Star’s
insisted on doing another. You fellows know that, all of you. Look at
the way they changed the style of play in the middle of the season.
Yetter started out playing four men on defense and it worked all right.
Then Star got to saying that we weren’t scoring enough points and
that the four-men-back business was all wrong. He grouched and sulked
about it until Yetter gave in to him. After that we got licked right
along, with one or two exceptions, and finally Yetter went back to the
old style again, and Star threatened to quit and there was the dickens
to pay for awhile. Star’s simply no use unless he can be the whole
shooting-match.”

“Well, they’ve made him captain,” said Jim Quinn, football manager, “so
now he can show what he knows.”

“There’s no sense in blaming everything on Star Meyer,” declared Ned
Musgrave. “Yetter’s a good chap, but he hadn’t any business being
captain. There’s where the whole trouble began. If Yetter――――”

“Warren would have been all right,” said Bert Winslow, “if Star had
let him alone. But Star hates to see anyone else have any say about
anything. He’s a peach of a hockey player, I’ll grant you that, but
he’s a peach of a trouble-maker, too. And I’ll bet you anything things
will be in a worse mess next year than they were this.”

“Why didn’t they elect Gus Weston?” asked Roy Dresser. “Gus would have
made a dandy leader.”

“Because Star pulled all the strings he could,” answered Pop, “and
scared the fellows into voting for him.”

“I happen to know, Pop,” interposed Musgrave warmly, “that more than
three-fourths of the team wanted Star for captain long before election.
You might as well be fair to him, Pop. Give him a show. Don’t convict a
fellow before he’s tried, I say!”

“All right, Ned,” answered Pop good-naturedly. “We’ll let him have his
trial. Maybe you’re right, too. Star may make a better captain than he
did a first lieutenant. Let’s hope so. I won’t be here to see, though.”

“What makes you think so?” inquired Nick Blake maliciously, raising a
laugh at Driver’s expense. Pop, as he himself put it, was doing the
four-year course in five, and there was always some doubt as to his
getting through in five. Pop grinned now and shook his head.

“They’ll give me my diploma to get rid of me, Nick,” he said.

Jimmy, who had remained quiescent until now, took advantage of a
momentary lull in the discussion and chuckled. Pop, beside him, turned
inquiringly. “What’s on your mind, Jimmy?” he inquired.

“I was just thinking of something Dud got off awhile ago,” replied
Jimmy, still visibly amused. Dud threw an entreating look at him, but
Jimmy pretended not to see it.

“Dud who?” asked Pop.

“Dud Baker, over here.” Jimmy’s glance indicated his friend. “We
were talking about the hockey team losing so many games one day and
Dud said he guessed the trouble with them”――Jimmy had managed to
gain the attention of the room by now――“was that they were weak from
Star-vation!”

Dud looked anything but like the author of the bonmot at that moment,
but the audience laughed, even Ned Musgrave, and Jimmy credited himself
with a bull’s-eye.

“The pun,” observed Nick Blake gravely, “is considered the lowest form
of humor.”

“I think that’s mighty clever,” exclaimed Hugh. “You’re hipped because
you didn’t think of it yourself, Nick.”

“Dry up, ’Ighness! I was about to say when you so rudely interrupted
that it is, of course, necessary to consider one’s audience, and that,
having the mentality of the audience in mind, Baker’s joke may be
considered clever, even brilliant. For my part――――”

“Choke him, somebody,” said Bert. “After all, say what you like about
Star, you’ve got to acknowledge that there’s much to ad-Meyer about――――”

But Nick’s groan of anguish drowned the rest, and Dresser, pretending
disgust, arose to depart, setting the example for several others.
Jimmy, fearing that Dud’s gloomy silence might undo the effect created
by the joke, thought the moment a good one for retiring and led his
chum away. Outside, Dud remonstrated again.

“I wish you wouldn’t, Jimmy,” he said. “I feel such an awful fool when
you spring those jokes and tell fellows I made ’em. They must know I
didn’t!”

“Why? You do say things as good as that, don’t you? When there’s no one
but me around, I mean.”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I didn’t think that was awfully funny, anyway,
Jimmy.”

Jimmy chuckled. “I do. And the others did. Cheer up, Dud. I’ll make a
celebrity of you in spite of yourself!”

Later, back in Number 29 Lothrop, Bert Winslow laughed suddenly while
he was getting ready for bed and Hugh, hearing, called across from his
own bedroom.

“What’s the joke, Bert?”

“I was thinking of the one Jimmy Logan sprung; about the hockey team
being weak from Star-vation. It isn’t so bad, eh?”

“Rather clever, but it was that chap Baker who said it, wasn’t it?”

“I guess so. But look here,” continued Bert, appearing in his doorway
in the course of a struggle with his collar, “why is it Baker never
gets off any of those things himself? It’s always Jimmy Logan who
springs ’em. All Baker does is to sit and look glum. If he’s so
all-fired clever why doesn’t he say something once in a while? I think
he’s a bit of a pill.”

“He’s not so bad, I fancy,” replied Hugh. “Maybe you have to know him.
Some chaps are like that, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, but――――” Bert’s voice died out until he had at last wrenched the
refractory collar from his neck. Then: “Here’s another funny thing,
Hugh,” he said. “Jimmy lugs that fellow around every place with him;
sort of butts in with him everywhere. You’d think Jimmy was a――a
nurse-maid or something. Looks to me as if he was trying to introduce
his young friend into Society. I wouldn’t care a bit if he forgot to
bring him up here the next time.”

“What have you got against him?” inquired Hugh.

“Nothing much. He’s only a lower middler, though, and lower middlers
ought to keep to their own set. Besides, look at the cheek of the kid!
Going to try for pitcher on the first! What do you know about that?”

“But if he’s really any good at it,” began the other.

“How could he be? He can’t be more than fifteen, I guess.”

“You were young once yourself, old chap.”

“Yes, but I didn’t try to pitch on the first team,” grumbled Bert.
“He’s too fresh.”

“I’ll tell you just what’s the matter with him,” said Hugh, appearing
in the study in a suit of pink-striped pajamas. “He’s shy, Bert.”

“Shy! And going out for the first nine!”

“I know it doesn’t look so,” laughed Hugh, “but that’s just what his
trouble is, and I rather fancy that Logan, out of pure kindness, is
trying to bring him out, if you know what――――”

“Pure kindness!” scoffed Bert. “Jimmy’s kind enough, I guess, but if
that’s his game you can bet all you’ve got that he’s doing it for a
lark. I know Jimmy!”




CHAPTER IV

A CHANCE MEETING


Two days after the visit to Hugh Ordway’s room Jimmy Logan’s joke
which he had attributed to Dud bore unexpected fruit. The remark
had tickled the fellows who had heard it and consequently they very
promptly repeated it, with the natural result that within twenty-four
hours it got around to Starling Meyer himself. Star, as he was
generally called, was a large, good-looking boy of seventeen, well
supplied with self-conceit. He was a rattling good hockey player,
undoubtedly the best in school, and a fair performer with the second
nine in the outfield. There his athletic prowess ended, for he
considered――or pretended to consider――track sports unimportant and
football unscientific. He was a clever student and stood high in
class, and was, in consequence, rather a favorite with the faculty.
As a member of the Forum Society his activities were critical rather
than constructive, for he took no part in the debates beyond attending
them and pointing out the deficiencies of the debaters in a superior
manner. Most fellows liked him, especially those who were not clever
in the lines he affected, and even those who saw through his poses and
couldn’t stand his conceit accorded him honor for his brilliancy in
class-room and on the ice. Although Star roomed next door to Dud, the
latter knew him only as he knew three-fourths of the students, that is,
to nod to on passing. Once or twice, since they had both been rather
unimportant members of the second baseball team last year, they had
spoken. But beyond that they were strangers, and so when, two days
after that visit to 29 Lothrop, Star Meyer stopped Dud in front of Trow
by the simple but effective method of seizing him by the arm, Dud was
somewhat surprised. Star was scowling and Dud didn’t need more than
one glance at his face to realize that he was angry. Even when angry,
however, Star didn’t allow himself to forget his pose of contemptuous
superiority, and now when he spoke he managed a one-sided smile
designed to remind Dud of the honor being done him.

“Baker, you’re a remarkably fresh young kid,” began Star, “and some day
that mouth of yours is going to get you into a heap of trouble. Ever
think of that?”

Dud, puzzled, moved restively in the bigger boy’s grasp but failed to
get free. “I don’t know what you mean, Meyer,” he protested.

“Yes, you do. What’s the good of lying? After this you leave my name
out of your funny jokes; hear?”

“I don’t know what――――” began Dud again. Then recollection of Jimmy’s
bon-mot came to him and he flushed.

“The next time I’ll kick you from here to the river,” said Star in a
quietly venomous tone. “I’d do it now for a couple of buttons, too. You
leave my name strictly alone, Baker, after this. Understand me?”

“Yes, but honest, Meyer, I didn’t say――――” Then, however, Dud had to
stop, for, although innocent, to insist on the fact would put the blame
on Jimmy. He dropped his eyes. “All right,” he muttered.

Somehow that phrase seemed to add fresh fuel to Star’s smoldering
anger, for he took a fresh and very painful grip on Dud’s arm and said:
“All right, is it? Well, it isn’t all right, kid! You’re a sneaky
little bounder, that’s what you are! Saying smart-aleck things and then
trying to lie out of it! Don’t you ever mention my name again. If you
do I’ll get you and you won’t forget it in a hurry. Now you beat it!”

[Illustration: “‘You’re a sneaky little bounder, that’s what you are!’”]

With a sudden wrench at the captive arm, Star spun Dud around and aimed
a kick at him. Fortunately, a premonition of what was happening
caused Dud to jump aside and Star’s foot missed its goal. Dud, angry
himself now, turned with clenched fists and flashing eyes. But the
situation was distinctly hopeless. Star topped him by a head and Dud
was suddenly conscious of his own physical inferiority. Still he
might have tried conclusions had it not been for the smile of haughty
contempt on the other’s countenance. Somehow that smile was too much.
It seemed to say: “What, you dare to show disrespect to _me_? Begone,
impious mortal!” Dud’s fingers straightened again, he gulped down his
resentment, stole a doubtful glance at a group of fellows who were
looking on curiously from the dormitory steps and walked away, trying
his best to appear dignified and unconcerned but secretly feeling like
a whipped cur. Later, when he recounted the episode to Jimmy the latter
took him to task vigorously.

“Why didn’t you tell him you didn’t say it? I’m not afraid of the big
fraud!”

“Considering you’d told everyone that I had said it――――”

“Yes, that’s so.” Jimmy frowned mightily. “Well, then, why didn’t you
light into him? Don’t you see that the fellows who were watching you
will think you were afraid of him?”

“I wanted to, but――but somehow he looked so――so sort of _superior_――――”

“Yah! That’s Star’s best bluff! Bet you anything if you’d hit him just
one little tap on the nose he’d have run! Hang it, Dud, you’ve got to
play up, boy! Here I am making you out a regular feller, and the first
chance you get to――to put yourself in the lime-light you fall down!
Why, you had the finest sort of an opportunity to distinguish yourself!
Think what it would have meant to you, Dud! Fellows would have said:
‘What do you know about young Baker licking Star Meyer right in front
of Trow this morning? Had it all over him, they say! Beat him something
brutal! Some class to that kid, eh?’ That’s the way they’d have talked
you up. Now you’ve gone and――――”

“Don’t be an ass,” begged Dud with spirit. “You know plaguey well I
couldn’t lick Star. He’s six inches taller than I am, and he’s at least
seventeen years old, and he’s――he’s stronger――――”

“Son, when you get in a row with another chap,” replied Jimmy
emphatically, “don’t you stop to figure out how much bigger or stronger
he is. You jump in and get the first lick at him. You’ll be surprised
to find what a lot of inches that first whack takes off the other chap!
What you should have done――――”

“Well, I didn’t,” said Dud shortly. “You wouldn’t have, either, I
guess.”

Jimmy grinned. “Never mind what I’d have done, Dud. I’m not making a
name for myself. I’m not――――”

“Neither am I. You are. And I’m getting sick of it. It’s no use,
anyway. Let’s drop it.”

“Drop nothing,” replied Jimmy vigorously. “We’re getting on famously.
Why――――”

“You’ve just said I’ve queered myself!”

“I said you’d missed a chance to make a hit. So you have. But we can
fix that all right. Those fellows who saw it will talk, I guess, but we
can talk too. Who were they?”

“I don’t know. Stiles was one, though.”

“The sweetest little gossip in school,” commented Jimmy. “All right,
Dud, you leave it to me. Your Uncle James will fix it all hunky for
you. You sit tight and――yes, that’s the game! Dud, you must go around
looking very dignified for a couple of days.”

“Rot!”

“I mean it. You must make fellows think that you resisted a great
temptation and that it has――er――has sobered you. Get me?”

“What temptation?” asked Dud, puzzled.

“Why, the temptation to lose your temper and beat Star up, of course,”
explained Jimmy patiently. “That’s our line, don’t you see? It was only
by――by superhuman control that you manfully resisted the impulse to
fell him to the ground! Great stuff, what? You just wait till I tell
it!”

“Jimmy, for the love of lemons don’t start anything else! Every time
you get to talking you put me in a hole. You’ve got fellows thinking
I’m a wit, and they all look at me in a funny sort of a way as if they
were waiting for me to spring something bright, and I get tongue-tied
and can’t think of a thing to say. And you’re telling it around that
I’m going to be a wonderful pitcher, too. They don’t believe that, of
course, but it makes me look silly. And now you want to make me out
a――a scrapper――――”

“Not at all, not at all! Star resented your remark about him and spoke
insultingly to you. You gave him a beautiful calling down and he didn’t
dare talk back. Then, when your back was turned, he tried to kick you,
and you, stifling your――er――your natural and excusable indignation,
kept your temper wonderfully and walked superbly away. All through the
encounter your dignity was sublime!”

Dud groaned. “You’ll simply make me out an awful ass and fellows will
laugh at you――and me. I wish you wouldn’t, Jimmy!”

“That remark merely shows how little you appreciate my powers of
diplomacy,” replied the other in tones of sorrowful resignation. “But
never mind. I shall continue to do my best for you, Dud, even though
my efforts are unappreciated, misunderstood. Leave it all to me, my
young friend. Appear very dignified and――and aloof. Let’s see you look
aloof, Dud.”

Dud only looked disgusted.

“Not a bit like it,” resumed the other cheerfully. “More like this. Get
it? Sort of hinting at a secret sorrow or――no, that’s not exactly the
idea, either. You want to look like the hero in the second act of the
play, when everyone thinks he stole the jewels and the heroine spurns
him. He knows that he’s innocent, you see, and knows that the audience
will know it in the last act. So he just looks disdainful and a bit sad
and sort of moons around by himself and smokes a good deal to salve his
sorrow――――”

“I can’t smoke,” interrupted Dud practically. “They won’t let me, and I
don’t like it anyway.”

Jimmy waved his hand airily. “You get the idea, though, Dud. ‘Too proud
to fight’ is your line, old chap. Now shut up and let me think.”

Jimmy’s thinking resulted in action. That afternoon about four he might
have been observed lingering idly in front of School Hall, hands in
pockets, whistling tunelessly, evidently quite at a loose end. Nick
Blake tried to entice him up to Lit to play pool, Gus Weston suggested
the joys of a trip to the village for hot soda and Pete Gordon strove
to lure him to his room. Jimmy resisted heroically and was left to his
devices. It was a particularly disagreeable afternoon, with a hard
wind freezing the pools along the walk, and Jimmy from time to time
glanced impatiently at the big doors behind him. But it was nearly the
half-hour before they finally opened again to emit Ned Stiles. Warned
by the creaking of the portal, Jimmy instantly assumed the appearance
of one who, passing, has his attention attracted by the sound of an
opening door. This in the face of the fact that he had been all along
aware that Stiles, in trouble with Mr. Gibbs, the history instructor,
had been having an after-school séance with “Gusty” in a classroom.
Stiles was an upper middler, seventeen years old, an uninteresting and
rather sycophantic youth whom Jimmy secretly disliked very much. Stiles
suspected the fact and was consequently somewhat surprised when Jimmy,
after nodding briefly, halted and awaited him at the foot of the steps.

“Hello, Stiles. Rotten day, isn’t it? Seen Guy Murtha lately?”

Stiles shook his head, changing his books from one elbow to the other
in order to reach his handkerchief and blow a very red nose. Stiles
always had a cold in winter and snuffled from October to April.

“Can’t find him anywhere,” continued Jimmy in preoccupied tones,
accommodating his steps to those of the other boy and continuing on
toward Trow. “Star Meyer said he thought he’d gone to the village. I
want to see him awfully.”

“I haven’t seen him all day, I guess,” said Stiles. He was hoping
that some of the fellows would look from their windows and see him
hob-nobbing with Jimmy.

“Well, I guess I can get him at supper,” said the latter. Then he
chuckled, and, in response to Stiles’ unspoken question, explained, “I
was thinking of Star. He hasn’t got over it yet, I guess. Grumpy as
anything he was.”

“Got over what?” asked Stiles eagerly.

“Didn’t you hear about it?” Jimmy looked at him incredulously. “Why,
Dud Baker gave him an awful calling down this morning and Star took it
like a lamb. Say, that kid certainly has got spunk!”

Stiles viewed the other suspiciously, but Jimmy’s countenance expressed
truth and quiet amusement. Stiles grunted. Then he said “Huh!”
doubtfully.

“Star was mad as a hornet about something Dud said; some joke or other,
you know.”

Stiles nodded. “Yes, about the hockey team dying of Star-vation.”

“Was that it? Well, anyway, he got after Dud and wanted Dud to
apologize and Dud told him to chase himself, that it was all true and
that every fellow in school knew it, and a lot more. And Star was mad
enough to bite! Think of Dud getting away with it!”

“I saw it,” said Stiles, “but it didn’t look――just like that to me.
Star had Baker by the arm and it looked like he was reading the riot
act to him. And then he tried to kick him and Baker beat it.”

“Good thing for Star he did, then,” said Jimmy knowingly. “I’d hate to
stand up to Dud Baker when he was riled!”

“I didn’t know he was――that sort,” said Stiles interestedly. They had
reached the entrance to Trow and paused at the door.

“Dud Baker? Didn’t you ever hear why he left the school he was at
before he came here?”

Stiles shook his head.

“Well, it isn’t a nice story to tell, although it wasn’t all Dud’s
fault. I heard it from a fellow who was there and saw it. In fact, he
helped to carry the other fellow to his room. He was three years older
than Dud and a whole head taller, too, they say. But Dud isn’t the sort
of fellow you can bully. Or he wasn’t. Nowadays Dud will stand a lot.
I guess after that fracas he learned to keep his temper. The other
fellow was in bed a month. It was such a close shave for him that it
sort of sobered Dud up and he will go most any length now to keep from
scrapping. He’s got an awful punch, they say.”

Stiles looked vastly amazed, but Jimmy, glancing from the corners of
his eyes, saw to his satisfaction that there was no incredulity in the
amazement. Stiles had swallowed the yarn whole and was gasping for
more. But Jimmy knew the value of silence.

“Well, I guess I’ll run over to Lothrop. If you should see Guy you
might tell him I’m looking for him. So long.”

“But, look here, Logan,” called Stiles eagerly; “what was it Baker said
to Star, eh?”

“Oh, I don’t know just what he told him, but it was aplenty. And Star
took it, too!”

“But he――he kicked Baker! We saw him!”

“Never!” replied Jimmy vehemently. “He may have kicked _at_ him. In
fact, some fellow told me he did aim a kick at Dud when Dud’s back was
turned. Said Dud turned like a tiger on him then and he thought sure
it was all up with Star. But Dud controlled himself and walked quietly
away. Gee, I couldn’t have done that, Stiles! It must have been great
to see, wasn’t it?”

“Why――er――yes, only――――” Stiles paused. “It looked to us as if Baker
was scared, Logan. Of course he wasn’t, but that’s what it looked like.
I didn’t know he was such a scrapper.”

“Who, Dud?” Jimmy spread his hands expressively. “Take my advice, old
man, and don’t let him hear you say he looked scared, though maybe he
wouldn’t touch you. And then again he might lose control of that temper
of his and―――― Better not risk it, I guess.”

“I wouldn’t think of it,” said Stiles earnestly. “I didn’t really think
he was scared, you know; only some of the other fellows who saw it said
it _looked_ that way. Don’t tell Dud Baker I said that, will you?”

“Me? No indeed. In fact, I wouldn’t mention the thing to him at any
price. He’s awfully touchy, you see, and ever since this morning he’s
been sort of like a bear with a sore head. I guess there’s times when
he wishes he’d forgotten himself and let fly! Well, so long!”

Jimmy walked on toward Lothrop and Ned Stiles plunged through the
door and hurried down the corridor to leave his books and then spread
his news to all who would hearken to it. And Jimmy, approaching the
first entrance to Lothrop Hall, winked gravely at the ornamental brass
knocker.




CHAPTER V

DUD LOSES HIS TEMPER


“Winter,” observed Jimmy very disgustedly one morning toward the last
of February, “is sure ‘lingering in the lap of spring,’ as the poet
hath it. Between you and me, Dud, I guess winter’s fallen asleep there!
Here it is almost March and everything’s still covered up with snow or
ice. Or water,” he added a second later, his gaze falling to the pools
of melting snow that lay in the hollows of the campus.

The windows were wide open and the air that came in, while chill and
damp, still, somehow, held a suggestion――or perhaps a faint promise――of
spring. But the sky was leaden, between the walks the sod was hidden
under patches of dirty snow or ice that had begun to melt a little and
the whole morning world had a tired and bedraggled look. Jimmy, still
attired in pajamas, shivered and turned disapprovingly away. Then his
gaze fell on Dud and the disapproval increased, for Dud, half awake a
moment before, had nestled down on the rumpled pillow again and was
sleeping peacefully. Jimmy was righteously indignant.

“Wake up, you sluggard!” he bawled, pulling the clothes from the other.
“Here I’ve been talking to you for five minutes, saying perfectly
gorgeous things, and you haven’t heard a word! Get up, you lazy loafer,
and hear the birdies sing――or sneeze! Come out of there!”

Dud came out, rather in a heap, blinking confusedly, and strove to pull
the clothes from the bed to his shrinking form on the floor. But Jimmy
was merciless, and Dud was forced to arise grumblingly and rub his
sleepy eyes.

“Wh――what time is it?” he yawned.

“Never mind what time it is,” replied Jimmy severely. “It’s time you
were up and doing――――”

“‘With a heart for any fate,’” murmured Dud poetically if sleepily.
“What day is it?”

“Great Jumpin’ Jehosophat!” exclaimed Jimmy. “He doesn’t even know
the date! It’s a Tuesday, darling, and the month’s February, and the
year――――”

“Then it’s today practice begins,” said Dud. “I knew there was
something.” He arose and sought his bath robe. “I’ll bet it’s awfully
early. I don’t hear anyone up.”

“You hear me up,” responded his roommate. “As a matter of fact, I don’t
know just what time it is, because you forgot to wind the clock and my
watch has stopped and I couldn’t find yours. But it must be long after
six――――”

“Six!” grunted Dud in deep disgust. “What do you go pulling me out of
bed at six for? I’m going back again!”

“I said it was long after six. Where’s your watch? Have a look at it.”

Dud discovered that article at last dangling over the back of a chair,
it having escaped from a pocket, and in more mollified tones informed
Jimmy that it was twenty to seven. In the corridor a door opened and
slippered feet pattered toward the bathroom. Jimmy set his watch and
the clock, found his own robe and then, pausing at the door, asked
solicitously:

“How’s the old arm, Dud?”

“Sore,” was the answer. Dud bent it and flexed it――it was his right
one――and observed it scowlingly. “It’s lame all the way to the
shoulder. _Ouch!_ And the shoulder’s lame, too!”

“Too bad,” said Jimmy. “I was afraid you might overdo it, Dud.”

“Well, whose silly idea was it, anyway?” demanded Dud indignantly. “Who
suggested practicing every day, I’d just like to know?”

“I did, of course, but I didn’t tell you to do too much of it and lame
yourself, did I? What you’ve gone and done, Dud, is catch cold in it.
You ought to be mighty careful that way. You ought――――”

“Oh, dry up,” grumbled Dud. “You make me tired. If you know so pesky
much about it, why didn’t you say something before? I wouldn’t have
caught cold in it if you hadn’t insisted on slopping around in that
rink yesterday with the water up to your ankles! No wonder I caught
cold!”

“Well, you’ll have to lay off a few days, old chap. It’ll be all right
again, I guess.”

“That’s fine, isn’t it, when I’ve got to report for practice this
afternoon?”

“You won’t have to pitch, though,” responded Jimmy consolingly. “Just
do the setting-up stuff. Come on and get your bath.”

“I don’t want any bath,” muttered Dud, still feeling of his pitching
arm with cautious fingers. “You go ahead.”

“Dud,” said the other severely, “you’ve got a grouch. You must have got
out of bed the wrong way.”

“I did, when you pulled me out,” was the pointed reply. “And who
wouldn’t have a grouch, I’d like to know? I’ll have a fat chance to do
any pitching, won’t I?”

“You can tell ’em you lamed yourself, can’t you? Cheer up, Dud, and
come ahead before the crowd gathers. I’ll rub it for you when we get
back.”

“Huh! I guess that’s what’s the matter with it now. You nearly killed
me last night with your old massaging, as you called it.”

“It may hurt a little,” said Jimmy earnestly, “but it’s awfully good
for you. It’s regular Swedish stuff, Dud. I learned it from a chap at
home who works in the gym. We ought to have some liniment, though. I
wonder if that liquid dentifrice stuff of yours would do.”

“I’ll do my own rubbing, thanks,” replied the other ungraciously. “If
it hadn’t been for you――――”

“Help!” wailed Jimmy, hurrying through the door. Then came the sound
of quick scurrying in the corridor, and Dud, still mooning on the
side of the bed, guessed that Jimmy and some other chap were racing
for a bathtub. Dud hoped the other fellow would win. He continued to
explore the lamed muscles of his arm for several minutes, finding a
grim satisfaction in the twinges of pain he evoked. Finally, however,
he slung the cords of his bath-robe together and dejectedly followed
the others down the corridor. As luck would have it, three other youths
were awaiting their turns at the tubs, while Starling Meyer reached the
washroom at the same moment Dud did. Star fixed a haughty and scornful
glare on the younger boy.

“I’m ahead of you,” he announced briefly.

Most any other time Dud would have acquiesced without a murmur, but
this morning his peevishness made him combative and courageous. “Like
fun you are,” he replied scowlingly.

A perceptible thrill went through the other members of the waiting
group. Dud Baker and Star Meyer were going to have a scrap! They had
heard of Dud’s fighting reputation, and now they were to witness an
example of that youth’s quality! They almost held their breaths in the
excitement, their round eyes traveling from Star to Dud and back again
expectantly. Star frowned portentously.

“We’ll see,” he remarked coldly.

“You bet we’ll see,” agreed Dud, a strange recklessness taking
possession of him. Somehow this morning Star didn’t look nearly so
formidable, perhaps because his eyes were still heavy with sleep or
because the flaming red bath-robe in which he was enveloped was so
palpable an affront to good taste. Star stared an instant in perplexed
surprise and then deliberately turned his gaze away from Dud’s
pugnacious countenance, indicating contempt and scorn and several
other things that riled Dud still further. From the cubicles holding
the tubs came the rush and splash of water and the voices of the
bathers. No healthy boy ever bathed silently, and the four in the tubs
were, judging from the sounds, remarkably robust! Jimmy was chanting
a football pæan at the top of his lungs, another boy was singing
something remarkably tuneless and repetitional and the other two were
exchanging badinage across the partition at the tops of their voices.

After a moment one of the doors opened, a very pink-hued youth emerged
and it was the turn of one of the interested trio. Oddly enough
the latter showed a strange disinclination to avail himself of his
prerogative. Instead he offered in a whisper to let one of the others
precede him. But the reply was a shake of the head, the boy not even
removing his fascinated gaze from Dud.

There was nothing for it but to go then, and the youth went,
disappearing behind the door most reluctantly. Star moved impatiently
from one foot to the other. “You fellows in there, get a move on,” he
advised loudly. “We’ve been waiting here ten minutes.”

“Keep on waiting, old chap,” replied Jimmy, interrupting his song.
“Don’t know who you are, but you’re an awful fibber. I say, Dud, are
you there?”

“Yes,” growled Dud.

“Hand me a piece of soap from the stand, will you?”

Dud wanted to say no, but thought better of it and ungraciously crossed
the washroom and secured a cake of soap. “Catch,” he called.

“Stop it!” squealed Jimmy. “Don’t chuck! Here, pass it in.” The door
opened a bit and Jimmy’s face appeared in the slit. “Squeeze in,” he
whispered. “I’m through.”

Dud thrust the door open and entered, and Jimmy quickly bolted it
again. “Who’s out there?” he whispered. But before Dud could inform him
Star Meyer’s voice was raised in indignant protest.

“You can’t do that, Logan! It isn’t Baker’s turn. There are three of us
ahead of him. You come out of there, Baker!”

“I only took half a bath, Star,” replied Jimmy amiably. “I’m letting
Dud have the other half.”

“Yes, you are! No funny business now! Here, Benson, it’s your turn. Go
ahead in. They can’t do that.”

Benson, a slim, unaggressive youth, stared at Star in alarm. “I――I’m in
no hurry, thanks, Meyer. I――I’d just as lief wait, thanks.”

“Then you, whatever your name is, it’s your tub!”

The second boy shook his head and grinned. “I don’t like that one,” he
replied diplomatically. “The plug leaks. I’ll wait.”

Star scowled and looked doubtfully at the closed door. For some reason
intense quiet prevailed. Not a splash was heard. “Then if you fellows
won’t take it,” he said resolutely, “it’s my turn. That’s my tub,
Baker. You’d better come out of there.”

“I’ll be out when I’ve had my bath,” was the truculent reply, followed
by a sound very much like that caused by a hand descending approvingly
on a bare shoulder. Star strode across and rattled the door, but the
only response was the gurgling of water as the plug was withdrawn.

“I’ll report you to Mr. Gibbs,” announced Star loftily. “You’re
supposed to take your turn. You’d better let me in there.”

Just then the door opened and Jimmy came out. Star drew back a step and
Dud quickly shot the bolt again. Jimmy smiled sweetly and carelessly
at Star. “Don’t be a grouch, old man,” he said. “There’s lots of water
yet.”

Star fell back on his haughty attitude and observed Jimmy as from
Olympian heights. Jimmy chuckled. “Great stuff, Star,” he approved.
Then he nodded affably to the round-eyed Benson and took himself
gracefully from sight. At that moment another cubicle emptied itself of
its occupant and Star, swallowing his wrath, absent-mindedly entered
it, leaving the two waiting youths to scowl blankly at the closed
door. After a moment Benson ejaculated in a careful whisper: “_Hog!_”
The other boy nodded agreement. “I thought he and Baker were going to
scrap,” he confided sotto voce. “Gee, I wish they had. And I wish
Baker had done him up! He’s just a big bluff, that’s what he is!” From
the further cubicle came the sound of song. Dud was regaining his
temper.




CHAPTER VI

FIRST PRACTICE


There was a large attendance at half-past three that afternoon in the
baseball cage. Some forty-odd candidates, most of them last year’s
first and second team members, had assembled for work, while fully as
many others were on hand to watch proceedings. Not that anything very
exciting promised, but it was a raw, uncomfortable sort of day outside
and fellows were glad of any event that offered a half hour’s mild
amusement. The cage was not a very ambitious affair, for it had been
an after-thought and had been built after the building was erected and
at a sacrifice of one of the two bowling alleys, which, thrown into
the space formerly occupied by a storeroom, supplied area for a modest
cage. It was large enough to throw at base distance in and to hold
batting practice in if the batter didn’t attempt anything more than a
tap. Also, of course, it made an excellent place for the pitchers to
limber up.

Dud and Jimmy went over to the gymnasium together, for the latter had
finally decided to try his luck with the first nine. When, having got
into his gymnasium suit, Dud looked around for Jimmy, he was rather
disconcerted to find himself confronting Starling Meyer across the
bench. Dud didn’t feel so brave today, and would have been just as
satisfied if he hadn’t run across the hockey star. But the latter
only glared in a haughtily disgusted manner and turned his back, and
Dud heaved a sigh of relief, not loud but fervent, and made his way
unobtrusively out of the locker-room. He was careful to nod or speak to
such fellows as he knew, although lots of times it took a good deal of
courage. He was obeying Jimmy’s directions, however.

“Don’t wait for fellows to speak to you,” Jimmy had ordered. “Speak
first. Don’t act as if you were afraid they wouldn’t know you, either.
Just say, ‘Hello, Smith,’ sort of careless-like, or, if you don’t know
them fairly well, just nod and smile. Don’t grin, smile. Like this.”
And Jimmy turned the corners of his mouth up slightly and nodded his
head very briefly. “Get the idea! ‘I know who you are, but I don’t
recall the name.’ But don’t try that on the big fellows like――well,
like Murtha and Trafford and those chaps. You want to be polite to
them, sort of cordial, too. Only don’t let them think you’re trying to
swipe.”

“Which I am,” Dud had interpolated a trifle bitterly.

“Not at all! You’re merely being――er――tactful. There’s a difference.
Tact and diplomacy are great things, Dud. You want to practice ’em.”

“Toadying, I call it!”

“Tut, tut! Nothing like it. Call it――call it a studied effort to
please!”

“Call it what you like,” Dud had replied somberly. “It’s poor business.”

“Some of our greatest citizens have been diplomats, Dud. Look at me!”

Dud’s gaze picked out a number of baseball celebrities whom, under
Jimmy’s tutelage, he had come to know well enough to speak to. In every
case, if he found himself near enough to speak he spoke, or, failing
that, he nodded, trying to look quite at his ease and not succeeding
very well. Guy Murtha was there, of course, for Guy was this year’s
captain. He was eighteen, a tall, decidedly plain youth with so many
likable qualities that one soon forgot about his features. And Bert
Winslow and Nick Blake were talking together further on, and near by
were Ben Myatt and Pete Gordon and Nate Leddy. And Hugh Ordway was one
of a group the rest of whom Dud knew only by sight. Jimmy appeared from
somewhere and about that moment Mr. Sargent, the physical director and
baseball coach, came in with Tris Barnes, the manager. Mr. Sargent,
or “Pete,” as he was called, was short and square, with a beard and
mustache and a pair of restless brown eyes behind the big round lenses
of his spectacles. He had a nervous, impatient manner of speaking and
was quite likely, to the secret amusement and delight of the fellows,
to get his words twisted when the least bit excited.

“All out of the cage, please, but team candidates,” was his order.
“Close that door, somebody. Better bolt it, Churchill. Now, fellows,
if you’ll kindly top stalking――ah――stop talking, we’ll get started.
Captain Murtha, want to say anything?”

“I guess not, sir. There’ll be plenty of time to talk later on,
won’t there? I’d like to say, though, that we’re going to need more
candidates than are here today and I wish you fellows would try and
get others to come out. There’s no use waiting until we get outdoors,
for this work in the cage is very important and fellows who miss it
won’t stand much show. Our season begins pretty early this spring, a
week earlier than last year, and we haven’t any too much time to get
in shape. I’d like mighty well to see fully twenty more fellows here
tomorrow.”

“Yes, yes; this is a very poor showing,” agreed Mr. Sargent. “Well,
we’ll make a start, fellows. We’re going to have setting-up work this
afternoon and for a few days. How’s that, Barnes? No, no dumb-bells
today, thanks. Just get in line, fellows, will you? About four rows
will do. That’s it. Now then, follow me, please. And keep your mind on
what you’re doing. One, two, three, four! Stretch the arms out as far
as they’ll go. All right. Now the wrists; twist! One, two, three, four,
five, six, seven, eight――keep it up! All right!”

It soon became tiresome to Dud, for he hadn’t been in training and
the gymnasium work twice weekly had not been strenuous. It was, he
reflected, rather remarkable to find so many muscles that creaked
in unsuspected places! Almost in front of him, in the second row,
Star Meyer was going through the evolutions easily and gracefully
and untiringly, and with something of his usual haughty disdain for
anything not of his own devising. In gymnasium shirt and trunks Star
showed strong and muscular, and Dud felt a warm satisfaction over
the fact that he and Star had not come to blows that morning in the
bathroom! Star’s legs were things to admire as the muscles played over
them like whip-cords and Dud wished that he had paid a little more
attention to his physical condition during the past year or two. He
imagined that his own thin, elongated body must look strangely out of
place there with all those other well-conditioned ones. Further along,
where he could just be seen out of the corners of Dud’s eyes, stood
Jimmy, sturdy and stocky, loafing a bit when Mr. Sargent’s gaze was
not on him. Dud wanted to loaf, too, but didn’t dare.

The calisthenics lasted less than a half-hour, by which time Dud was
not the only one breathing hard and perspiring freely, and then Barnes
set the candidates’ names down. When it was Dud’s turn to register
Star Meyer was nearly at his elbow, a fact which added to Dud’s
embarrassment.

“Name?” asked the manager.

“Dudley Baker, Upper Middle.”

“Age, Baker?”

“Fifteen.”

“Experience?”

“I was on the second nine last year.”

“Position?”

“P-pitcher, please.”

Someone sniggered. It wasn’t Star, for Star never sniggered. It was too
low and common. Star only looked insultingly amused. Barnes looked a
little amused, too, although he tried not to.

“All right, Baker. Get on the scales and let me know your weight
tomorrow. Don’t forget, please.”

Dud, aware of more than one amused countenance, moved away and sought
the locker-room, conscious that his cheeks were very red. Jimmy,
already out of his gymnasium togs, noticed and frowned disapprovingly.

“Why the blushes, Dud?” he asked severely.

Dud muttered something evasive and passed on to his locker. But later
Jimmy wormed it out of him. Jimmy always could. And Jimmy frowned once
more. “We’ll have to do something with Star,” he said thoughtfully,
“something to make him have a little more respect for his betters. I
wonder――――”

Dud laughed. “I thought wondering was my stunt, Jimmy.”

“So it is. I don’t wonder, then. I――I merely speculate. Look here, Dud,
know what I think?” Dud shook his head hopelessly. “Well, then,” Jimmy
went on, “I think you’d better have a show-down with Star.”

“What sort of a――a show-down?” faltered Dud.

“I mean pick a quarrel with him and fight him. You see, Star has a good
deal of influence, and I’m afraid he’s been talking. One or two things
have reached me, you know. What we’d better do is make an impression on
him.”

“Thanks!”

“You’re not much of a slugger, are you?” Dud shook his head. “No, I
suppose not,” continued Jimmy thoughtfully. “Well, neither am I, but I
guess there are a few tricks I could teach you. Besides, I have a hunch
that Star isn’t any fonder of scrapping than you are. I wouldn’t be a
bit surprised if you could bluff him, Dud. Of course, I may be wrong,
but that’s my idea of him.”

“It’s a fine idea,” said Dud sarcastically, “but suppose you’re wrong?
Then what?”

“Why, then you’ll have to mix it up a bit,” replied the other quite
cheerfully. “But we won’t try it until we’ve got in shape some. We’d
ought to have a couple of pairs of light gloves. Know any fellow who
has any, Dud?”

“No, I don’t,” answered the other emphatically. “And if you think I’m
going to stand up to Star Meyer and have him knock me around just
to――just to please you, you’re horribly mistaken. Nothing doing!”

“To please me! I like that! It isn’t to please me, you silly chump;
it’s for your own good. Star is distinctly――distinctly inimical to your
interests, and――――”

“Yes, and he’d be distinctly inimical to my nose,” interrupted Dud
warmly. “And I like my nose the way it is. You may not, but I do. I’m
not going to fight him, and that’s all there is to it!”

Jimmy was plainly disappointed. “It seems the only way, though, Dud,”
he said pleadingly. “If you know any better way―――― And besides you’ve
got a reputation for slugging to keep up. What will fellows think if
you let Star sneer at you and don’t call him down?”

“You had no business telling fellows I was a fighter,” said Dud. “You
didn’t consult me about that and I’m not responsible now for what they
think. I’m not a fighter and never was and never could be. I don’t know
anything about it. And――and I don’t want to.”

Jimmy sighed and shrugged. “You’re extremely _difficile_, Dud,” he said
in a discouraged tone. “I plan things for you――――”

“Plan things! I should say you did! You’re a bully little planner,
Jimmy, but I don’t like your plans. Think up something that won’t get
me killed, please!”

“Piffle! What if Star did give you a black eye? You’d have the credit
of putting up a game fight and fellows would like you better. I tell
you, Dud, a fellow’s got to risk something now and then!”

“You do the risking then,” replied the other a trifle sullenly. “I
don’t want any black eyes, thanks.”

“Oh, all right then. Still, we’ve got to take Star down a peg or two,
Dud. But don’t you worry. I’ll fix my giant intellect on the problem.
Leave it all to me, old chap.”

“Yes,” answered Dud bitterly, “and find myself all beaten up some fine
day! Look here, Jimmy, I guess this thing’s gone about far enough.
Let’s drop it now. I――I guess I don’t care so much about being a
‘regular feller’ as I did. It――it’s too plaguey strenuous!”

“Give it up just when we’re beginning to show results?” cried Jimmy in
amazement. “Never! When I start a thing, Dud, I see it through. That’s
me, old chap. Having once set my hand to the plow――――”

Dud groaned in despair. “Well, then,” he muttered, “I wish you’d go off
and plow somewhere else!”

“Cheer up, Dud, the dawn is breaking!” Jimmy slapped him encouragingly
on the back. “We’ll make a regular feller of you yet!”

“That’s all well enough, Jimmy, but what I want to know is this. What’s
Star Meyer going to do when he hears that I’m telling it around school
that he’s afraid of me? It’s a wonder to me that he hasn’t heard it
already!”

Jimmy winked. “I sort of think he has, Dud,” he said softly.




CHAPTER VII

BEN MYATT ADVISES


If, however, Starling Meyer had heard Jimmy’s version of that encounter
with Dud, he certainly gave no sign. When he and Dud met, which was
frequently now that daily baseball practice was going on in the
cage, he either looked over Dud’s head or deigned him a fleeting and
disdainful glance. But Dud didn’t feel at all badly because he received
no more attention. In fact, he was extremely glad every time he looked
at Star and pondered on that youth’s wealth of muscle and length of
arm, and he hoped from the bottom of his heart that Star would keep
right on treating him with distant disdain――the more distant the better!

Meanwhile Jimmy, being a firm believer in preparedness, had procured
two pairs of light-weight boxing gloves from different sources and Dud,
much against his inclination, was made to don a pair every day before
supper and do his best to master the rudiments of self-defense. I don’t
believe, just between you and me, that Jimmy knew a whole lot about
boxing, but at least he knew more than his friend did. Dud was the
veriest tyro and those first lessons, undertaken by Dud with no relish
and one might well say under compulsion, were strange affairs. With
the study table drawn back to the length of the green cord connecting
droplight and ceiling plug――the droplight met a natural fate during the
third lesson――an eight-foot “ring” was secured, and in this, with much
thudding of shoes and thumping of gloves, the two feinted and parried
and struck. The striking, though, was somewhat one-sided at first,
Jimmy being the striker and Dud the strikee, to coin a convenient word.
Anyone pausing outside the door of Number 19 might have heard, in spite
of the closed transom, a conversation calculated to arouse curiosity.

“Watch your head now!... Well, I warned you, didn’t I?... Keep your
right in front of you! Don’t drop your arm like that or.... Now
lead! Quick! Oh, put some pep in it, Dud!... More like this; see?...
Feint with your right and come up quick with your left straight for
my chin!... Get it? Try it again.... That’s better, only you’re too
slow. You give it away beforehand. Keep your eyes on mine and don’t
look where you’re going to hit.... Sorry, Dud! Was it too hard?... You
had your guard down, you see.... Quicker on your feet, old chap! Keep
moving! Don’t get set or I’ll.... I just wanted to show you what would
happen, Dud. Don’t get mad about it. The only way to learn.... Good
one! You got me that time! Right on the nose! Bully work!...”

After some half-dozen lessons Dud began to learn. And Jimmy, having
procured a paper-covered book in the village which was entitled “Boxing
Self-Taught,” studied it diligently and became more proficient. I
doubt that Jimmy, even when at his best, was what might be termed a
scientific boxer, and Dud never developed beyond the hammer-and-tongs
stage, but they got to fancying themselves quite a bit after a
fortnight or so and talked learnedly of “hooks” and “upper-cuts” and
“side-stepping” and other mysterious things. And by that time Dud
had become really interested and viewed Star Meyer with far less
awe. In fact, though I grieve to relate it, he even got to the point
where he speculated on what it would feel like to place his fist in
violent contact with Star’s supercilious nose! The conclusion that
he invariably arrived at was that the sensation would be distinctly
pleasurable! But much to Jimmy’s disappointment――and a little to Dud’s,
too, I fancy――Star offered the latter no possible excuse for doing such
a thing.

“He’s afraid of you,” grieved Jimmy. “Isn’t that the limit? A big,
husky chap like him――――”

“He,” corrected Dud.

“――――Being afraid of a fellow six inches smaller,” continued the other,
superbly disregarding the interruption. “Wouldn’t it make you weary?
What we’ve got to do, Dud, is force a quarrel on him. There’s no use
waiting for him to start anything!”

“Well, but why?” asked Dud doubtfully. “As long as he isn’t bothering
me――――”

“He _is_ bothering you! He――he’s a thorn in your flesh!”

“Oh!” said the other vaguely. “Is he?”

“Of course he is! He’s talking, too. Some of the things he’s said have
got back to me.”

“What?” asked Dud.

“Never mind what. You wouldn’t want to hear ’em, I guess.”

Dud laughed. “You’re making that up, Jimmy,” he charged. “You’re just
dying to get me into a scrap with him. I wouldn’t mind――much, although
I guess he’d lick me, but I don’t see any use in fighting him about
nothing. Of course, if he _did_ anything, or _said_ anything――――”

“Haven’t I been telling you――――”

“And I heard him say it,” added Dud hastily, “why, that would be
different.”

“Oh, if you’re going to wait for him to knock you down!”

“I’m not,” replied Dud indignantly, “but I can’t fight him for nothing
at all!”

“Huh!” Jimmy viewed his chum gloomily. “I don’t see what use it is then
to go to all that trouble to learn to fight if――if you aren’t going to
make use of――of your knowledge. That’s an economical waste, Dud. And
waste is sinful.”

“It isn’t a waste,” said Dud. “It’s a good thing to know how to defend
yourself. Besides, that boxing business has put my arm back in shape
for pitching. It feels great nowadays. Just feel of that muscle, Jimmy.”

“Not bad,” decided the other, grudgingly. Then, more brightly: “Say,
you ought to be able to hand Star a peach of a wallop with that, Dud!
Well, all we can do is hope for the best. We don’t want to fight, but
if we have to――――”

“We?” queried Dud. “I don’t see where you come into it! You’re always
talking about ‘we’ fighting Star Meyer, but it’s me――――”

“I,” said Jimmy sweetly.

“It’s I, then, who would have to do it. If you want Star licked so
plaguey much why don’t you do it yourself?”

Jimmy considered a moment. “Well, say, that isn’t a bad idea,” he
replied at last. “Someone ought to do it, that’s sure! If you’re quite
certain you don’t mind――――”

“I’m dead sure,” said Dud emphatically.

“Then maybe――――” Jimmy felt of his arm muscles. “I’ll think it over,”
he concluded thoughtfully.

Baseball practice had by this time really become baseball practice.
I mean by that that the period of dumb-bell exercises and setting-up
drills had passed and the candidates, reënforced by some dozen or so
late-comers, were passing and batting and learning the tricks of the
game. The battery candidates comprised Nate Leddy, Ben Myatt, Gus
Weston, Will Brunswick, Joe Kelly and Dud Baker, pitchers, and Pete
Gordon, Hal Cherry and Ed Brooks, catchers. Of the pitchers, Myatt was
last year’s star and a clever twirler, Leddy was a good man but not
so dependable. Weston had speed but little control, and the others
were still unknown quantities, except that both Kelly and Dud had
twirled a few times for the second nine the spring before. Pete Gordon
was the regular catcher and Brooks the second-choice man. Cherry was
a beginner who showed promise. At the end of the first two weeks of
indoor work, the battery candidates were given their first try-out one
afternoon at the conclusion of the regular practice, and Dud, somewhat
to his surprise, survived. Still, as Jimmy kindly pointed out to him
later, that didn’t mean much since it was the custom to keep all the
would-be pitchers until the team got out of doors. Nevertheless, Dud
was encouraged and did his level best to make good. Myatt, a big,
likable chap of eighteen or over, took a real interest in the efforts
of the younger members of the staff and was generous with advice and
instruction. One afternoon, shortly before the candidates got out-doors
for the first time, he took Dud in hand after practice.

“Say, Baker,” Ben called as Dud was leaving the cage, “got time to
pitch me a few?”

Dud, pulling his glove off, turned back. “Why, yes,” he answered. “Want
me to?”

“Yes. Yell to Ed Brooks to lend me his mitt, will you?” A minute later
Ben took his place in front of the net and thumped the big mitten
encouragingly. “All right now, boy! Try a few easy ones. That’s nice. I
say, Baker, mind if I give you a hint or two?”

“I’d be awfully glad if you would,” replied Dud eagerly. “I know I’m
not much good.”

“Who says so?”

“I do.” Dud smiled.

But Ben shook his head reprovingly. “You ought to be the last one to
say it,” he announced gravely. “First thing you want to do, boy, is
stop tying yourself in a knot on your wind-up. You’ll never last nine
innings if you go through all that gymnastic stuff. What’s the big
idea?”

“I don’t know,” faltered Dud. “That’s the way I’ve always done it, I
suppose.”

“Well, I wouldn’t do it any more. You see if you can’t reach the
toe-plate without going through so many motions. Cut out that second
swing of yours, why don’t you? Here’s you.” Ben went through an
exaggerated imitation of Dud’s wind-up. “Too much work, see? If you had
a man on second, now, you couldn’t do half that, boy; he’d be sliding
into the plate before you were through. Get your body into it and stop
throwing your arm around. It’s the body that puts the speed into the
ball. You want to start easy and work up gradually until, when the ball
leaves your hand, you’re at the top of the pitch. The way you do it,
Baker, you get a lot of motion up and then lose it before you pitch.
And you tire yourself a lot. I couldn’t last five innings if I threw my
arms around like that. I hope you don’t mind my criticizing you, Baker.”

Dud didn’t, and tried to say so, but his response was not much more
than a murmur. However, Ben went on cheerfully.

“Just at first you won’t have the control you have now, I guess, but
after you’ve got on to the hang of it you’ll find you can pitch a lot
easier. Just try it, will you?”

Dud’s first attempt was a complete failure, for he started unthinkingly
on that second swing, tried to stop it and got so confused that he
didn’t even let the ball out of his hand. Ben suggested getting used
to the wind-up before trying to pitch, and so Dud twirled and twisted a
number of times, uncomfortably conscious of the few loiterers watching
through the netting, and finally got so that he was able to reach the
moment of delivery without falling over his feet. But when he tried to
pitch a few straight balls into Ben Myatt’s mitten he discovered that
the change in his method had seemingly spoiled his direction, for more
than once Ben had to reach for a wide one or else scoop one off the
floor.

“Don’t worry about that,” said Ben. “You’ll get your eye back again.
That’s enough for now, I guess. There’s one more thing I’d suggest,
though, Baker. You’re trying to pitch too many different things. You
were hooking them in and out and dropping them and trying to float
’em, too. You don’t need all that, boy. Not yet, anyhow. You take my
advice and learn to pitch a good straight ball. Get so you can send it
high, low, in or out or right in the groove. Then learn to change your
pace without giving it away to the batsman. After that there’s plenty
of time for drops and hooks. I tell you, Baker, the fellow that has
control is the fellow the batters hate to stand up to. This thing of
having fifty-seven varieties of balls doesn’t cut much ice, old man.”
Ben opened the door and gently pushed Dud out ahead of him and they
went across to the locker-room. “A chap who can tease the batter with
the straight ones, slip one across for a strike now and then, follow
a fast one with a slow one and do it all without changing his style
is the fellow who wins his games. I’m not saying hooks and floaters
and all those aren’t useful, for they are, but I do say that when a
fellow’s beginning he ought to pin his faith to just one thing, and
that’s control. Don’t be worried if they hit you hard at first; they’re
bound to; but just keep on learning to put ’em where you want to, and
the first thing you know you’ll be fooling them worse than the curve
artist. Practice that new wind-up, boy, and cut out all the unnecessary
gee-gaws that just use up your strength. Nine innings is a whole month
sometimes and it’s the very dickens to feel your muscles getting sore
along about the sixth. So long, Baker. Good luck.”

Dud thought it over while he stood under the shower and while he pulled
on his clothes. Maybe Ben Myatt was right, he reflected, but he was a
bit proud of his ability to “put something on the ball” and confining
himself to straight ones didn’t sound interesting. For a moment he
wondered if Ben was trying to steer him away from his hooks and drops
so that he wouldn’t prove a rival. Then the absurdity of that suspicion
dawned and he smiled at it. In the first place, Ben wouldn’t be in
school another year, and in the second place Dud was certain that he
would never be able to pitch as Ben could if he kept at it all his
life! In the end, by which time he was tying his scarf in front of one
of the little mirrors, he decided that Ben’s advice was excellent and
that he would follow it, for a while at least.

The next afternoon, Hal Cherry, catching Dud and Kelly, looked a trifle
surprised and a bit disgusted, too, when Dud’s delivery suddenly
exhibited a strange eccentricity. Cherry had to spear the air in
all directions that day, and Mr. Sargent, watching and counseling
the fellows, followed Dud’s doings with dubious eyes. Nor was Dud
perceptibly more steady the day following, and Brooks, who caught him,
protested more than once. By that time Dud was getting discouraged and
was strongly tempted to go back to his former more elaborate and far
more labored wind-up, and would have done so probably had it not been
for Ben Myatt’s brief encouragement after practice.

“Haven’t got the hang of it yet, I see, Baker,” remarked the veteran.
“Keep on, though. It’ll come to you in another day or two, I guess. Try
not to slow up just before your pitch, boy. That’s your trouble now.”

Pondering that hint, Dud hauled Jimmy out of bed early the next morning
and conducted him out back of the dormitory, where, stationed midway
between two windows, he made cheerful efforts to get his hands on the
balls that Dud pitched him. Many of them, however, bounded unchallenged
from the bricks and trickled back to Dud. One particularly wild heave
came so near a window that Dud shivered, pocketed the ball and led the
way back to the room.

“If,” said Jimmy disgustedly, on the way, “that’s a sample of what you
can do with this simplified wind-up you’re telling about you’d better
go back to the old stuff. There’s nothing in it, Dud!”

“I’m going to stick it out a bit longer, though,” was the answer. “Ben
says it will take time, Jimmy.”

“Yes, and patience,” said Jimmy sarcastically, “the catcher supplying
the patience. After you’ve ‘beaned’ a few batters, Dud, they’ll put you
in jail as a danger to the community. I’m glad I don’t have to stand up
to you!”

Two days after that, March having departed very lamb-like, the cage was
abandoned and outdoor practice began.




CHAPTER VIII

A WILD PITCH


April at its best is an uncertain month, and April this spring lived
up to its reputation. No sooner had the baseball candidates grown
accustomed to the feel of soft and springy turf under their feet than a
three-days’ rain began and they were forced to retire again to the dim
and unsympathetic cage. The track and field candidates defied weather
conditions until the cinders held pools of water and the pits became
of the consistency of oatmeal porridge. Then the sun shone forth again
and, after another day of indoor confinement, the players once more
trailed down to Lothrop Field. The diamond was far from dry, but the
sun was warm and a little south-east breeze promised its best efforts.
Candidates for the second team were called out that afternoon, and
Jimmy, whose status with the first was still a matter for conjecture,
thought seriously of returning to the fold. Dud, however, refused to
sanction the step and so Jimmy grumblingly stayed where he was.

“I know just how it’ll be, though,” he said pessimistically. “They’ll
keep me here until Crowley’s got his second team all made up and then
they’ll drop me. Oh, all right!” He stretched his legs and leaned more
comfortably back against the railing of the stand. “After all, it’s too
nice a day to do anything. I pity those poor dubs out there catching
flies and wrenching their arms throwing the ball in. Me for the quiet,
untroubled life of a substitute outfielder. You’ll have to go in and
pitch pretty quick, Dud; Pete’s got his eye on you now; but I’ll just
sit here and keep this bench warm and――――”

Jimmy’s remarks were rudely interrupted.

“Hi, Logan!” called Mr. Sargent. “Go on out there to left and get your
hands on some of those flies. Lively, now! Send Boynton in.”

Jimmy arose with alacrity, casting a despairing glance at Dud, and
ambled off. Hugh Ordway, seated further along the bench, got up and
joined Dud.

“Awfully pretty, isn’t it?” observed Hugh, nodding toward the wide
expanse of new green that led away to the ribbon of river beyond.
“Reminds me a lot of home――I mean England.” It sounded as if he was
correcting himself, and Dud asked:

“But England is your home, isn’t it?”

Hugh nodded. “I suppose it is, only when I’m here I like to remember
that I’m part American, if you know what I mean.”

“Your mother is American, isn’t she?” asked Dud.

“Yes, she was born in Maryland. Her folks have lived there for a long
time. It’s a bit odd, Baker, but sometimes I feel as if I were more
U. S. A. than British. Being sort of half-and-half like that, a fellow
doesn’t quite know where he is, if you know what I mean!”

“I dare say,” murmured Dud. It was the first time that Hugh Ordway had
ever approached him, and he felt rather embarrassed. The desire to make
a good impression on the other only resulted in tying his tongue up.
But Hugh appeared not to notice the fact.

“How are you getting on,” he asked, “with your bowl――your pitching?”

“Just fair, I guess. How do you like it? Baseball, I mean.”

“Crazy about it! I’ll never learn to play decently, I fancy, but it’s
a jolly game, isn’t it? What I like best is batting, only I can’t seem
to hit the ball very well yet. Myatt fools me every time, you know. I
got a couple of good ones off Nate Leddy the other day, though. Are you
pitching today?”

“I guess Pete will put me in for an inning or two later. He’s giving us
all a chance now. I――I’m pretty rotten so far.”

“Haven’t found yourself yet, I fancy. It takes a bit of time, eh? Bert
says a lot of us will be dropped to the second pretty soon. I say,
Baker, I wasn’t thinking of you, you know!”

“Oh, I’ll get dropped, all right, I guess.”

“Hope not, I’m sure. In my own case I wouldn’t mind a bit. Maybe I
could play well enough to make the second. Or a class team perhaps.”

“I thought you――you fielded very well the other day,” said Dud politely.

Hugh laughed. “You’re spoofing, I fancy. I did catch a few, but I was
beastly scared of them. Bert says I looked as if I were going to catch
them in my mouth! Odd feeling you have when those balls begin to come
down, getting bigger and bigger every second, and you’re wondering
whether you’ll catch them or if they’ll hit you on the nose! Jolly good
fun, though! Corking! Lots more exciting than cricket.”

“Is it? I never played cricket.”

“Oh, no end! Cricket’s a bully good game, too, but it’s a lot more
quiet and――er――sedate, if you know what I mean. Well, I’ll toddle. Hope
you get on finely, Baker. And drop in some time, eh?”

“Thanks,” answered Dud. Then, as Hugh moved away, he blurted: “Did you
really mean that, Ordway?”

“What? Why, of course!”

“Then――then I will. I didn’t know――――” Dud’s voice trailed off into
silence as he dropped an embarrassed gaze. Hugh smiled and nodded.

“Right-o, Baker! Glad to have you.”

Dud, wishing he hadn’t made such a fool of himself, bent stern
attention on his glove until the red had subsided from his cheeks. “He
will think me an awful kid,” he reflected. “Asking things like that
and――and blushing like a silly girl! And of course he couldn’t say
anything else. You won’t catch me going!”

Further self-communing was cut short by Mr. Sargent. “All right,
Baker,” called the coach. “Warm up, will you? Brooks will catch you.
See if you can’t steady down today.”

Dud squirmed out of his sweater, pulled his glove on and joined Ed
Brooks in front of the first-base stand. Brunswick had taken Kelly’s
place in the box and it would be Dud’s turn next. As Brooks tossed
the ball to him and spread his hands invitingly wide apart Dud hoped
hard that he would be able to steady down, but doubted it. As yet
the recollection of that impulsive question to Ordway still made his
face burn. Consequently when, after pitching a half-dozen easy ones
to warm his arm, he began to put on a little speed, he was pleased as
well as surprised to find that some of his old control had come back.
Encouraged, he made greater efforts to put the ball where he wanted to
and, unconsciously, began to “steam up.” But Brooks cautioned him and
Dud slowed down.

“That’s pitching ’em,” called Brooks. “They’re all straight, though,
Dud, or pretty near it. Try a slant.”

But Dud resisted the temptation to “hook” one and shook his head.
Instead, he sent over a slow one that fooled Brooks completely and
brought from the latter a laugh at his own expense. “Do it again,” he
urged, as he threw the ball back. “I want to get used to those.”

“I’ll wait until you’re not expecting it,” laughed Dud.

There was no line-up today, but first and second-string players were
batting and running the bases, taking their places in the field
ultimately to let others come in. Weston, Kelly and Brunswick had
held the mound for an inning or two apiece, while Ben Myatt and Nate
Leddy were trying to improve their hitting, a thing that the latter
was rather weak at. Presently the outfielders were called in in a body
and others took their places, and changes were made in the infield.
Brunswick went to the shower and Dud to the pitcher’s box. Pete Gordon
was still catching.

“All right, Baker!” called Pete. “Strike ’em out, boy. Put her over
now.”

Neil Ayer fouled one and then landed on the next and went to first,
and Bert Winslow took his place. The pitchers were not expected to
work hard, for a batsman stayed in until he hit or was caught out.
Bert was difficult to dispose of, since he cannily refused everything
that wasn’t distinctly a strike, and Dud pitched a dozen deliveries
before Bert found one he liked and rapped it to deep center. Meanwhile
Mr. Sargent was coaching Ayer from first to second and on to third,
making him slide to every base even though he was not threatened. When,
however, he tried to steal home on Dud’s wind-up, Dud managed to keep
his head, send in a fast one and saw Ayer nailed a yard from the rubber.

It wasn’t especially interesting work and some of the hits were
screechers into deep right, left or center that the outfielders
couldn’t begin to get their hands onto. Dud had not had much experience
in fielding his position and was momentarily in fear that a hot liner
would come at his head. If one did, he was quite certain he would duck
and quite disgrace himself. But when, after some nine or ten batters
had faced him, Captain Murtha hit one squarely on the nose and it came
straight at Dud, the latter involuntarily put up his hands and, while
he didn’t make the catch, knocked it down, recovered it and tossed out
Murtha at first. He got a round of applause from the stand for that,
which so rattled him that his next delivery shot past Gordon a good
four feet to his right and let in a runner from third. The batter sent
the next one off on a voyage to deep center and took two bases. The
base-runners were taking such extraordinary chances and Mr. Sargent
was making such a hullabaloo back of first that Dud began to lose his
control badly, and he was forced to put exactly eleven balls across
before Weston, tired of waiting for a good one, reached for a wide ball
and fouled out to first-baseman.

Then Star Meyer faced him and Dud made up his mind to make Star work
for his hit. Star viewed the pitcher with amused contempt and Dud felt
his cheeks tingle. But he set his teeth and sent a high one across
that the batter disdained and followed it with one that barely cut the
inner corner of the plate and was just knee-high. Star looked doubtful
about it, but Gordon proclaimed it “a daisy, Star! They don’t come
any better.” That apparently impressed Star, for he swung hard at the
succeeding delivery, which, happening to be one of Dud’s slow ones,
crossed the plate almost a second after the swing! Someone laughed and
Star frowned haughtily. Dud tempted him with another wide one and then
sneaked one across right in the groove and caught the batter napping.
Gordon thumped the ball into his glove before he threw it back, a
signal of commendation with the big catcher.

“That’s the stuff, Baker!” he called. “That’s pitching ’em, boy!”

Dud tried another slow one and again Star swung too soon and again a
laugh greeted the performance. This time, with the ripple of laughter,
came a smatter of applause from the handful of spectators on the stand.
Star’s countenance lost its haughtiness and his mouth set grimly. Dud
decided that he might as well let Star hit and get rid of him, and so
he tried to put one over shoulder-high and across the middle of the
plate. But something went wrong. Dud was convinced afterwards that
his foot had turned on a pebble. At all events, instead of traveling
straight and true into Gordon’s waiting mitt, the ball took an erratic
slant and brought up against Star’s shoulder. There was speed on the
ball and the batter had scarcely tried to dodge it, and now he dropped
his bat, clapped a hand to his shoulder and performed a series of most
unconventional steps about the plate. Dud started toward him, but
Gordon was already at his side and so Dud contented himself with a
sincere “Awfully sorry, Meyer!”

But Star, impatiently throwing off the catcher’s hand, turned an
angry countenance to Dud. “You meant to do that, Baker! You did it on
purpose. I’ll get you for it, too! You can’t――――”

But Mr. Sargent interposed then. “Tut, tut, Meyer! It was purely an
accident. You must learn to get out of the way of them. Sorry if it
hurt you, though. Get Davy to rub it for you. That’ll do for today.”

Star, pausing to cast a final ominous look at Dud, recovered his
poise and, rubbing his injury, retired haughtily. Many amused glances
followed him, for no one there doubted that it had been purely
accidental and Star’s loss of temper had struck them as unnecessary.
The incident ended Dud’s usefulness for that day, for his delivery
became so wild that Mr. Sargent quickly took him out, putting in Weston
to finish the practice.

Dud, yielding the ball shamefacedly, retired to the bench and donned
his sweater. He was quite aware of the fact that Mr. Sargent meant
him to return to the Field House, but the thought of the irate Star
Meyer, who, by the time Dud got there, would doubtless be just getting
into his clothes, deterred him. Instead, then, of leaving the field,
Dud found a place on the bench and pretended deep absorption in the
practice. Presently, though, a better idea presented itself. Across
on the other diamond the second was putting in its first day of work
under the tuition of “Dinny,” as Mr. Crowley, the assistant physical
director, was called. He would, he decided, wander over there as
unostentatiously as possible, and so escape Mr. Sargent’s eagle eye.
But it proved a mistaken move, for just at the moment that Dud
detached himself from the few idlers on the bench, Mr. Sargent happened
to look across the diamond, and his impatient voice quickly followed
his glance.

“Baker! Go ahead in! I told you once!”

The fellows on the bench grinned and Dud tried his best to make it
appear that he wanted nothing better in life than to do that very
thing! But, just the same, once behind the stand and out of view of
those on the diamond, his feet moved very slowly along the path. I
don’t believe that Dud was a coward, for one may have no stomach for
physical combat and yet be brave enough in other ways, but I am quite
certain that he wished heartily all the way across to the Field House
that the tall and dignified form of Star Meyer would appear at the
doorway and proceed homeward before he reached there! But nothing of
the sort happened, and when Dud entered the locker-room he was just
in time to hear Star finish an account of the recent episode for the
benefit of three boys who lolled on the benches in various stages of
undress.

“He was afraid to give me one I could hit and so he whanged one
straight at me. I wasn’t looking for it and couldn’t get out of the
way, and it got me right on the shoulder. He threw it as hard as he
could, too, and that arm will be out of commission for days. Pete
had the cheek to tell me that it was an accident! Accident! Yes, it
was――not! You wait till I get a chance at that fresh kid!”




CHAPTER IX

JIMMY TAKES CHARGE


Dud’s first impulse was to turn back, but one of Star’s audience had
seen him already, and so, after a moment of hesitation, he went on and,
since Star had his back toward the door, reached his locker before the
speaker saw him. Then there was an instant’s silence. Dud pulled open
the locker door, took his towel out and dropped it on the bench. Then:

“Got canned, did you?” asked Star. “Maybe you’ll learn after a while
that you can’t do that sort of thing and get away with it.”

“I didn’t mean to hit you, Meyer, honestly,” returned Dud. “I――I’m
awfully sorry. There was a pebble or something――――”

“Oh, forget your pebbles! You know very well you meant to hit me.
You’ve been doing a lot of talking around school lately. I’ve heard it.
And I’d have given you a mighty good spanking if you’d been big enough
to notice.” Star had walked around the end of the bench and now faced
Dud like an outraged Jove from a yard away. Dud tried hard to appear
undisturbed, but the mere publicity was enough to send the blood into
his cheeks and put a tremor in his voice as he answered.

“I haven’t been talking about you, Meyer,” he said as stoutly as he
could. “And, anyhow, you needn’t try to bully me. I’ve apologized for
that――that accident, and that’s all I can do.”

“Oh, you apologize, do you?” Star laughed amusedly. “Well, apologies
don’t answer, kid. If you weren’t so small I’d kick you around the
room, you――you ugly-faced little insect!”

“Never mind my size!” cried Dud, throwing discretion to the winds in
the sudden flare of anger. “And never mind about my looks, either! Any
time you want to start kicking you go ahead, Meyer! I’m not afraid of
you! You’re a bluff, a big bluff, that’s all you――――”

Star’s right hand shot out suddenly and the open palm landed hard on
Dud’s cheek. The blow sent him sprawling across the bench, but he was
on his feet again in an instant, his face white save where the impact
of Star’s hand had left a tingling red stain. Star, smiling crookedly,
had stepped back, ready for Dud’s rush. But the rush wasn’t made, for
at that instant “Davy” Richards’ voice came sternly from the doorway.

“Here, boys! Stop that! Look you, Meyer, leave him alone! What mean you
hitting a boy beneath your size, eh?” Davy was Welsh and when excited
relapsed into a brogue as broad as it was difficult of reproduction in
type. Star looked around, shrugged his shoulders and laughed lightly.

“I wasn’t hitting him, Davy. I merely slapped his face for him. If I
ever really hit him he’d know it!”

“Well, no more of it in this house! ’Tis no place for fighting. And you
there, you, Baker, behave yourself, do you hear me? No more now or I’ll
take a hand myself!” Davy retired grumbling, and one of the audience
of three chuckled as he got up and sauntered out. The others exchanged
glances of amusement and went on with their dressing. Star nonchalantly
retired to his own bench, leaving Dud standing with clenched fists and
angry face in the middle of the floor, for once unconscious of the
curious gazes of others.

“It isn’t finished yet, Meyer,” he said at last in a low voice.

Star glanced up contemptuously. “You’ll be finished if you try any more
funny stunts with me, Baker,” he said threateningly. “And I want you to
stop talking about me, too. Hear that? The next time I’ll do a lot more
than slap your ugly face for you!”

“You’ll fight me!”

“I wouldn’t bother to!” Star laughed. “I might break you in two if I
hit you!”

“You’ll fight me,” reiterated Dud doggedly. “If you won’t――――”

He stopped, for Davy was glowering at him from the doorway.

“Look you, Baker, what I say I mean! One more word about fighting while
you’re in this place and out you go!”

Dud subsided and silence reigned until the door opened to admit a
number of released second team candidates, by which time Dud was ready
for his shower. When he returned to the lockers Star had gone. By that
time the room was crowded from end to end, for practice was over and
some forty-odd boys were struggling for space. Jimmy spied his chum and
pushed his way to him.

“Oh, Dud, it was fine!” he whispered delightedly. “Only why didn’t you
put it a foot or so higher and ‘bean’ him? Did you see him again?”

Dud nodded.

“Was he mad?” demanded Jimmy eagerly. “Hello, what are you looking so
funny about? You didn’t――I say, Dud, you two didn’t――――” He paused
expressively.

“We had words,” replied Dud in low tones, “and he――slapped my face.”

“Slapped――――” Jimmy whistled. Then: “Great stuff, Dud! What did you
do? Where were you? I wish I’d seen it!”

“I didn’t do anything. Davy butted in. I’m going to fight him, though.”

“Of course! Slapped your face, eh, the big bully? That――that’s a
fighting matter, Dud. When are you going to do it?”

“He refused; said he wouldn’t bother with me; said he might break me in
two! But he’s got to fight, Jimmy!”

“You bet he has!” agreed Jimmy enthusiastically. “But listen: let me
get my shower. You wait for me, will you? We’ve got to talk this over,
you know.”

“There isn’t anything to talk over,” said Dud flatly. “He’s got to
fight me.”

“Yes, but if he says he won’t―――― You wait for me, see? I won’t be a
minute.” And Jimmy, beaming broadly, dashed off.

Dud found a corner by the door and waited, listening idly to the
chatter of the fellows. Nearby Foster Tray, struggling with a stubborn
shirt, remarked in smothered tones:

“Did you see Baker peg Star in the arm, Mil? It was a fierce old biff!”

“Yes,” replied Oscar Milford, “and Star was hopping mad.” He chuckled.
“Said Baker did it on purpose. Well, maybe he did. I don’t know. But
they say Baker’s got Star scared of him, for some reason.”

“Oh, piffle! A kid like that? Not likely! But it isn’t sense getting
mad about being hit with a ball. Gee, if I got peeved every time I got
whacked last year――――”

A good-natured altercation over the possession of a bath towel that
both Leddy and Parker laid claim to drowned the rest of Tray’s remark
and Dud slipped further along. Captain Murtha ran across him a moment
later and stopped an instant.

“Say, Baker, you did mighty well there for a while today. Keep it up,
old man. But don’t lay out any more of the team, eh? You might leave us
short-handed!” Guy laughed, nodded and went on, and presently, showing
numerous evidences of having dressed hurriedly, Jimmy arrived a bit
breathless and dragged Dud outside. There, one arm through Dud’s, he
led the way back to the dormitory.

“Now,” he demanded eagerly, “let’s have the whole story.”

“Well, I stepped on a pebble or something and the ball got away and hit
Star on the shoulder.”

“Yes,” chuckled Jimmy, “I saw that. Something ought to be done about
those pebbles!” And he winked meaningly.

“But it was a pebble!” declared Dud. “I didn’t mean to hit him!”

“You didn’t!” Jimmy was incredulous, incredulous and disappointed.
“Gee, I thought of course you did it so he’d get mad and fight! Are you
sure?”

“Yes, I am,” answered Dud shortly. “Don’t be a fool, Jimmy.”

“Oh, all right, then. It was an accident.” Jimmy sighed. “Then what?”

Dud brought the narrative to its conclusion by the time they were
crossing the campus, and Jimmy disengaged his arm in order to slap Dud
approvingly on the back. “Fine!” he declared. “Just what we wanted! By
the time we put this thing through, Dud, you’ll be the most talked-of
fellow in school!”

“I don’t want to be talked of. I’m sick of all that rot. All I want is
to show Star Meyer that he can’t slap me and――and get away with it!”

“Sure! But it’ll do you a lot of good if you lick him, don’t you see?
Fellows will call you a plucky kid and all that. Oh, there’s nothing to
it, Dud! Here’s where we make good, old son!”

“I’m not likely to lick him,” replied the other quietly. “I dare say he
will beat me to a pulp, but he won’t do it before I’ve got in a few,”
he added grimly.

“That’s all right, too, but it’s going to make a lot bigger hit if you
get the decision,” responded Jimmy. “No, you’d better make up your mind
to lick him, Dud.”

“Make up my mind!” replied the other impatiently as they traveled
together down the corridor. “How’s making up my mind going to help? He
can lick me, and you know it. And I know it. What’s the good of talking
rot like that?”

“How do you know he can?” asked Jimmy eagerly. “I’ll bet you anything
Star’s got a yellow streak in him somewhere. And you’ve been learning
right along, haven’t you? Why, say, I call you a mighty clever boxer
right this minute, Dud! Yes, I do, honest! And――I say, what time is it?
Fine! We’ve just got time to put on the gloves for a few minutes. I was
reading in that book――――”

“I’m not going to put on the gloves,” answered Dud decidedly. “I’ll
fight him just as I am. All that scientific stuff isn’t much good,
anyway. It didn’t keep him from almost knocking me flat on the floor
this afternoon, did it?”

“But you weren’t looking for it! If you’d known――――”

“Besides, the thing is to get him to fight. He says he won’t. How can I
make him, Jimmy?”

“We-ell――――” Jimmy studied the question with his head on one side and
his mouth pursed. At last: “There are two or three ways, I guess. You
might challenge him publicly or you might just walk up and slap his
face the way he slapped yours or you might――――”

“That’s good enough,” interrupted Dud. “Come on!”

“Hold on! Where are you going?”

“To find him!”

“Well, but――but wait! Hold on! See here, Dud, you can’t walk into a
fellow’s room and biff him, you know!”

“Why can’t I?”

“Because it isn’t done, old chap. Violation of――er――hospitality and all
that, you know. What you want to do is to find him some time when other
fellows are around, see? Then he can’t possibly refuse. But you want to
make sure that a faculty isn’t looking! Better wait now until morning
and get him in School Hall; in the corridor, say. Yes, that’s the idea.
There’ll be a crowd around, and――――”

“I’d rather do it now,” said Dud. “Maybe――by tomorrow――I might
not――might not want to so much!”

“Oh, that’s all right. I’ll keep you up to it, son. Trust me. You
see, Dud, this is a wonderful opportunity and we want to make the
most of it. You wait until the morning and then find Star in the
corridor between recitations. There’s bound to be a crowd there.
Imagine the sensation when you step up to him and let him have
it right on the cheek! Maybe you’d ought to say something, too,
something――er――effective. Let’s see now. Suppose――――”

“Look here, Jimmy, this isn’t any silly pageant! I don’t care whether
anyone’s around or not. All you think about is making a public show of
it! You make me tired!”

“Nothing of the sort,” returned Jimmy indignantly. “All I say is that
if you’re going to do it you ought to do it right! What’s the good of
balling it all up when, by using a little――er――a little headwork, you
can make a great big hit? No, sir, you listen to me. I’m managing you
in this affair, Dud. Just you sit still and leave the whole business to
me.”

“Leave it to you――――” began Dud bitterly.

“Besides, I’ve got a better scheme, old chap! Let’s do it shipshape,
eh? After supper I’ll call on Star and take your challenge to him.
Then, if he says he won’t fight, we’ll go ahead with the public
insult scheme. But that will be giving him a chance to accept like a
gentleman. And, of course, whether he accepts or doesn’t, the thing is
just bound to leak out.” Jimmy grinned. “Those things always do.”

“I wish,” said Dud moodily, “I’d kept my mouth shut and not told you
anything about it. You’re bound to go and hire a brass band and make a
hullabaloo! I dare say”――sarcastically――“you’ll be selling tickets for
the fight!”

“By Jove, that isn’t a bad idea! I don’t mean to sell tickets, but we
might issue invitations or――or something. ‘You are cordially invited to
be present at an informal scrap between Dudley Baker and Starling Meyer
at five-thirty on Friday. R. S. V. P.’”

“I wish you’d quit making a silly joke of it,” complained Dud. “If you
think it’s so terribly funny, why don’t you fight him yourself?”

“I would in a minute if he slapped my face,” replied Jimmy promptly.
“Maybe he will when I take the challenge to him. Gee, I wish he’d try
it! Still, I suppose you’d claim the right to the first scrap. Well,
that’s settled, then. Come on to supper now. Better be sort of careful
what you eat, you know. You want to keep in condition. What do you say
to tomorrow afternoon before supper down at the Beach? We’d be out of
sight there and it would be handy for fellows to get to after practice.
No use staging the affair too far away if we want a good attendance,
eh? Got to consider folks’ comfort some, you know. All ready?”




CHAPTER X

THE CHALLENGE


“Come in!”

Starling Meyer turned from the window in Number 17 and faced the door.
Ernest Barnes, Star’s roommate, looked up from his book and glanced
curiously in the same direction as the portal opened briskly to admit
Jimmy Logan. It lacked but a few minutes of study hour and Jimmy, with
the door of the next room slightly ajar, had made certain of Star’s
return before starting on his errand. Beyond the partition――there was a
connecting door between the rooms, but that was never opened――Dud was
dubiously awaiting Jimmy’s report.

“Oh,” said Star eloquently as Jimmy advanced jauntily enough but with a
most sober countenance into the radius of light from the study table.
“Hello, Logan, what do you want?”

Barnes’ greeting was just a nod, civil but not enthusiastic, and having
made it he went back to his book.

“Hello, fellows,” said Jimmy. “Mind if I sit down, Meyer?”

“Help yourself.” Star eyed the caller suspiciously. “This is an
unexpected honor,” he added sarcastically.

Jimmy nodded. “Yes, isn’t it? Fact is, I’m on a painful errand, Meyer.
Mind if I speak before Barnes?”

“Oh, cut the comedy, Logan,” replied Star impatiently. “What nonsense
are you up to, anyway?”

“No nonsense at all, really,” Jimmy assured him earnestly. “It’s like
this, Meyer. I’m here on behalf of my friend, Baker. You see, he isn’t
just satisfied with the way things were left this afternoon. He feels
that――er――the matter ought to be settled more――er――more definitely. See
what I mean?”

“Oh, rot! I’m not going to fight that kid, Logan. He’s too small. Tell
him to forget it. And look here, you!” Star’s voice took on an edge. “I
want you to quit meddling in my affairs, too, Logan. I know what you’ve
been up to. You and that roommate of yours are altogether too fresh.”

“Me?” asked Jimmy innocently. “What have I done, Meyer?”

“You’ve talked a whole lot too much, that’s what you’ve done. And
you’ve egged Baker on to――to make trouble. I want you to stop it, both
of you.”

“Well, I may have talked some,” Jimmy allowed calmly. “Everyone has a
right to talk――――”

“If they’re careful what they say, yes! But――――”

“Anyway, that isn’t what I came to see you about. I’ve talked it over
with Dud and we’ve concluded that you ought to give him satisfaction.
You see, Meyer, slapping a fellow’s face and then refusing to go on
with it looks――well, a bit funny, eh? Now what we propose is that you
and Dud meet, say tomorrow afternoon at half-past five, down at the
Beach, and settle the matter in a quiet, gentlemanly way. What do you
say to that?”

“I say no,” replied Star shortly. “I haven’t any intention of fighting
him. All I will do is slap his face again if he doesn’t let me alone.
He’s been telling it around――or you have――that I’m afraid of him!”

“Um,” said Jimmy thoughtfully. “Well――er――if you don’t fight him won’t
it look as if he was right?”

Star flushed angrily. “Don’t be a fool, Logan! I’d take the two of you
on and lick the tar out of you if it wasn’t beneath me!”

“Oh, I see! Then I’m to tell Dud that you refuse?”

“Tell him anything you like! And now you get out of here or I’ll throw
you out!”

Barnes had displayed a remarkable aloofness up to the present moment,
but now he raised his eyes at last from his book and judicially, even
hopefully, compared the two before him. The result of the comparison,
however, seemed to disappoint him, for he sighed and went back to his
occupation again, apparently dismissing the matter from his mind.

“And what would I be doing?” asked Jimmy brightly. “I’ll tell you
frankly, Meyer, that your attitude is a great surprise to me. It’s a
great disappointment, too. I’d hoped for better things, Meyer. The
fellows are going to be mightily disappointed when they hear about it.”

“So you intend to talk some more, do you?” demanded the other
exasperatedly.

“Me? Oh, my, no! But these things have a way of getting out, you know,
Meyer.” Jimmy shook his head sadly. “This school is a frightfully
gossipy little community.” He got up and turned toward the door. “If
you think better of it, all you’ve got to do is just let me know. I
wish you’d think it over, Meyer.”

“You get out of here!” retorted Star threateningly.

“I’m going. I don’t know what Dud will say, though, when I tell him!”

“I fancy,” sneered Star, “that he will be a good bit relieved!”

“Dud? Oh, dear, no!” responded Jimmy gently. “He’s awfully keen about
it, Dud is. It’ll be a horrible disappointment to him, Meyer. Well, so
long.”

Jimmy passed out with melancholy mien, closing the door softly behind
him and then pausing an instant to chuckle before he opened the next
portal. A moment later his expression of wicked glee changed to one of
utmost decorum, for to his surprise he found that Dud had a visitor and
that the visitor was none other than Mr. Russell. Mr. Russell, better
known as “J. P.,” was the Greek instructor and one of the house masters
in Trow. Jimmy said “Good evening, sir,” in the most deferential tones,
shot a quick, inquiring glance at Dud and then paused uncertainly.

“Am I in the way, Mr. Russell?” he asked.

“Not at all, Logan. I’ve finished my business with Baker. Possibly I’d
better acquaint you with it and enlist your assistance.” Mr. Russell
smiled gently. “We’ve heard that Baker had a quarrel this afternoon
with another boy and was heard to threaten him. As you know, both of
you, fighting is not tolerated here, and I felt it my duty to drop
in and warn Baker against――ah――any infringement of the rules. He has
explained the circumstances and I must acknowledge that he has grounds
for――ah――complaint. But the matter must be settled amicably, boys, and
I shall depend on you, Logan, as an older boy, to see that your friend
here does nothing he will be sorry for. Personally, I believe that
there is something to be said for――ah――a physical encounter under such
circumstances, but rules are rules and we are here to obey them. You
agree with me, Logan?”

“Absolutely, sir,” replied Jimmy emphatically.

“Then I may depend on you to see that nothing occurs which――ah――――”

“You may, sir,” said Jimmy resolutely. “In fact, I’ve already been
talking it over with Dud, Mr. Russell, and I’m certain he doesn’t
intend to make any trouble. You see, just at first he was a bit peeved.
Any fellow would have been if another fellow had slapped his face like
that. But after I’d talked to him a while――――”

Jimmy paused because Dud was grinning and Mr. Russell had emitted what
was an unmistakable chuckle.

“I’m afraid, Logan, your counsel didn’t prevail, after all,” said the
instructor, “for I found Baker in a decidedly uncompromising state of
mind. I think you’d better have another talk with him.” Mr. Russell
arose, still smiling, and moved to the door. “My advice to both you
boys is to be sensible. Good evening.”

“Now what the dickens did he mean by that?” asked Jimmy, frowning
perplexedly after the instructor. Dud laughed.

“He meant that your bluff didn’t fool him a bit, you silly ass, if you
want to know. I told him I meant to fight Meyer the first chance I got.
Then you came in and began talking too much, as usual.”

“Oh!” said Jimmy, grinning. “So that’s it? Well, now what’s to be done?
I put it up to Star and he ab-so-lutely refused the invitation.”

“I guess that ends it,” said Dud. “I certainly don’t intend to have any
scrap with him now when faculty’s on the watch. J. P. says they’d chuck
me if I got caught at it. He’s not a bad sort, J. P.”

“Isn’t it the very dickens!” muttered Jimmy, plunging his hands in
his pockets and viewing his chum forlornly. “Just when everything was
coming around our way, too!”

Dud shrugged philosophically. “I’ll get even with him some time, even
if I can’t fight him now,” he declared grimly. “Don’t you worry.”

“Yes, but that isn’t going to help us much now,” replied Jimmy
perplexedly. “You see, I insisted that you were crazy for a scrap and
Star will think――――”

“Oh, who cares what Star thinks? Who cares what anybody thinks?” asked
Dud impatiently. “I’m sick of the whole business.”

“We’ve got to save our faces, though,” said the other, shaking his
head. “And so I guess――――” His face lighted suddenly. “That’s the
ticket! By Jove, Dud, we’ll get credit out of this yet!”

“What silly scheme are you thinking about now?” asked his chum
dubiously.

“Why, all we’ve got to do is to tell the truth!”

“_All?_” asked Dud sarcastically. “I’d say that was a whole lot for you
to try, Jimmy.”

“Yes, sir, just let it get around that faculty got wind of the thing
and, knowing your reputation as a scrapper, sent J. P. to forbid you to
fight! Great stuff, that!” Jimmy laughed delightedly. “Why, it’s almost
as good as the scrap!”

“Look here, Jimmy, I’m tired of the whole thing, I tell you. Let it
drop, won’t you?”

“Sure! Only we’ve got to have the last word, Dud! Now don’t pester me
any more. I’ve got to dig a bit.”

But if Jimmy really studied, appearances were deceptive, for when,
during the next hour, Dud occasionally glanced across the table, it was
always to behold Jimmy with his hands locked behind his head, his gaze
on the ceiling and a thoughtfully rapturous smile on his face. After
study hour was over he disappeared.

Dud asked no questions the next day. As he had truthfully told Jimmy,
he was tired of the whole affair. He was still deeply resentful toward
Star Meyer, but his anger had cooled and he had no intention of
getting into trouble with the faculty for the scant satisfaction of
being bruised up further by that youth. He was tired, too, of trying
to become “a regular feller,” to use Jimmy’s descriptive phrase. What
the latter liked to call “the campaign” had been, so far as beneficial
results were concerned, a total failure. To be sure, Dud had enlarged
his circle of acquaintances vastly; he was now on nodding or speaking
acquaintance with fully three-fourths of the fellows; but what, as he
asked himself disconsolately, was the good of knowing chaps if they
didn’t like you afterwards? He could still count on the fingers of one
hand the fellows who really showed any disposition to be friendly:
Hugh Ordway, Ben Myatt, Guy Murtha, Roy Dresser and Ed Brooks. He
tried in vain to find a sixth. There was Jimmy, of course, but Jimmy
was understood. Of the friendly ones only Ordway and Dresser could
be called disinterested, he decided. Murtha was friendly because he
wanted Dud to make good as a pitcher, Myatt because he took a sort of
proprietary interest in the younger twirler, and Brooks because it
had fallen to his lot to catch Dud frequently, and there had sprung
up between them a sort of comradeship that, so far, ended with each
day’s work-out. As to Hugh Ordway, Dud suspected that that youth showed
friendliness because he was naturally kind-hearted and had taken pity
on him. So that left only Roy Dresser, and Dresser was much older
than Dud and went with the football crowd and, in the natural course
of events, their paths seldom crossed. It would have been perfectly
feasible for Dud to call on Dresser, but that would have required an
amount of assurance that the younger boy didn’t possess. No, judging by
results, that “campaign” had not been a colossal success!

Just now, however, Dud didn’t care so much whether he was popular or
not. He was very full of baseball and secretly consumed by the ambition
to make good as a pitcher and win a place on the first team. For the
present that provided sufficient interest. He didn’t really believe
that he would succeed in his ambition; at least, not this year; but
one may lack belief and still hope, and Dud was doing a whole lot of
hoping. So far he had done as well as any of the “rookies” without,
however, having distinguished himself in the least. He could flatter
himself that neither Brunswick nor Kelly had been used more often than
he, and he took encouragement from the fact. Sometimes he regretted
that he had taken Ben Myatt’s advice and changed his style. If he
hadn’t, he told himself, he might have showed a lot more by this
time. Generally, though, he recognized the fact that Ben’s advice had
really been very sensible and that eventually, if not this season,
then next, he would find himself better off for having followed it. So
far, though, the improvement that Ben had promised had developed very
slowly, and he had days of discouragement. It seemed that what accuracy
he had possessed before had quite left him. He could show speed and
he could fool four batsmen out of five with his change of pace, but
when the score got to be two-and-two and it was necessary to put them
over he was as likely as not to be as wild as a hawk. Obeying Ben, he
still avoided “hooks,” making up his mind to leave such things quite
alone until he was able to put the straight ones where he wanted them.
Plenty of pitchers will tell you that it is harder to pitch a straight
ball than a curve, and it’s very nearly true. It is, in fact, entirely
true in the case of a young pitcher who has started out pitching curves
to the practical exclusion of straight balls. And Dud, having taught
himself very largely, had begun his pitching career on the erroneous
assumption that a wide knowledge of “hooks” and “curves” and “jumps”
and other freakish things is a pitcher’s best asset. It is not, though,
for the simple reason that no pitcher ever combined a large variety of
deliveries with that most valuable of all assets, control. “Putting
it where you want it” is what counts, and the pitcher who can put a
straight ball just where it will do the most good can dispose of the
batsman in far better style than one whose wide curves and drops and
jumps refuse to break over the plate. All this Dud learned for himself
eventually, but just now he was accepting it on faith, and his faith
often failed him.

The day after Mr. Russell’s visit to Number 19 Dud very carefully
avoided a meeting with Star Meyer. When he left his room he listened to
make sure that his neighbor was not also about to emerge, and in School
Hall he searched the corridors between recitations in order that he
would not find himself embarrassingly confronted by Star. When you have
earnestly vowed to make another fellow fight it is a bit disconcerting
to have to pass him by meekly! Dud’s endeavors met with complete
success until he entered the Field House in the afternoon to get into
his playing togs. Then, as he feared, fortune deserted him. The first
occupant of the room his eyes lighted on was Star, while, oddly enough,
Star glanced across at the doorway at that instant and saw Dud. But
that was all there was to it, for Star removed his gaze without a
flicker of recognition, and Dud went to his own locker, fortunately
the width of the room away from Star’s, and attended strictly to the
matter of making a hurried change of attire. Some of the fellows who
had learned of the encounter between the two the afternoon before
watched them expectantly until Star, ready for work, left the building
with Weston and Milford. Dud avoided the glances of the others as
he pulled his togs on. They knew, he was certain, that he had sworn
revenge against Star and were naturally viewing him disparagingly as a
“quitter.” Had he overheard a whispered conversation in one corner of
the locker-room, however, he wouldn’t have been troubled so much.

“Did you see Star sneak out?” chuckled Jones, a rather stout youth with
ambitions looking toward a position in the first team outfield. “I’ll
bet he’s mighty glad faculty read the riot act to Baker!”

“What was that?” asked Churchill, a third-choice shortstop.

“Didn’t you hear? Why, Star and Baker had a row in here yesterday
and went for each other, and Davy had to separate them. Star was mad
because Baker hit him with the ball when he was at bat. Baker was wild,
they say, and swore he’d get Star the first chance. So Davy pipes off
the faculty and J. P. beats it to Baker’s room and tells him that if he
doesn’t leave Star alone faculty’ll jump him hard. So, of course, Baker
has to promise to behave, but they say he’s hopping mad and will get
Star yet. I thought maybe he’d forget and light into him just now.”

“Oh, peanuts! I guess Star isn’t afraid of that kid. Why, look at him!
Star’s six inches bigger every way!”

“That’s all right,” responded Jones, “but they say Baker’s a regular
terror when he gets started. Got thrown out of one school because he
nearly killed a fellow there.”

“That right?” asked the other incredulously.

“Surest thing you know, old scout! Ned Stiles was telling me. He knows
the fellow Baker beat up.” Jones gazed speculatively and admiringly
at the unconscious Dud and shook his head. “He doesn’t _look_ awfully
scrappy, does he? But, say, I’ll bet he could hand you an awful wallop
with that right of his! They say he’s as clever as anything on his
feet; just dances all around the other fellow and does about as he
likes. You all ready?”

On the way out Churchill, regarding Dud in surreptitious awe,
encountered that youth’s gaze, and, as Dud at the instant happened to
be frowning darkly at his thoughts, Churchill was ever after convinced
that Dud was a fellow to be treated with the utmost respect!




CHAPTER XI

WITH THE SCRUBS


Dud speedily forgot all about Star Meyer, social aspirations and
everything else except baseball, for they had their first practice game
that afternoon and, although Dud wasn’t called on to work during the
first three innings, he became vastly absorbed in the proceedings. Mr.
Sargent made up one team of seasoned veterans of previous campaigns,
with Gus Weston pitching and Gordon catching, and formed the opposing
team of the newer candidates, giving the twirling job to Nate Leddy
and letting Ed Brooks catch him. Since it was the first contest of the
year both teams were on their toes and went into it hard. From the
practice diamond Mr. Crowley’s second nine looked on enviously when the
opportunity allowed.

Weston pitched nice ball for the regulars for two innings, mowing down
the opposing batsmen impartially and even monotonously. But in the
third, Ben Myatt, playing left field for the scrubs, landed on one of
Gus’s offerings and drove it far into right center, where neither Star
Meyer nor Gordon Parker could reach it in time to prevent him from
reaching third. That put the following batsmen on their mettle, and
before the inning was over Gus Weston had yielded four hits for a total
of seven bases and three runs had crossed the plate. As, however, the
regulars had by that time scored thrice owing to two singles and as
many errors of the scrub’s infield, the contest was far from decided.
Weston managed to survive the fourth inning, although decidedly wobbly.
He allowed two hits and passed Barnes, and the scrubs were yelling for
a tally when Hugh Ordway fanned and made the last out, leaving an irate
runner on third.

Brunswick went on the mound for the regulars in the fifth and Dud took
Leddy’s place for the scrub. After that, as might have been expected,
the fielders were much busier and runs began to trickle across quite
frequently. Dud pitched three innings that afternoon and performed
fairly creditably. Ed Brooks, fast rounding into form as a catcher,
knew Dud’s failings and jockeyed him along with a lot of skill and
wisdom. More than once Dud found himself in a hole, and if he escaped,
as he generally did that day, it was more due to Brooks than to him.
The catcher never hesitated to demand the third strike when it was due,
leaving it to Dud to put on enough steam or to fool the batter with
an unexpected slow ball, and it must be said to Dud’s credit that he
frequently delivered the goods. But at that he was hammered hard by
the head of the opposing batting list, and could only find consolation
in the fact that Brunswick fared but little better at the hands of the
scrubs.

Brunswick gave way to Joe Kelly in the eighth, and in that half-inning
the scrubs almost snatched the game away from their haughty opponents.
Kelly was wild and ineffective and filled the bases with the first
three men up. Jimmy Logan, who had never set the world on fire with
his batting, bunted cannily down the first-base line, managed to get
in the way of Kelly’s throw to the plate and not only saw two runners
score but reached first in safety himself. Prentiss fouled out on the
second delivery and Jimmy was caught going down to second. Dud, whose
turn it was at bat, had but slight hope of turning in a hit. But Kelly
had another ascension――or perhaps merely continued his first!――and
got himself in the hole to the tune of one strike and three balls.
Dud let another strike go by and then hit at the next delivery. Luck
favored him, for Nick Blake, at short, made a miserable stop of a weak
grounder and threw to first the fraction of a second too late, and
the runner from third was safe. That run brought the scrubs’ score to
11 to the regulars’ 13 and, even with two down, the scrubs dreamed of
tying it up. But Boynton dispelled the illusion by popping a weak fly
to Neil Ayer at first, and, since the practice period was up, Mr.
Sargent called the game. For the succeeding half-hour the scrubs busied
themselves to a man telling just how they would have won the game had
it gone nine innings!

Doubtless pitching four innings to the tune of nine hits and two passes
isn’t anything remarkable, but Dud left the field that afternoon
treading on air. If, he confided to himself, he had mixed a few
hooks in with those straight ones and, perhaps, succeeded in getting
a “floater” over nicely a few times, he would have cut those nine
bingles down to three or four! And, anyway, Pete hadn’t taken him out,
as he had Brunswick, which showed that at least the coach was fairly
satisfied with him. And when, while he was pulling off his togs, Guy
Murtha stopped an instant to say “Good work, Baker: I like your style,”
the air under Dud’s feet became roseate clouds! He didn’t even recall
Star Meyer’s existence until, on the way to the showers, he literally
ran into that youth. And then, instead of falling back, abashed, he
pushed past the other with a fine indifference and rattled the curtain
along the rod in Star’s face!

Afterwards, going across the Green in the early twilight, he overtook
a group of fellows and, contrary to his usual custom of passing them
with a muttered and doubtful greeting, he fell into step with Bert
Winslow, much to that youth’s surprise, and carelessly offered an
observation to the effect that it had been a dandy game. Bert agreed
unenthusiastically, shot a curious side-glance at the other, felt
some of his antipathy toward him vanish and remarked quite cordially:
“You’re more of a pitcher than I thought, Baker. Where’d you learn it?”

“I haven’t learned it yet,” answered Dud, conquering his shyness with
an effort that left him almost breathless. “Anyway, _you_ didn’t have
much trouble hitting me, Winslow.”

Bert accepted the compliment as merited, which it was, and thought
better of the other’s discernment and modesty, and while he was
beginning a reply Nick Blake, walking a few steps ahead, turned and
regarded Dud gravely and remarked sadly: “I’ll give you a quarter next
time, Baker, if you’ll tip me off when you’re going to pitch one of
those slow ones. I don’t mind hitting the air, but I hate to break my
back. Besides, I’m extremely sensitive to ridicule, Baker.”

The others laughed and Dud was spared the necessity of a reply by Bert
Winslow. “If you were really sensitive to ridicule, Nick, you wouldn’t
try to play,” he observed crushingly. Nick resented the insult promptly
and battle ensued. Dud left the adversaries rolling on the turf,
applauded by several spectators, and made his way on to Trow, feeling
much embarrassed and extremely happy.

The happiness was reflected in the letter which he wrote home the next
afternoon, for that was Sunday, and Dud, while he sometimes dashed
off a hurried note on a weekday, made it a practice to always fill
four pages with his somewhat scrawly writing on Sundays. His epistles
invariably commenced the same way:

    DEAR MOTHER, FATHER AND SISTERS [there were two of the latter]:

    I am well and getting on nicely. I hope you are all well when
    this reaches you.

After that he might change the rest of the contents from week to week,
but Mrs. Baker, who read the letters aloud to a more or less attentive
audience, could get through the first two sentences while she was still
fixing her reading glasses on her nose. Today Dud’s letter was far more
cheerful than usual. In fact, it started right out being cheerful, and
the weather, generally dwelt on at length, was utterly neglected.

    A good deal has happened since I wrote last and things are
    getting pretty busy here. Something doing every minute in the
    big tent, like Jimmy says. Yesterday I pitched four whole
    innings in the first practice game we have had and did pretty
    well take everything in consideration. Dad will say I’m
    boasting but I’m not because if I hadn’t done pretty well Mr.
    Sargent would have canned me quick, I guess. They only got
    nine hits off me and Guy Murtha who is captain and a peach
    of a whanger only got one real hit off me and one that was
    mighty scratchy. I guess I did as well as Brunswick and I know
    I did better than Joe Kelly because Joe had an ascension and
    handed out passes to beat the band. Well, we’re getting down
    to business here now all right, everybody’s doing something,
    the Track Team has been out about a fortnight and so have we,
    nearly, and the tennis cracks are out on the courts and some
    of the fellows who play golf go over to the Mt. Grafton links.
    They let the school fellows play there for nothing, but I guess
    Charley pays them something for the privilege by the year. I’d
    like to try my hand at golf, but I guess it wouldn’t be good
    for my pitching. I’m still sticking to straight balls, like I
    told you last week, but if I can get my control back pretty
    soon I’m going to try hooking them again. I guess you’ll begin
    to think I don’t do anything here at School but play baseball,
    but that isn’t so because ever since mid-year exams most of us
    have been digging like anything. I’m all square again with Mr.
    Gring, but I told you that last week. He says if I could write
    English as well as I talk it I’d be all right but just the same
    I got Good on my last comp and would have got Excellent only
    for punctuation. Jimmy says I’m a punk punctuater. I guess I
    am, all right, too.

    We play our first game the 25th with the second team and then
    we play Portsmouth Grammar the 28th. I’ll send a card with the
    schedule on it so you will know when we play and whom. We have
    sixteen dates this spring but some of them aren’t filled yet.
    It’s very hard to get teams around here to play us because we
    usually beat them badly and they don’t like it. I had a row
    with Starling Meyer in the Field House the other day and he
    slapped me and Davy, he’s the trainer, butted in. I was going
    to make Star fight but faculty got wise and J. P. came up and
    said if I did I’d get in trouble, so I didn’t. But I’ll fix
    him some other way. Jimmy is well and as crazy as ever. He
    is out for the first too and I guess he will make it, anyway
    he has more chance than I have, but I feel very much more
    encouraged since Pete let me pitch all through the last of
    the game yesterday like I told you. I didn’t get your letter
    until Friday last week so I guess dad forgot to post it again.
    You ask him if he didn’t. He will say Pooh, Pooh, but I’ll
    bet anything he did. I’m getting on fine. I’ve met some more
    fellows who are on the nine and everything’s fine and dandy.
    Please tell dad that I’d like it if I could have my allowance
    a little before the first this month because I have to dig
    down for the track team assessment. They voted to tax all of
    us fifty cents apiece, which is O.K. only I haven’t got it to
    spare. Love to you all,

    Your aff. Son,

    DUDLEY.

Dud was highly pleased with that letter, for he discovered that he
had bettered his usual four pages by two more. There was besides, he
decided, a literary flavor to it that most of his epistles lacked; and
he was certain that his father would chuckle about forgetting to post
that letter; and maybe he would send the allowance right away!

After it was finished he and Jimmy went down to the Beach and, since
they had no canoe of their own and the punts belonging to the school
were hard to row and likely to prove leaky, borrowed one of the many
that reposed under the trees along the Cove. They were in doubt for
a while as to which particular craft to requisition, since it was
distinctly advisable to select one whose owner was not likely to want
it that day. The difficulty was finally solved by Dud, who recalled
the fact that young Twining was in the infirmary with German measles.
Twining was only a junior, anyway, and juniors had few rights even when
perfectly well, and still fewer when they weren’t! So Dud blithely led
the way to a gorgeous light blue Old Town, and together they bore it to
the muddy water of the Cove and clambered in.

“It’s the best canoe here, too,” observed Jimmy contentedly, as he
dipped his paddle at the bow. (Jimmy took the bow paddle because, or
so he declared, there was more responsibility connected with that
position. Dud, while not deceived in the least, never objected, for he
had a notion that stern paddling would develop his arm muscles.) “They
say that little bounder has heaps of money, millions and millions;
that is, his dad has. Did I ever tell you about the old darkey woman
who used to work for us? She was telling mother about some man who
was terribly rich, you know, and mother said, ‘I suspect he’s a
millionaire, Dorah.’ ‘A millionaire, Mis’ Logan!’ says she. ‘Bless yo’
heart, honey, that man’s got sev’ral millions of airs!’ Guess that’s
the way with Twining’s dad, eh?”

“That’s a peach of a canoe that Ordway’s got,” said Dud, after he had
laughed at Jimmy’s story.

“Too fancy,” replied the other as they left the Cove and headed down
the river. “He has about everything in it except a grand piano!”

“I suppose it cost a lot,” said Dud.

“I’ll bet it did. I told him the other day that it was too pretty to
use, and he said he thought it was, too. Seems he didn’t know much
about canoes and let Bert Winslow order it, and Bert got all the
trimmings the law allows. That’s like Bert. I guess it’s too heavy to
handle well. Here comes Brew Longley and Foster Tray. Don’t forget to
speak now!”

A battered green canoe occupied by two youths passed and salutations
were exchanged. For once Dud managed to get just the proper amount
of mixed hauteur and friendliness in his greeting. Somehow, since
yesterday, it wasn’t so hard to do things like that. Tray, a football
player and track team member, laughed as the canoes passed. “See you
got a canoe now, Jimmy,” he called.

Jimmy waved his paddle nonchalantly. “Yes, it’s a poor thing but mine
own. I’ll let you use it, Tray, any time you like. I believe in lending
to them as hasn’t.”

“You believe in borrowing, too, don’t you?” laughed Longley.

“Anything but trouble,” responded Jimmy, over his shoulder.

They paused near the old wooden bridge beyond the boathouse to watch
an automobile dash by at some forty miles an hour, and Jimmy sighed
as he began to paddle again. “I always think every time that the old
affair will fall into the river, but it never does. I never do have any
luck!” Beyond the bridge, where the river widened as it wound through
the marshes, they met a canoe at about every turn. Many were drawn to
the bank, and their crews were usually lying at ease above. About two
miles beyond the bridge and within view of Needham Falls they overtook
a white canoe, or a canoe that had been white at one time, apparently
empty, since at a little distance nothing showed but an idle paddle and
the backs of the seats.

“That,” mused Dud, “looks like Ordway’s. It must have got away from him
somewhere further back. We’d better tow it home, hadn’t we?”

“I guess so. Got anything we can tie it up with?” Jimmy altered the
direction of his craft to run alongside the derelict.

“Maybe we can use my belt,” Dud suggested. But at that moment they came
near enough to see into the white canoe and discovered that it was far
from empty, since two forms were stretched out flat on the bottom.
One had the colored pages of a Sunday paper over his face and was
consequently unrecognizable, but the other was unmistakably Nick Blake
himself. Jimmy signaled to stop paddling and the canoe floated silently
alongside.

“Asleep!” whispered Jimmy. Dud nodded. Their eyes questioned. Here,
plainly, was a Heaven-sent opportunity to perpetrate a joke, but what
form the joke was to take was not easily decided. Dud watched Jimmy
expectantly, and Jimmy frowned thoughtfully, benignantly down on the
recumbent forms. If, he pondered, there was some way of fixing a line
to the white canoe without waking the occupants it would be a lark to
tow it down to the Falls and tie it up there in plain sight of the
trolley bridge. But Nick or his companion would probably wake before
they had accomplished that deed. And, besides, there was no rope handy.
Jimmy was for once at a loss. So, evidently, was Dud, for the latter
returned Jimmy’s inquiring look blankly. The precious moments passed.
And then, while Jimmy still racked his usually prolific brain, Nick’s
lips opened, although not his eyes, and Nick’s voice murmured: “Hello,
Jimmy! How well you’re looking. Isn’t he, ’Ighness?”

And from under the newspaper came the reply in dreamy accents: “Oh,
rather! Perfectly ripping!”




CHAPTER XII

ON THE RIVER


“You chumps!” growled Jimmy in deep disgust. “What do you think you’re
doing, anyway?”

“It’s a sad story,” murmured Nick. “We were shipwrecked six――seven――how
many days ago was it, Mr. Ordway?”

“Seven, Mr. Blake.”

“Ay, seven days ago, sir, and ever since we have been tossed about in
this tiny boat at the mercy of the sea and tempest and――――”

“Elements,” suggested the voice from under the comic supplement.

“Ay, elephants! At last――at last――――”

“Get that in about no food nor water,” prompted the other in a hoarse
whisper.

“I forgot to say that there was no time to provision the boat. For six
days――――”

“Seven!”

“For seven days we were without food or drink, and at last, weak and
exhausted, we lay down in the bottom of the boat and died.”

“Oh, so you’re dead?” asked Jimmy interestedly.

“Dead as anything,” replied Nick cheerfully. “You dead, Mr. Ordway?”

“Fearfully, thanks.”

“I thought so. When one is dead one’s memory is apt to be a bit
uncertain, though. That’s why I asked. Gentleman here inquired. Very
kind of him, I’m sure. Wasn’t it kind of him, ’Ighness?”

“Extraordinarily kind! Most polite, I’m quite sure!”

“The trouble with you fellows,” said Jimmy solicitously, “is that
you’ve been lying around here in the sun. What you need is a local
application of cold water to the cranium――――”

“Doesn’t he talk beautifully, ’Ighness?”

“It’s wonderful,” sighed the other.

“And it’s my duty to attend to the matter,” concluded Jimmy. Nick
opened his eyes then and the colored supplement quivered emotionally.

“Respect the dead, Jimmy,” warned Nick, “or I’ll forget that I’m a
lifeless corpse and lay you out with a paddle. Who’s there with you?”

“Dud Baker.”

“Ah, the sprightly Baker,” murmured Nick. “Salutations, Baker.”

“Hello,” replied Dud from the further end of the canoe. “Hello, Ordway.”

Hugh cast aside the paper and carefully assumed a sitting position.
“Hello, Baker,” he said. “Nick, I fancy we’re rescued.”

“Too late,” answered his companion in disaster gloomily. “We’re dead.
It’s perfectly silly to come along at this late day and rescue us,
Jimmy.”

“Well, if you’re dead it’s up to us to bury you. Mind if we don’t sew
you up in sacks, Nick? We’re awfully shy of sacks.”

“I mind terribly. I couldn’t think of being buried at sea without a
sack. I suppose you’ll tell me next that you haven’t even a cannon ball
to sink me with!”

“He might use a couple of those doughnuts,” suggested Hugh, poking with
one foot at a bundle in the middle of the canoe.

“Doughnuts?” asked Jimmy eagerly. “Got eats in there, fellows?”

“Yes, sir.” Nick pulled himself up with a groan. “We’re off on a
picnic, Jimmy. And that reminds me, Hugh, that it’s about time we
looked for a picturesque sylvan glade somewhere. Seen any of those
things, Jimmy?”

Jimmy, who had been working the light blue canoe along until it now
rocked companionably beside the white one, shook his head. “No,” he
answered. “Let’s――er――let’s look at one of those doughnuts, Nick.”

Nick viewed him speculatively and then dropped his gaze to the bundle.
“I wouldn’t want to expose them to the air, Jimmy. They get stale so
soon, you see. But I’ll describe them to you. They’re big and fat and
sort of a lovely golden-brown color, and they’ve got sugar sprinkled
on their circumferences, so to speak. Honest, Jimmy, they’re awfully
_tasty_ doughnuts. You’d like ’em, I feel sure.”

“Stingy brute! Come across, Nick. I’m as hungry as a bear. You’ve got
plenty, I’ll bet.”

“Depends,” replied Nick, clasping his hands about his knees, “what you
call plenty. We’ve got only a dozen.”

“You can have a couple of my six,” laughed Hugh, reaching for the
luncheon.

“One moment,” interposed Nick. “Tell you what, ’Ighness. Here we are
with more food than we can eat, and here are two famished mariners
miles from port. What’s the answer?”

“Why, we invite them to dinner, of course.”

“Correct! Turn your old tub around, Jimmy, and paddle back to the
willows and we’ll go ashore and have a banquet. We’ve only got three
chops, but there’s lots of bread and butter and some cheese and a can
of peaches. Only we forgot to bring an opener, and so I don’t just
see―――― You don’t happen to carry a can-opener with you, do you Baker?”

“No, but I think I can-opener without one,” replied Dud.

“Wow!” said Jimmy.

Nick turned with great difficulty and viewed Dud reproachfully. “You
shouldn’t do that,” he said. “I don’t mind for myself. I’m strong. But
Hugh here won’t get that before tomorrow morning at eleven-thirty-nine,
and meanwhile he will puzzle that poor English bean of his and get
faint and dizzy. You shouldn’t, Baker, you shouldn’t!”

“Get what?” asked Hugh innocently.

Jimmy laughed and Nick nodded sorrowfully at him. “Listen, ’Ighness,”
he explained patiently. “It was like this. I asked Baker if he carried
a can-opener with him. Get that?”

“Perfectly. And he said he could open it without one. What’s the joke?”

Nick cast his hands aside hopelessly. “What’s the use? What’s the use?”
he demanded. “Come on and let’s paddle. I’m sta-a-arved!”

“How about getting back for supper?” inquired Jimmy. “It’s ’way after
five now.”

“We get lost or we have an upset or something,” rejoined Nick
carelessly. “We discussed that, but I forget now just what we decided.”

“That’s all right for you,” objected Jimmy as he and Dud swung their
craft around, “but what about us? We can’t all get upset?”

“Why not?” asked Nick, reaching for his paddle. “There’s plenty of
water, isn’t there?”

“But, I say, Nick,” remonstrated Hugh, “if we tell them we were upset
we’ll have to get our clothes wet, eh?”

“Um, that’s so. I hadn’t thought of that. Oh, well, never mind now.
We’ll think up something going back.”

“We might let the canoes get away from us and have to chase them,”
suggested Dud.

“Perfect!” applauded Nick. “Baker, you have a great mind. Tell you
what, my hearties. After we get to the willows we’ll carelessly let the
canoes get away, see? Then we’ll catch ’em further downstream. They
won’t ask us how _far_ we had to chase ’em. Even if they do we can be
vague.”

“Maybe we’d better try to get back on time,” said Hugh.

“Squealer!” Nick, in the stern, reproachfully splashed Hugh’s back.
“There’s no fun picnicking if you have to go home right away and eat
another meal.”

“Oh, all right, old chap,” agreed Hugh. “Only don’t throw any more
water down my neck. It’s beastly cold.”

There was silence then for a few minutes while the two canoes passed
leisurely down the winding stream, side by side. Westward, the sun
was dropping close to the greening summit of the low hills and the
April day was almost at its end. There was a perceptible chill in the
little breeze that crept across the meadows and made catspaws on the
quiet surface of the water. Early blackbirds were fluttering along the
banks ahead of the canoes, uttering their creaky notes and simulating
wild alarm. A fish leaped after a reckless insect and fell back with a
startling splash, sending widening circles away in the amber glow. They
didn’t paddle much, for there was enough current to bear them along.
Jimmy frankly shipped his blade and watched the drops trickle. Nick’s
voice came across the few yards of water.

“Somebody will please say some poetry,” he requested.

    “‘Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
        And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
      Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
        And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.

    “‘Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower
        The moping owl――――’”

“That’ll be about all of that,” interrupted Nick. “If you don’t know
anything cheerful, ’Ighness, dry up. ‘The moping owl’! Where do you get
that stuff, anyway?”

“Chap name of Gray wrote it,” replied Hugh meekly.

“Thought so! Same fellow who did that ‘Elegy on a Country Cemetery,’ or
whatever it is. He was a jovial old Johnnie, wasn’t he? Bet you he’d
have been swell company at a funeral!”

“If you want something bright and sparkling,” offered Jimmy, “I know a
nice little poem about a hanging! It begins――――”

“Never mind how it begins! Want to spoil a perfectly good appetite? I
say, you fellows, we’ll race you to the willows. Dig, ’Ighness!”

Followed a spirited race around the last bend to where a group of
willows leaned out over the shadowed water. Victory was claimed by both
crews, and the matter was never finally settled, for Nick tactfully
introduced the subject of supper in the middle of the argument and
leaped ashore with the brown-paper package that contained the precious
viands. Dried marsh grass and the paper from the bundle started a fire
at the foot of one gnarled willow, and small pieces of driftwood,
deposited by some winter flood, were piled on. Meanwhile Hugh made the
discovery that they had failed to provide salt for the chops and that
Nick had neglected to bring his folding cup. Jimmy helpfully reminded
them that it was an ancient custom, or so he had read, to substitute
gunpowder for salt when the latter was not to be had, and so _that_ was
all right! Nick called him an idiot and borrowed his knife to sharpen a
stick on which to broil the chops. In payment Jimmy helped himself to a
doughnut.




CHAPTER XIII

CONFESSION


A quarter of an hour later they were sitting around the bed of glowing
coals busily concerned with the chops and bread and butter. The chops
were decidedly underdone in the middle although beautifully crisp
outside, and Nick came in for some criticism as a cook. But each of
the four ate his share――it had proved rather a problem to divide three
chops into four equal portions!――and so, if the proof of “the pudding
is in the eating,” Nick was vindicated. They had also brought four
potatoes to roast, but it was decided that life was too short and
appetites too impatient to wait for them, and so Jimmy buried them in
the ground, after carefully cutting them into quarters, and agreed to
share the proceeds of the crop in September with the others, estimating
the yield at two pecks. When they were thirsty they went down the bank,
climbed into a canoe and leaned their heads into the river, thus, as
Nick pointed out, getting not only a drink but a bath.

The doughnuts, now diminished to eleven, were served out as dessert,
Jimmy, of course, receiving only two as his share, and were consumed
with the peaches and cheese. Jimmy’s knife was rather the worse for
its encounter with the can, but Dud kept his promise of opening the
latter. They speared the peaches out with slivers, passing the can
around the circle until nothing was left but the juice. Then they drank
that. Afterwards they tossed the can into the river and threw pebbles
at it until it floated slowly out of range. By that time it was fully
twilight and the April evening was growing chill. So they built up the
fire again and sat closer, huddling together for better protection from
the little breeze that whispered through the dead grass and leafless
boughs. For a while no one showed much inclination for conversation,
but after a while Hugh let fall a murmured remark and presently they
were talking desultorily of this and that, or, at least, Jimmy and
Hugh and Nick were. Dud, as usual, had little to say, and finally Nick
remarked:

“Shut up, Baker, and let someone else get a word in. I never heard such
a chatterbox.”

Jimmy chuckled. “Isn’t he gabby?” he asked.

“Is he like this in the room, Jimmy?” Nick inquired.

“N-no, and that’s the funny part of it. When he and I are alone
together he’s just full of words; can’t get them out fast enough. In
company, though, he’s horribly otherwise. I’ve been trying to break
him of it, but”――Jimmy sighed lugubriously――“nothing doing.”

“I dare say he believes in waiting until he has something to say,”
offered Hugh. “Is that the idea, Baker?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Dud laughed uncertainly. “I never seem to think of
things when――when I’m around with a crowd.”

“Well, you don’t call us a crowd, do you?” demanded Nick. “Come on
now; loosen up; spring some of those scintillant remarks that Jimmy is
always repeating. Know what he does, Baker? Well, he tells ’em around
and sort of gets the credit for ’em himself. Of course, he says you
said them, but there’s a sort of――of inflection in his voice that gives
you the idea that he put you up to it or――or something; if you know
what I mean, as Hugh would say.”

“Oh, Dud’s full of bright things,” said Jimmy carelessly. “Only the
trouble is he doesn’t talk for publication.”

“And you’re his press agent, eh?” laughed Nick. “I’ve often wondered――――”
He stopped. Then he laughed softly and Jimmy was aware that he was
regarding him mirthfully in the half darkness.

“What’s the bally joke?” murmured Hugh.

“Oh, nothing. That is――――” Nick fell into silence again. Then: “Most
of the things Jimmy tells sound a whole lot like Jimmy,” he stated
suggestively. There was a moment’s silence, broken at last by Dud.

“They are Jimmy’s,” he said quietly.

“Here, don’t try to put the blame on me!” Jimmy laughed loudly. “That’s
a punk trick, Dud!”

“Honest confession is good for the soul,” said Nick lightly. “Come
across, Jimmy. What’s the idea? Everyone knows you’ve been touting
Baker like anything ever since Christmas recess. What is it, a
conspiracy?”

Jimmy laid a twig carefully on the fire. “I don’t know what you’re
talking about,” he grumbled.

“Oh, yes, you do, old man! We’re all friends together, you know, and
nothing you say will be used against you. That all right, Baker?”

“Don’t ask him,” replied Jimmy. “He’d tell you anything. He’s incapable
of the truth. Say, what’s the matter with getting back, fellows?”

“Oh, there’s plenty of time,” said Nick. “Joking aside, Jimmy, just
what is the big idea?”

“Go ahead and tell,” urged Dud. “I don’t mind. Besides, they won’t
talk.”

“Oh, you!” said Jimmy in disgust. “What is there to tell? Well, all
right, fellows. Only this is just between us, understand? It’s a little
scheme of my own. You see, Dud here is――well, he’s just as you see
him now. He thinks big thoughts and he’s a nice boy, but he’s a graven
image when he gets outside his room. Well, he likes fun as much as the
rest of us but he doesn’t get it because he always thinks he isn’t
wanted around. He――he’s shy, you know. At least, I suppose that’s it. I
never was that way and don’t know much about it.”

Nick and Hugh laughed.

“So I said one day: ‘Dud,’ I said, ‘you do like I tell you and I’ll
have you mixing in no time at all. I’ll make a regular feller of you,
and it won’t cost you a cent. All you’ve got to do is what I tell you.’
So Dud said: ‘Oh, pshaw!’ or words to that effect, but agreed to try
the scheme. First thing I did was to make a list of fellows he ought
to know. Then we started in and got acquainted. It was hard sledding
because just as soon as I got him into a bunch of fellows he’d get
tongue-tied. Well, I saw that that wouldn’t do and so I began to get
off the good things Dud said――――”

“All of which you made up?” chuckled Nick.

“No, not all, honest. Some I did, of course. Dud didn’t deliver the
goods fast enough. And――well, that’s all there is to it. Perfectly
legitimate, you see, although Dud has had his doubts now and then and
threatened mutiny once or twice. We’ve got on fairly well. I haven’t
exactly popularized him yet, but I haven’t done so badly either. Lately
he’s been sort of kicking over the traces and refusing to pull, but
we’re progressing slowly. Now you know all about it. If either of you
chaps blab I’ll punch your head.”

“So that’s it,” mused Nick. “Some scheme, eh, ’Ighness?”

“Rather!”

“I’m glad you know,” said Dud, embarrassed, “because it’s always seemed
so silly for Jimmy to go around getting off a lot of funny jokes and
crediting them to me, and then――then for me to just stand around
and act like a dummy. I suppose we went into it as a sort of lark,
or――well, I don’t know. I suppose it sounds funny to you chaps. But I
wanted you to know.”

“I knew already,” said Hugh. “That is, I guessed a long time ago.”

“Honest?” exclaimed Jimmy. “Say, that’s queer, because when I asked Dud
which of the fellows he’d like to――――”

“Shut up, Jimmy!” implored Dud.

“Why? There’s no harm in it, you chump. I asked Dud who he’d like to
know most and he said――――”

“_Please_ dry up, Jimmy!”

“He said Hugh Ordway. That’s why we butted in on you one night a long
while ago.”

“Really? Well, you know, that’s quite a compliment, Baker. I’m afraid,
though, you didn’t find me――what’s the word, Nick?”

“Responsive?”

“Well, yes. Or appreciative, I guess; that’s better. If I’d known――――”

“You didn’t expect Baker to tell you, did you?” asked Nick. “If you
really wanted to know a fine, respectable member of the community,
though, Baker, why didn’t you select me? I can’t understand you wanting
to know this cold-blooded Britisher.”

“I think we called on you next,” answered Dud, laughing.

“Did you? Well, thanks for small favors! But look here, Jimmy, it’s
been fun for you, I guess, but you haven’t done Baker much good, you
idiot! A fellow’s got to work out his own――his own salvation at school.
No one else can do it for him. Now you let Baker hoe his own row,
and――――”

“That’s all you know about it,” replied Jimmy tranquilly. “Dud is on
speaking terms with about every fellow worth knowing now and before I
took him in hand――――”

“That’s all right, but I’d rather have a half-dozen real friends than
be able to say ‘Hello’ to everyone. All Baker needs is to put his chin
up and――and get out and――and mix!”

“Sure!” agreed Jimmy sarcastically. “That’s all! But suppose he
can’t do it? Suppose he hasn’t got the――the assurance? Then what? Why,
that’s where I come in, do you see?”

“You’re an ass,” laughed Nick. “Baker, you take my advice and discharge
your press agent. He’s no good. Anyway, you won’t need him any more.”

“It’s funny about being popular, or whatever you like to call it,”
mused Hugh. “Funny, I mean, how some fellows are and some aren’t; and
lots of times the popular chaps aren’t the ones you like best, if you
know what I mean.”

“Very clear, ’Ighness; almost pellucid,” said Nick. “Just the same――――”

“I don’t think I ever wanted to be what you’d call popular,” interrupted
Dud. “I never could be, I’m sure. All I did want was to know more
fellows and not feel quite so much out of everything. Of course, being a
lower middler I dare say it’s cheeky to want to mix with fellows in the
upper classes――――”

“Don’t see it that way,” said Nick. “Very commendable ambition, I’d
call it. Shows a desire to seek――er――refinement and wisdom, and――――”

“Oh, let’s get back,” said Jimmy. “I’m freezing to death. Besides,
you chaps may say what you like, but I know that without my skillful
handling of the case Dud wouldn’t be sitting here tonight listening to
you talk a lot of poppycock, Nick. Results are what count, and as a――a
press agent, if you like, I’ve produced results. Now someone tell me I
haven’t!”

“If you call this a result,” began Nick doubtfully.

“Of course I do! Dud has shown you two chaps that, whether he’s a
brilliant conversationalist or isn’t, he’s a perfectly human sort of a
chump, and you both like him a little better than you did yesterday,
and tomorrow Dud can go around and mention to a few fellows that last
evening he picnicked with Ordway and Blake on the river, and the
fellows will think, ‘Now if Baker is in with Ordway and Nick Blake he
must be all right,’ and――――”

“Don’t be a rotter, Jimmy!” begged Dud.

“Rotter nothing! It’s so, isn’t it? Mind, I don’t say you will tell
about it, but you could. You won’t, as a matter of fact, because you
don’t play the game for all it’s worth.”

“Honest, Jimmy, you’re enough to sicken a fellow,” said Nick. “If I
thought you believed what you preached, or practiced it――――”

“I do,” insisted Jimmy stoutly.

“You don’t,” contradicted Dud. “Come on home before you talk any more
nonsense.”

“I deny the nonsense,” replied Jimmy good-naturedly, “but I’m perfectly
willing to go home. I’ve been trying to for half an hour. Help me up,
someone. My legs are stiff with the cold. I say, we mustn’t forget to
let the canoes get adrift, fellows.”

“Oh, rot,” said Hugh. “If we’ve got to lie, let’s lie decently.”

“Why lie at all, then?” asked Dud. “Let’s just say that we wanted to
have supper on the river, and――and had it!”

“Not a bad idea,” applauded Nick. “Who knows but that we’ll get off
easy that way? Faculty will be so surprised when we don’t offer any
of the usual excuses that they’ll probably forget to put us on pro.
Anyway, let’s try it.”

“I’ll try anything once,” murmured Jimmy, as he stretched his numbed
legs. “I wonder, though, if we can see our way back? Bet you we’ll
run into the bank every two minutes! Where the dickens is that canoe?
I thought we left it right here. And where’s――――” Jimmy stopped and
turned toward the others approaching. “Say, fellows, I know an awfully
good joke,” he drawled.

“What is it?” demanded Nick suspiciously.

“Get ready to laugh. All set? Well, the canoes have gone!”

[Illustration: “‘The canoes have gone!’”]




CHAPTER XIV

MAROONED!


“Gone!” exclaimed Hugh. “My word! But how――――”

“Cut out the comedy, Jimmy,” said Nick. “Aren’t they there, really?”

“Well, you come and have a look. Maybe your sight is better than mine.
I haven’t my glasses with me and so, of course, I may be mistaken, but
nevertheless and notwithstanding――――”

“Well, I’ll be switched!” muttered Nick, holding a flaring match aloft
in the darkness. “Now how the dickens――――”

“I guess,” offered Dud, “that getting in and out of them to drink
pushed them off.”

“That’s the jolly story,” agreed Hugh. “But they were there the last
time I went down.”

“Who took the last drink?” asked Jimmy.

“You did, didn’t you? Did you see both canoes then?”

Jimmy turned to Nick in the gloom and considered. At last: “I didn’t
notice,” he confessed. “It was pretty dark then――――”

“But I say,” interrupted Hugh, “what are we going to do, eh?”

“Beat it home, ’Ighness,” responded Nick, “if you know what I mean.
There’s no use looking for the pesky things tonight. I dare say,
anyway, they’ll run aground somewhere before they get very far. What
we’ve got to do is foot it back. How far is it, Jimmy?”

“About a mile and a half,” answered Jimmy gloomily, “and most of the
way across this plaguey marsh. Unless we strike across that direction
and find the Yarrow road.”

“That would be worse than looking for the canoes,” said Nick. “Best
thing to do is follow the river as well as we can. Come on!”

“I say, if I fall in you might sing out so I’ll know which way to
swim,” suggested Hugh. “Tomorrow I’m going to buy an anchor for that
canoe, Nick; that is, if I ever find it.”

“Gee!” muttered Jimmy.

“What’s the matter?” asked Nick.

“I was just recalling the interesting fact that the canoe we were in
belongs to young Twining, the little beast, and he will be likely to be
quite peevish if it’s lost.”

“How inconsiderate!” laughed Nick. “He’s a junior, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“That’s all right then. You can point out to him that it’s a great
honor for him to have his canoe lost by an upper middler. Besides,
it’ll turn up in the morning. Oh, thunder!”

“I should say so!” agreed Hugh, scrambling out of the ditch he had
followed Nick into. “’Ware water, fellows!”

Dud and Jimmy escaped that time, but during the next half-hour or so
they had their share of misfortunes. There was no moon and the stars
were partly hidden by light clouds and it was impossible to see more
than a pace ahead at any time. They never actually tumbled into the
river, but they frequently stumbled down the bank and only saved
themselves by prompt laying hold of whatever they could reach, as when
Nick, walking too close to the edge and finding himself slipping,
promptly clutched Hugh’s leg and nearly doubled the catastrophe! It
seemed more like an hour than a half-hour since they had left the
willows before they caught sight of the old bridge looming indistinctly
above them. After that the rest was easy, for they had only to break
their way through the bushes that clad the embankment and foot it along
Crumbie Street to the corner of the campus, their path now illumined
by the infrequent street lights. Under the first of them they stopped
to take stock. Every one of them was wet to the knees or above and
plastered here and there with the nice, dark, rich mud of the marshes.
It was almost eight o’clock and any hope they may have entertained of
reaching their various rooms undetected had long since vanished. Nick
sighed philosophically as he turned to continue his journey, his shoes
_squish-squashing_ at every step.

“Anyway,” he said, “when we tell them we lost the canoes and had to
walk home they’ll just have to believe us! That is the one bright spot
in the surrounding gloom.”

“I’ve always wondered,” mused Jimmy, “how it would feel to be on
probation.”

“You ought to know by this time,” chuckled Dud. “You’ve been there
twice already.” For some reason, Dud seemed less troubled by the
impending disaster than the others.

Jimmy sniffed. “I don’t know, Mr. Baker, where you get your information,
but you have been sadly misled. The other occasions to which you
doubtless allude――――”

“Shut up, Jimmy,” warned Nick. “And, say, we’d better part company
about now. You and Baker beat it up here and Hugh and I’ll amble
careless-like over to River Street. I hate to attract attention, I’m
that modest. Nighty-night!”

“Same to you,” replied Jimmy. “And thanks for a pleasant party.
Although I must say that your arrangements for getting us home were a
bit――ah――primitive!”

“Don’t mention it! Farewell, brothers. We meet in prison!”

Whether by design or accident, Mr. Russell’s study door was wide
open as Dud and Jimmy quietly slipped from the stairway well into
the first-floor corridor of Trow, and, although they didn’t think it
advisable to stop to pass the time of day with the instructor, they
stopped just the same.

“Ah, Logan, is that you?” It was “J. P.’s” voice. The two boys retraced
their steps and halted at the doorway.

“Yes, sir,” replied Jimmy brightly.

“And Baker, too, I see. Well, young gentlemen, where have you been? We
missed your bright and smiling faces at supper tonight.”

Mr. Russell seemed to be in a pleasant mood, though one couldn’t always
be certain from appearances, and so Jimmy, as spokesman, smiled his
most winning smile and answered truthfully: “In the mud, sir.”

“Indeed? Yes, I see. All the evidence tends to corroborate your quaint
statement. But why in the mud, Logan?”

Jimmy hesitated an instant and then decided to make a clean breast of
the matter. Mr. Russell heard him through, smiling pleasantly. And
when the tale was told he said: “A most interesting narrative, Logan,
on my word. You show a nice sense of dramatic construction. But really,
boys, I’m rather afraid trouble will come of this. You know there’s a
rule about being in bounds by six o’clock on Sundays, eh? By the way,
you brought your fellow miscreants back with you, I trust? I refer to
Ordway and Blake.”

“Yes, sir; they’re back,” replied Jimmy dispiritedly. Mr. Russell’s
tone now wasn’t so reassuring.

“And they, too, were――ah――in the mud?”

Jimmy grinned. “You’d think so if you saw them! They fell right in a
ditch once!”

“Really?” Mr. Russell smiled quite broadly. “Well, I suppose it’s all a
grand lark with you youngsters, eh? Dear, dear, what a thing it is to
be young! Get those wet things off, boys, and stay in your room for the
rest of the evening. Possibly――――” He caught himself up. Then: “We’ll
hope for the best. Hm! Better look to your ways for awhile, though,
both of you. How about that little matter we spoke of recently, Baker?
Any――ah――any developments?”

“No, sir. I――I quit.”

“Wise youth! Go your ways, young gentlemen. Ponder on your sins
and”――Mr. Russell took up his book again――“refresh your souls with the
sweet communion――――”

The rest was only a mumble. Dud and Jimmy stole noiselessly away.

Fortune was good to them on the morrow. They were assembled, a
sober quartette, in Dr. Duncan’s office after breakfast and gravely
reprimanded and told that only a diligent application to studies could
wipe out the stain of their guilt. Promises of unfaltering labor
being at once forthcoming from each, they were dismissed with a final
admonition to mend their ways and, they thought, a sigh of relief from
the principal, never at his best in the rôle of Stern Authority.

After a ten o’clock recitation, Nick and Jimmy hurried up the river
in Nick’s canoe and recovered the lost craft, Twining’s being found
lodged against the bridge timbers and Hugh’s a half-mile up the stream,
entangled in a sunken branch. That, to all appearances, ended the
affair, but in reality there was one important consequence that was
lost sight of, which was the acceptance of Dud into the circle in which
Nick Blake and Hugh Ordway revolved. It didn’t happen all at once, and
for a week or two Dud himself didn’t realize it, but at the end of that
period he suddenly discovered himself sitting with Hugh and Nick and
Bert Winslow and Ted Trafford in Nick’s room very gravely discussing
such important subjects as The Value of the Sacrifice Hit, Overhand
versus Underhand Pitching, When to Use the Pinch-Play and The Duties
of a Third-Baseman on a Bunt to His Territory with a Man on Second.
Perhaps Dud didn’t take a very large part in the discussion, but when
he had anything to say he found voice to say it, and a few remarks from
him on the subject of underhand pitching were well received. But the
main thing was that he was there, not on sufferance but, as it seemed,
quite naturally and as a matter of course. He surreptitiously pinched
himself, found he was actually awake and then, for a moment, was
visibly embarrassed.

I don’t pretend that either Hugh or Nick would have been broken-hearted
if Dud hadn’t been present that evening, nor shall I attempt to guess
just how much of the friendliness they displayed was due to sympathy.
On the other hand, they were more than willing to have him there, and,
when they thought of it, were at some pains to make him feel welcome.
Ted Trafford took his cue from his host, and Bert Winslow’s attitude
was one of careless toleration. He still looked on Dud with suspicion.
Jimmy Logan couldn’t foist any lemon on him, as he once eloquently put
it to Hugh! Still, he didn’t actually dislike the younger boy, and,
save for an occasional mildly sarcastic comment occasioned by what he
called Dud’s cheek in trying to squirm his way into upper class company
and the first team, he treated the latter decently enough. The evening
ended with ginger-ale and grape-juice, mixed in equal proportions in
a pitcher, the scant remains of a pineapple cheese and some crackers.
Ted Trafford and Dud went back to Trow together, rather silently since
Ted was sleepy and Dud had nothing important to say, and parted in
the corridor. Dud reflected afterwards that Trafford might have said,
“Come and see me some time, Baker,” or something to like effect. But he
didn’t. He merely nodded sleepily, yawned and murmured: “Night!” Dud
was a bit disappointed, and without cause. Ted Trafford, who was a big,
good-hearted senior, would have issued that invitation had it occurred
to him that the younger boy would have set any store by it. As it was,
the thought didn’t enter his mind. If Baker was a friend of Nick and
Hugh, why, that was all there was to it. “Any friend of my friend,” is
the way Ted would have put it.

Followed a week bare of real incident. Dud, like the other members
of that picnic party, applied himself doggedly to his lessons in an
effort to get square with the Office again and turned out each week-day
afternoon for baseball practice. Sometimes he pitched for the scrubs
and more often his work consisted of serving them up to the batters
at the net and, afterwards, being relieved by Kelly or Brunswick,
practicing batting himself. The first game of the season came off that
Wednesday afternoon, with the second team as the opponent. It wasn’t
much of a contest. Errors swelled the score of each team and all sorts
of delays slowed the game up so that there was time for only seven
innings. Dud took no part, the twirling being performed by Ben Myatt
for three innings and by Nate Leddy for the rest of the game. The
second team pitchers were severely handled and the first won by the
decisive score of 17 to 7.

If there was any special sensation in that contest it was in the sudden
eminence of “Hobo” Ordway as a batter. Hugh, going into the line-up in
the fourth inning, came twice to bat and on each occasion smashed a
long, clean two-bagger into left-center. In the field he had only three
chances, but he took them all. It was only in throwing in that Hugh
was weak. Jimmy went to right field for three innings, made one rather
brilliant running catch of a long fly, failed to get a hit and retired
in favor of a pinch hitter in the sixth. After that Wednesday game life
settled down again rather monotonously, but not uninterestingly, for
Dud. On Saturday the team journeyed away and played Portsmouth Grammar
School and won handily against a weak adversary. Dud didn’t accompany
the team as a member nor did he go along with the half-hundred ardent
rooters. Neither did Jimmy. Mr. Russell in refusing their request for
leave, intimated that the afternoon might be spent far more profitably
in study. “J. P.” was kindly but firm. Doubtless his advice was
well-meant and worthy of consideration, but I regret to say it was not
followed. Instead, the two boys went trout fishing in Three Gallon
Brook, a mile back of school. Dud used flies and got not even a nibble.
Jimmy, with a plentiful supply of angle-worms, landed a four-inch
sunfish. As no one, so far as they were aware, had ever caught, seen
or suspected the presence of a trout in Three Gallon Brook, they were
not disappointed. The only feature of the excursion not counted on
occurred when Dud slipped from a rock during the effort to free his
line from a snag and landed in three feet of extremely cold water.
Fortunately that happened after Jimmy had landed his catch and so they
were about ready to go home, anyway. Jimmy carried the sunfish back to
school dangling from an alder branch. That is, it dangled until they
reached the school grounds. Then it was placed tenderly in Jimmy’s
coat pocket and smuggled to Number 19. When he returned from supper he
brought salt, and the fish was fried over the gas――with the door and
transom carefully closed and both windows wide open――and consumed in
a peculiarly flabby and underdone condition. Jimmy partook with gusto,
or pretended to, but Dud did scant justice to the repast. Jimmy said
he was jealous. Gus Weston happened in before the penetrating aroma of
the sunfish had been entirely dissipated and asked anxiously what the
trouble was. Whereupon Jimmy stopped trying to dislodge a bone that had
worked its way in back of his tongue and described movingly the size,
ferocious aspect and fighting qualities of that fish, recounting with
much detail the long, exhausting struggle incident to its capture. And
Weston diplomatically vowed that he believed every word of it; and had
either of them a rattling good detective story to lend him?




CHAPTER XV

DUD SERVES THEM UP


Between Dud and Starling Meyer existed an armed neutrality. They passed
with covert glances, avoided each other when possible and doubtless
caused some disappointment to a certain element in the school who had
been for several weeks eagerly expecting a fracas between the two. The
boxing lessons had been abandoned, since, as Jimmy pathetically pointed
out, there was no use getting ready for something that couldn’t happen.
The gloves were returned to their owners, and, robbed of self-defense
as a principal interest in life, Jimmy gave his attention to playing
baseball. It occurred to him at about this time that it wouldn’t look
well for Dud to make the first team, even as a substitute, and for
him to get chucked back to the second nine. So the Monday after the
Portsmouth Grammar School game Jimmy buckled down to make good. Right
field seemed the only position open to him, and even to earn that
he would have to beat out Harold Boynton, and Boynton, while not an
exceptional fielder, was a pretty fair hitter. Therefore it behooved
Jimmy to get busy and learn to “lam ’em out” a bit better. His first
step was to attempt to bribe Brunswick and Dud to pitch easy ones when
he was at the net. Failing at that, he sighed and set out to conquer
by labor. Jimmy always preferred to take short cuts. The longest way
around might suit some fellows, but he took it only as a last resort.
Having, however, made up his mind to the circuitous journey, Jimmy was
capable of settling down to the task and seeing it through.

On Wednesday the second team was again defeated, and on the following
Saturday Grafton High School, supported by a large and noisy mob of
pennant-flaunting boys and girls, engaged the attention of the first
team. The batting order that afternoon gave a line on what was likely
to be the final selections: Blake, ss; Murtha, 2b; Parker, cf; Winslow,
3b; Ayer, 1b; Ordway, lf; Boynton, rf; Gordon, c; Myatt or Leddy, p.
There might be, probably would be, changes later on in the arrangement
of the players for batting purposes, but it was generally conceded
that the team as made up that day was practically as it would be six
weeks later. It was likely that Ben Myatt would occasionally be played
in center field, for Ben, aside from being a remarkable pitcher, was
a steady outfielder and a good hitter. There were some critics who
sneered at Hugh Ordway’s presence on the nine, hinting at favoritism,
and it must be acknowledged that Hugh accomplished little that
afternoon to vindicate his selection for the middle-garden position.
Hugh had a bad day, missing one easy fly and failing to reach first
base once. His muff in the third inning let in two runs and made the
outcome doubtful until the sixth, when a single by Guy Murtha with one
down, a sacrifice by Parker, a screeching two-base hit by Bert Winslow
and an error by third-baseman landed two tallies for the home team.

The score stayed at five to five until the ninth, when the home team
started a rally. Bert Winslow, first man up, was passed. Neil Ayer
laid a bunt in front of the plate, sending Bert to second and going
out himself at first. Mr. Sargent sent Milford to bat in place of Hugh
and Milford came through with a clean single that landed him on first.
Bert, however, was out at the plate by inches only. With two gone, a
second pinch-hitter was sent to the rescue in the person of Gus Weston.
As a pinch-hitter Gus was ordinarily something of a joke, but on this
occasion he turned the laugh on High School’s pitcher, landing on the
first offering and sending it down the third-base line for a hit that
advanced Milford to second. Gordon followed with a pop-fly that should
have been an easy out, but which second baseman and shortstop managed
between them to let fall safe.

With bases full and Nate Leddy up――Myatt had gone through five innings
and been sent to the showers――Mr. Sargent took a chance and let Nate go
to bat. Evidently the latter was instructed to wait out the pitcher,
for he stood idly by while two strikes and two balls went across. Then
the coach called him back and Jimmy Logan was sent in to distinguish
himself. Anyone but Jimmy would have suffered from nerves, I fancy,
for it is something of an ordeal to step up to the plate with two out,
bases filled and the pitcher’s score two-and-two. But Jimmy approached
the task with beautiful assurance. Some said he even swaggered a
little. Perhaps he did, and perhaps that swagger was the undoing of the
opposing pitcher. At any rate, all Jimmy had to do was dodge two wild
deliveries and trot, smilingly, to first, while Milford ambled over the
plate with what proved eventually to be the winning run. Nick Blake
brought the inning to an end a moment later when he sent a long fly to
the outfield.

Grafton High School begrudged that victory and showed it, at the time
by the half-hearted way in which they cheered their successful rival,
and later by sending a challenge for another contest on High School
grounds. The challenge was accepted and a vacant date a week and a
half later was awarded her. Since faculty rules prohibited the team
from playing away from the school on Wednesdays during April and May, a
special dispensation was asked for and obtained, and the game came off
in due time and High School went down in decisive defeat, the score at
the end of the seven innings played being 9 to 2 in favor of Grafton.

Before that, however, Leeds High School had administered the first
beating to the Scarlet-and-Gray to the tune of 3 to 0. It was a good
game and Grafton showed up well in all departments except that of
hitting. Leeds’ pitcher was a hard proposition and only four scattered
hits were registered by Grafton. On the other hand, Leddy, who started
in the box for his team, was found for six hits in four innings, one
of them a three-bagger, and although Ben Myatt, who relieved him, held
the enemy well in hand, the mischief was already done. In the eighth
and ninth innings that day Mr. Sargent used every available player in
his determined effort to stem the tide of disaster, even Dud getting a
chance to show his batting prowess and rapping a liner straight into
the hands of shortstop as his contribution to the cause. Jimmy, called
into the fray in the eighth, managed to get hit with an in-shoot and
so, luckily, earned his base. It was Starling Meyer who came nearest to
accomplishing anything in the batting line, for Star, after watching
two good ones pass him, landed on what was palpably intended for a wide
one and managed to drop it behind first base some three inches inside
the foul line. Unfortunately there was no one on the bases to take
advantage of the miracle.

As a result of the Leeds game there followed, beginning on the next
Monday afternoon, a series of batting practices that for the rest of
the week, barring Wednesday and Saturday, left no time for line-ups.
There also followed a change in the batting order and a slight shakeup
of the team. Bert Winslow took Guy Murtha’s place as second batter,
Guy following him and Parker slipping into fourth position. Gordon and
Boynton also changed locations. Milford was tried out at first and for
the next three weeks he and Neil Ayer had a very lively struggle for
the first sack. Eventually Ayer came into his own again, although had
batting ability alone entered into it Milford would undoubtedly have
won the place. Jimmy got several opportunities to show what he could do
in right field and Starling Meyer received some recognition in center.
Southlake Academy was defeated on the nineteenth at Southlake, Gus
Weston pitching for once a remarkably steady game until he was taken
out in the seventh. By that time the contest was on ice and Coach
Sargent sent Brunswick in for a couple of innings of experience.
Experience came his way, too, to the tune of four hits for a total of
six bases, but luckily only one run resulted.

Track and field sports were by now engaging much of the school’s
interest. The team had held its handicap games the last of April, had
defeated St. James Academy the week before and was at present very
busily at work getting into condition to meet Mount Morris, Grafton’s
principal rival, on the twenty-sixth. Over on the big oval ribbon of
gray-blue cinders the twenty-odd youths who wore the scarlet-and-gray
stripe across their chests or who hoped to wear it after next Saturday,
sprinted and ran and hurdled, while about the jumping pits a dozen or
fifteen others strove mightily with shot and hammer and vaulting-pole
or worked zealously at the jumps. Nowadays the audience at the first
team diamond was smaller each afternoon, and one heard much learned
talk of dual records, and the names of Zanetti and Tray and Keyes and
Yetter and Musgrave and many others pursued one from breakfast to
bedtime. “Dinny” Crowley divided his time as best he could between
Track Team and second nine, while Davy Richards, at last really in his
element, loomed large in importance. Davy had a reputation as a trainer
of track and field talent to vindicate and Davy in the process of
vindicating was a fine imitation of a tyrant. Even Mr. Sargent forsook
baseball for a space each day and gave his attention to the weight men
and jumpers, for “Pete” in his day had held a college record for two
years with the hammer and had, as a side issue, leaped his twenty-two
feet-odd for the honor of the Blue. So for one week at least baseball
took a back seat at Grafton and the real heroes were the slim-waisted,
bare-legged chaps in fluttering white trunks.

The ball team met Middleboro High School on Wednesday afternoon and
had no trouble in winning a 14 to 3 contest that offered little in the
way of excitement or suspense to the listless spectators. It was an
intolerably hot day for May and audience and players alike drooped. For
Grafton, Nate Leddy started the twirling, but after his teammates had
scored eight runs on the opponents in five innings Nate ambled off and
Joe Kelly tried his hand. Joe was not a success, for the enemy took
most kindly to his slants, and after facing two innings of trouble Joe
likewise retired and Dud was given his first taste of hostile batsmen.

With the score 12 to 3, Dud was not expected to kill himself, and
Ed Brooks, who had taken Gordon’s place behind the plate with the
advent of Kelly on the mound, was all for an easy life. But Brooks was
reckoning without Dud’s ambition to win a place on the list of battery
candidates. Dud had warmed the bench and twirled his glove during so
many games that this opportunity presented itself to him as Heaven-sent
and he resolved to use all the skill he knew and all the control he
possessed. For a fortnight he had been experimenting with his curves
again and, at Ben Myatt’s suggestion, had even attempted a side-arm
delivery that looked promising. He had little fear of being punished
much, but he went to the mound and picked up the ball determined to
deny any sort of a hit to the opponents. That is why he shook his head
so frequently at his catcher, much to that gentleman’s surprise, and
why when Middleboro’s tail-enders faced him in that first of the eighth
he worked so carefully and cunningly that one after another the three
last batters on the list retired without even fouling-off a ball! The
Middleboro pitcher stood like a graven image while Dud shot two fast
ones over the outer corner of the rubber, wasted one for luck and then
ended the inning with a slow ball that floated as perfectly over the
center as though it had been rolled on wires! For the first time during
the game the somnolent spectators showed enthusiasm as Dud dropped the
ball and made for the bench. Brooks squeezed in beside him and thumped
him on the knee.

“Great work, Dud!” he said. “We made ’em look like pikers, didn’t we?”

“You!” laughed Parker, sitting next him. “What did you do, Eddie?
Baker scratched every signal you gave him!”

“Me?” asked Brooks sarcastically. “Oh, nothing! I just held him, that’s
all! You get up there and put your mitt against some of Dud’s fast ones
and see how simple it is! Say, Dud, it would be fine if we could send
them down in the next inning the same way, eh? Only thing is, that
fellow Dollard, who bats second, is a pretty good hitter. He’s made two
already out of three times up.”

“What’s the first fellow like?” asked Dud.

“Chapman? I guess that’s his name. Plays third. Oh, he’s not dangerous.
He wants his base. Sneak over the first one for a strike and then tease
him a couple of times with high ones. He’ll go after them every time.
But Dollard’s not so easy. He waits for the good ones.”

“Then we’ll have to see that he doesn’t get them,” replied Dud simply.

“Well, if you can keep on working the corners the way you did last
inning you’re all right. That ump has his eyesight with him. If he
didn’t you’d get the worst of it lots of times.”

Grafton tallied twice more in her half of the eighth and then Dud went
back to the mound and faced the small and stocky third-baseman. But he
wasn’t hard. Once Dud thought he had lost his wish, but the ball rolled
foul before it reached the third sack. After that there was no more
trouble. Chapman, if that was his name, bit at a high one and missed
it badly, let a ball go by and then again swung too late at a fast one
that crossed the plate and retired disgruntled to the bench.

But Dollard was more canny. Dollard had to have good ones. Dud tried
him on two that looked fair until they broke, but the batter treated
them with contempt. Then Dud tried him out with a slow one and caught
him napping. Dollard fouled the next one into the stand and the score
was two-and-two. Brooks signaled for a straight one, hoping to finish
him off, but Dud shook his head. Instead, he changed his position in
the box a mite, wrapped his fingers about the ball, wound up, stepped
forward and swung his arm wide at the height of his elbow. Brooks had
to jump for that ball, for it proved a cross-fire indeed, and there
was a perceptible moment of hesitation before the umpire reached his
verdict. But when he did he said “_You’re out!_” so decisively as to
make up for the hesitation. Dollard voiced objections all the way to
the bench and let it be known by the manner in which he slammed his bat
to earth that he was totally out of sympathy with that umpire! But the
crowd cheered the strike-out and jeered the victim and the next batsman
stepped to his place.

Then, for once, and for the first time since he had profited by Ben
Myatt’s advice, Dud went back to his hooks and that third batter swung
and dodged and swung again while Dud brought the game to an end with
exactly four deliveries!

Two days later there came the final cut in the first squad and six
disappointed candidates were turned over to the second team. One of the
six was a pitcher, but his name was not Baker. It was Kelly.




CHAPTER XVI

THE TRACK MEET


It was Saturday afternoon and Dud, squeezed into a seat on the little
grandstand between Roy Dresser and Ernest Barnes, was watching the
Track and Field Meeting of Grafton and Mount Morris. The baseball crowd
had gone off to play the Rotan College Freshman Team and by what Dud
considered a horrible error of judgment on the part of the coach he
had not been taken along. Of course, he hadn’t expected to pitch even
one inning against the college nine, but he did think that Mr. Sargent
might have included him among the substitutes. How was a fellow to
learn if he didn’t watch the team play? And to add to his sense of
injury, Jimmy had actually accompanied the nine to play right field!
Of course that was only because Boynton was entered in the athletic
meet and someone had to take his place, but it didn’t make Dud any more
reconciled. There were moments when he almost wished that the team
would run up against the defeat that was predicted for it!

Still, those moments were of the past, for during the last half-hour
Dud had been far too excited over the events taking place before his
eyes to recall the injustice done him. The sprints, the half-mile, the
high hurdles, the shot-put and the high jump had been decided and the
rivals were within two points of each other, Mount Morris leading with
28. Just now nine eager youths, four wearing the green-and-white of
Mount Morris and five the scarlet-and-gray of Grafton, were awaiting
the pistol at the start of the quarter-mile and Dud’s eyes were
riveted on them. Warren Yetter, on whom Grafton’s hopes rested, was
the second man from the pole and, oddly enough, Kirkwell, the Mount
Morris crack, was at his right elbow. Dud could see them talking to
each other smilingly, but for all of that a bit constrainedly. Then
the nine bodies poised, there was an instant’s silence and the sharp
report of the starting pistol sounded on the still air. The runners
leaped away, jockeyed for positions in the first dozen strides and
swept past the stand like frightened deer. Dud was on his feet, and so
too were all those around him. Inarticulate sounds made a background
for the strident shouts and yells of encouragement. Along the grass a
Mount Morris youth, an official of some sort, raced beside the runners,
dangling a white sweater with a broad green band on it, yelping and
urging. Now they were at the first corner, Kirkwell leading and Yetter
a yard behind him. Tenney, of Grafton, strove to pass Yetter on the
outside and was followed closely by a Mount Morris runner. At the next
corner the first four were strung out and hugging the rim: Kirkwell,
Yetter, Tenney and Number 54. Dud sought hurriedly for his program to
discover the identity of Number 54, realized the next moment that he
didn’t care, swept his gaze back across the field quickly and joined
his voice in the roar that swept from the stand. Yetter was sprinting
gamely now. Only a yard separated him from Kirkwell. Tenney was certain
of third place. The finish was only a few yards away. Yetter crept
up and up! The shouts increased. The stand was a pandemonium. The
officials, packed about the finish line, were waving and shouting, too,
all but the judges and timers. Yetter and Kirkwell swept to the line
side by side! Or did they? Wasn’t the Mount Morris man a little ahead
as they disappeared behind the group there? The tumult had quieted, but
now it broke forth again and the shouting came from the other end of
the stand. Across the field a half-dozen jubilant Mount Morris fellows
were tossing their hats in air and signaling victory!

“That was a peach of a finish,” said Roy Dresser, with a sigh of
relief. “Warren almost had him.”

“That puts them another point ahead,” said Dud, grudgingly crediting
Mount Morris with 5. “Gee, I thought Yetter was supposed to have the
four-forty cinched!”

“I guess he ran it inside his best time,” replied Roy. “Kirkwell was
better, that’s all.”

The announcer was bawling forth the result:
“Four-Hundred-and-Forty-Yards-Run! Won by C. J. Kirkwell, Mount Morris!
W. H. Yetter, Grafton, second; A. L. Tenney, Grafton, third. Time, 52⅗
seconds!”

“Wow!” exclaimed Roy. “That’s a fifth better than the dual record! I
told you Warren was going some!”

Dud tried to glean comfort from the fact, but those five points stared
at him obstinately. They were putting the low hurdles across the cinder
for the final heat, while at the end of the oval lithe forms sprang in
air to waft themselves over the bar nearly ten feet above the ground or
to go, doubled up like an animated jack-knife, flying into the brown
loam of the jumping pit. Behind the stand the hammer-throwers were
still busy. Dud watched Jim Quinn launch himself upward with his long
pole, straighten a tense body and drop across the trembling bar and
sighed with relief. The pole vault might decide the meeting and so far
Quinn was more than holding his own.

Musgrave and Keyes, of Grafton, and Torrey and Capper, of the rival
school, crouched far up the track. At the finish a handkerchief waved.
The four figures set, straightened and leaped away from their marks and
the sound of the pistol followed them. Down they came, stride, stride,
stride, leap; Torrey gaining between hurdles, Keyes pulling him back
at the timbers; Musgrave and Capper falling behind but fighting gamely
for third place. On and on to the growing roar of the excited watchers,
hurdle after hurdle falling behind. Torrey well in advance now, but
Keyes pushing him for every ounce of strength in his body. Two more
hurdles left. Torrey is over! Keyes is over! A mad race for the final
obstacle, Torrey again gaining on the flat, but Keyes, head back, feet
twinkling, only a yard behind. Up again and over, almost side by side
at the next stride. Then the dash to the string, Torrey, arms upthrown,
breaking it a stride ahead of Keyes! Mount Morris shouts wildly and
Grafton joins, for Ned Musgrave has beaten out his rival handily and
again the points go five to Mount Morris and four to Grafton, and Mount
Morris had been conceded first and third places!

Dud is a trifle comforted as he sinks back to his seat and scratches
agitatedly with his stubby pencil. Barnes, munching chocolate
philosophically, asks the score.

“Thirty-eight to thirty-four,” replies Dud.

“We’re a goner then.”

“We are not! Wait till the mile run comes off! Foster Tray will win
that at a walk, and we may get second place too.”

“Yes, and Mount Morris will win the broad jump and the hammer.” Barnes
pushes the last of the chocolate between stained lips and wipes sticky
fingers on a dingy handkerchief. “Say, I wonder how the baseball game
is coming out.”

“We’ll get licked. Here come the milers. Who’s the fellow in the blue
and yellow bathrobe, Roy?”

“Milton. He ought to do pretty well. He ran fifth last year and they
say he’s a lot faster now. I don’t see――――”

“The bar is now at nine feet, ten and one-half inches!” announces a
voice, and they turn their gaze to see a Mount Morris youth rise in
air, straighten and come hurtling to earth with the bar on top of him.

“So sorry,” murmurs Roy Dresser. “Hope he does it again next time.”

The megaphone artist trots into the middle of the arena and faces the
stand, a slip of paper in his hand. The voices are stilled as he places
the scarlet horn to his mouth. “At the end of the fifth inning――――”

Deep silence now!

“――At Rotan the score stands: Grafton 5――――”

An outburst of cheers, quickly stilled.

“――Rotan 11!”

A moment of gloom, broken by ironical cheers from the Mount Morris end
of the stand.

“What do you know about that?” asks Dud wonderingly. “They must have
hammered Myatt for fair! Eleven to five! Gee!”

“What I want to know,” observes Barnes, “is how we got five!”

Dud observes him in faint disgust. “Oh, I suppose they gave them to us!
Don’t you think we can play ball at all?”

“I didn’t think we could hit that fellow Gibbs,” Barnes answers
carelessly. “He’s a wonder, you know.”

“Well, even wonders have their off days. I guess Myatt had one today!
Gee, eleven runs!”

“I’m just as well pleased I didn’t go, Baker. The crowd will be dead
sore when they get back. It costs nearly two dollars to make that trip.”

“We’ve just simply got to get this meet,” mutters Dud. “We can’t get
beaten all around today!”

“I’ve known it to happen,” says Roy unfeelingly. “Here they go! Must be
two dozen of ’em!”

In truth there were exactly fourteen, about evenly divided between
the two schools. They hustled away confusedly and went to the corner
weaving in and out, slowing their strides. Four times around a
quarter-mile track is no pleasure jaunt and they knew it. Foster Tray
was well in the rear of the bunch and he stayed there as long as the
pace suited him, but at the finish of the first lap he had crawled up
to third place, with Towne, of Mount Morris, and Milton, of Grafton,
leading in that order. The field was already strung out, for the pace
had been fairly fast for the tyros. In the backstretch a Mount Morris
youth sprinted from the center of the first bunch and swept into the
lead, no one disputing him. But he lasted only to the beginning of
the homestretch and when the leaders came past the stand again Towne
was first and Tray second. Milton was back in fourth place, behind
a teammate. Then came three Mount Morris fellows and, after them, a
straggling line of pluggers.

The time was shouted to them as they went by, but there was too much
shouting from the stand for Dud to hear it. At the next corner Milton
hustled past the third runner and fell in behind Tray, and Grafton
cheered that indication of pluck. But by the time the backstretch
was once more ahead Towne and Tray were yards to the good and both
Milton and the man behind him were losing ground. There was no sign of
weariness shown by either of the leaders. Towne was running a fine,
steady race and seemed well within himself. Tray, not so pretty a
runner, looked to be tiring, but he kept his position to the fraction
of an inch, a single stride behind his rival, his spikes hugging the
rim closely. Around the corners they came, into the stretch, to a
chorus of cheers and shouts and shrill yells of advice, entreaty and
encouragement. The gong clanged its announcement of the final lap.
Fifteen yards or so behind the two leaders came Milton, fighting
doggedly to keep ahead of a Mount Morris youth but losing gradually. By
this time the track showed tired contestants everywhere. Towne and Tray
were already lapping the rear-guard.

Stride for stride, the green ribbon and the scarlet passed the turns
and reached the backstretch. There was still no sign of a change of
pace, no altering of the steady strides. Now they were half-way through
the final circuit, moving together across the green turf like a single
machine. But suddenly cries leapt from the watchers. Towne had started
his sprint! Already a yard separated the two! And now it was a good
two strides! They were rounding the third corner, heads back, digging
for all they were worth! Tray was falling behind! The spectators in
the stand were on their feet, hands outstretched and beckoning, lungs
roaring forth shouts of triumph or of despair. Into the stretch the
two white-clad figures swept. Surely Tray had pulled up again! He had!
He was running stride for stride with the Mount Morris man! He was
gaining! Why, there was nothing to it but Tray! What a sprint! Two
yards between them now, three――four! And Tray still opening up daylight
and the finish growing nearer and nearer! The stand was emptying, the
audience piling down to crowd the track at the finish line. It was
difficult to see now, but there was a head bobbing up and down a few
yards away, and another――――

“_Track! Track! Keep back there! Give them room, fellows!_”

“_Grafton! Grafton! Grafton!_”

“_Tray! Tray! Tray!_”

“_Come on, Towne! Mount Morris! Mount Morris!_”

“_You can do it! Come on! Come on!_”

Then a veritable babel of sound as a white-clad runner stumbles into
sight at the end of the throng, is caught by ready arms and borne
staggering to the turf. Grafton cheers fill the air. Another runner
subsides on the grass. Cries of “_Track! Track! Let them finish!
Everyone off the track!_” And then Milton, white of face, dragging his
unwilling feet beneath him, fighting for breath, crosses the line a
scant two yards ahead of a Mount Morris youth and plunges forward on
his face. After that they jog in one by one, but no one sees them, for
the race is over and Grafton has won first place and third and added
eight much-needed points to her score!

Dud, separated in the confusion of that rush down from the stand from
his companion, waited to hear the announcement of the time, hoping to
learn that Foster Tray had made a new record for the mile. But four
minutes and fifty-four seconds was not sensational, and so he followed
the crowd to the pole-vault. The broad jumpers had just finished and
Mount Morris had won first place, leaving four points for Grafton,
and the figures stood 46 to 44, the Green-and-White still two points
ahead. The hammer-throw had not yet been heard from, Dud learned, but
Quinn was sure of first in the pole-vault. Dud joined the ranks of the
anxious onlookers and watched while Mount Morris’s talent tried and
failed to equal Jim Quinn’s ten feet and one inch, watched while Hanson
of Grafton struggled for third place in the vault-off between him and
Joy of Mount Morris and grieved when he lost out. And then, while Dud
was figuring and calculating and staring at the unwelcome result which
showed Mount Morris still a point ahead, a wildly leaping junior shot
around the stand bringing an end to suspense.

Grafton had won first and second place in the hammer-throw! Driver had
thrown a hundred and thirty-nine feet and four inches! And Gowen had
done almost as well! And Mount Morris’s best was only――――

But Dud didn’t care what Mount Morris’s best had been! He was scrawling
a big black 8 on his program and shouting to no one in particular:

“What do you know about that? Grafton, 57; Mount Morris, 51! Well,
I guess! Six points to the good! Oh, we’re not so bad, not so bad!
Fifty-seven to fifty-one! What do you know about that?”

No one heard him, I fancy, for there was a great deal of noise about
that time.




CHAPTER XVII

BASEBALL, TENNIS AND OYSTERS


There was yet nearly three-quarters of an hour before supper time and
Dud, still elated and excited over the track victory, turned his steps
to River Street and, skirting the school grounds, swung west and made
for the station. The ball team, unless it missed its connection at the
Junction, would be in at a quarter to six. Dud was not alone in his
journey to the station, for the carriages bearing the Mount Morris
athletes passed him half-way along the shaded village road and several
boys, fortunate youths living nearby who had procured leave of absence
over Sunday, were trailing along, suit-cases in hand. Dud witnessed
the departure of the Mount Morris track team and the fellows off for
home and then, seated on a baggage-truck, watched the shadows creep
down the hillside across the tracks and thought of a great many things.
He speculated on what had happened at Rotan to result in Grafton’s
defeat, wondered whether by any stroke of fortune the Scarlet-and-Gray
had redeemed herself in the later innings and then tried to imagine
himself in the box for Grafton, facing those doughty Rotan freshies
and mowing them down one-two-three! He couldn’t quite visualize the
scene, however, and gave up with a sigh. Then he wondered how long it
would be before Mr. Sargent would let him start a game, and what would
happen when he did! And at that instant there was a whistle far down
the track, the few loiterers came to life along the platform and the
baggage man requisitioned his truck.

Jimmie was one of the first off the train and was all for returning
to school in the barge until Dud reminded him that he had walked all
the way over to meet him and didn’t propose to pay any fifteen cents
to ride back. Whereupon Jimmie good-naturedly set out with his chum on
foot.

“Twelve to seven,” he answered in reply to Dud’s request for the final
figures. “What was the matter? Why, nothing much, except that we
couldn’t hit that pitcher of theirs and they slammed Myatt all over
the lot in the third. Why the dickens Pete didn’t yank him out I don’t
know. Maybe it’s just as well he didn’t, though. I guess they’d have
battered Leddy something brutal. Those dubs sure can hit the pill, son!”

“How did you get on?” asked Dud.

“Rotten, thanks! I muffed a peach of a fly and let two runs cross,
worse luck! It was in that awful third. The sun got square in my eyes
just at the last moment. I had the old thing sighted nicely until I
had to drop my hands to make the catch. Then it went plum through
’em. There were three on bases and so two of them scored. The other
one could have, too, if he’d had any sense, for it took me about ten
seconds to find the ball after I muffed it. But the fellow slowed up at
third and by that time it was too late.”

“Did you hit any?”

“I got one, and it was a corker. I’d have had two bases on it if Blake
hadn’t held me up at first, the chump! I wasn’t awfully strong with the
stick, Dud, but I got a base every time I went up!”

“You did? How, for pity’s sake?”

“Well, the first time I rolled one in front of base and the catcher
threw to second to get Ordway. He didn’t, though, for Hobo’s a regular
flash on the bases, and we were both safe. The next time I got pinked
in the arm, the next time I hit between short and third――some little
sizzler, that was, old scout!――and the last time I worked Mr. Pitcher
for a pass.”

“Gee, you’re a lucky chap,” said Dud enviously.

“Lucky? Nothing of the sort. Brains, son, brains! Besides, do you call
it lucky to have a long, easy fly go right through your fingers? Huh!
Luck didn’t do anything for little Jimmy today! Say, how’d the meet
come out? Heard we’d won it, but what was the score?”

They talked track meeting until the campus was reached and then Dud
returned to the subject of the ball game. “They tried Star Meyer in
center for a couple of innings; Parker got his leg spiked and Star
wasn’t so bad. Made a pretty catch of a long one that went nearly to
the fence and managed to beat out a bunt in the ninth. I suppose the
first thing I know I’ll have to down him as well as Boynton.”

Dud looked surprised. “Do you think you’ve got a show, Jimmy?” he
inquired.

“Why not?” asked the other, bristling. “Boynton’s not much better than
I am. He muffs ’em, too, now and then. Of course, he’s hitting better,
but I’ll wager he doesn’t get to first any oftener. But if they go and
lug Star into the business, why, that’s different. I can’t win out
against the whole school!”

“But you say they played Star in center. And you’re after right, aren’t
you?”

“I’m after anything I can get, son. A fellow who can play center can
play right or left, can’t he? An outfielder’s just an outfielder, you
see, and you can’t play more than three of ’em at a time――and get away
with it. Just now there are about six of us, all trying for three jobs.
I wish Star Meyer would go soak his head and not butt in on baseball!”

Dud laughed. “You might suggest it to him, Jimmy. Who pitched besides
Myatt? Did Brunswick get in?”

“Nobody. Ben went the distance. They couldn’t touch him much after that
rotten third. Got a couple of hits in the fifth and about one each
inning after that. They made their last run in the eighth with two
down. A fellow cracked a two-bagger down the left foul-line and tried
to steal third, and did it because Winslow let the ball drop. Then the
next fellow hit an easy one to Ayer and Myatt didn’t cover base in time
and the chap on third scrambled in. I guess it was just as well Pete
didn’t derrick Ben, after all, because he certainly pitched a corking
game after that third inning. Gee, but I’m hungry! Wish I was at
training table,” he added wistfully. “They get steaks there!”

They went over to Nick Blake’s room after supper and found Hugh and
Bert and Guy Murtha there, and there was much baseball talked and
many “might-have-beens” discussed. Dud, as a non-participant, had
little to say, and Hugh, who might have talked a good deal since he
had rather distinguished himself by his work at the bat and on the
bases, was almost as silent. After awhile, on the excuse of showing
Dud a new book, Hugh led the other off upstairs and they settled down
full-length on the window-seat, beside the open casements, and had a
fine, chummy talk. Dud could talk well enough when there was but a
single listener, and tonight Hugh found the younger boy far from dull.
By the time Bert Winslow came in, yawning, they had discovered numerous
bonds of sympathy such as mutual likes and dislikes and an intense
desire to make good at baseball. Hugh, entering the game as the veriest
tyro and with a deal of doubt and not much enthusiasm, was now a rabid
“fan” and almost amusingly eager to make a name for himself.

Bert, I think, wanted to go to bed, but was too polite to start while
there was a visitor present, and so toppled into a chair and joined the
conversation. Dud realized that Bert didn’t care very much for him and
so tried to get away a few minutes after the other’s advent, but Hugh
wouldn’t have it.

“Oh, sit down and behave yourself, Baker! It isn’t late. I say, Bert,
Baker and I have been discovering that we have lots of things in
common, if you know what I mean.”

“Really?” Bert stifled a yawn. “Such as what, ’Ighness?”

“Oh, baseball, for one, you know. Tennis, too. And oysters――――”

“Oysters!”

“Yes. You see I happened to think that a dozen nice cold raw oysters
would taste corking. They would, wouldn’t they?”

“Out of season, you chump.”

“Never! That’s only prejudice, old chap. Well, anyway, oysters was one
thing――_were_ one thing, I should say. English is beastly confusing at
times, eh? And then we found that Baker knew my part of the country,
down Maryland way, you know. He comes from Delaware.”

“So would I,” laughed Bert.

“Delaware,” replied Dud, smiling, “is small but select. Where’s your
home, Winslow?”

“Pennsylvania; Shrevesport. Know it?”

Dud shook his head. “Some of my folks lived in Pennsylvania once, a
good many years ago.”

“It’s a good state. They were foolish to leave it,” yawned Bert. “Hope
they didn’t have to?”

“Why, in a way I believe they did. You see one of them was an officer
in the American Army, and when Howe occupied Philadelphia they thought
it might not be healthy.”

“Oh,” said Bert. Hugh smiled.

“Still,” continued Bert, “they needn’t have gone to Delaware, eh?”

“I don’t think they did just then. A couple of them were with
Washington at Valley Forge. I think the women went to New Jersey until
Philadelphia was evacuated again. I don’t know just what happened
then. We’ve been living in Delaware only since my grandfather’s time.
He moved there from Philadelphia to improve his state.”

“Improve his state? You mean he was――was hard up?” asked Bert
suspiciously.

“I can’t say. I’ve been told it was to improve his state. That’s all I
know.”

Hugh laughed. “You began it, Bert! Honors are even. As judge of the
debate, I declare it a draw.”

Bert smiled slowly. Then: “All right, Baker,” he said amiably, “you
win! Fact is, I don’t know anything about Delaware or a thing against
it. Sorry if I trod on your toes.”

“You didn’t, Winslow; I moved them out of the way,” laughed Dud.

After the latter had taken his departure and the two roommates were
preparing for bed, Hugh heard a grunt from the opposite chamber.
“What’s troubling you?” he called.

“Nothing,” was the answer. “I was just thinking that that kid isn’t
such a fool, after all, eh?”

“Well,” replied Hugh, winking at himself in the glass, “I rather fancy
he had you, old top.”

Bert’s only response was another grunt, but it sounded assenting.




CHAPTER XVIII

DUD GOES TO THE RESCUE


Grafton had now played seven contests with outside teams and had
won five and lost two. Six games remained; seven in case it became
necessary to play a third game with Mount Morris. On the whole the
nine had showed average strength. The pitching had been good and
defensively the team had more than held its own against contenders.
But both Coach Sargent and Captain Murtha would have been anything but
displeased if the batting had been heavier or had even shown promise
of improvement. The remaining games were all, with the exception of
that with Yarrow High School, scheduled just before the second Mount
Morris contest, hard ones. St. James Academy especially was looked
on as a difficult opponent, and Lawrence Textile School as scarcely
less dangerous. Both teams boasted pitchers of reputation, and unless
Grafton’s stick work improved she was not likely to pile up much of
a score against either visitor. Of course, it could be argued that a
team with a perfect defense is in no danger of defeat, but on the
other hand, a team with no power of attack can’t win games. And Guy
Murtha, being captain and in his last year at school, naturally wanted
very much to come off victor in those remaining contests. Fortunately,
the St. James and Lawrence Textile games were to be played on Lothrop
Field, a circumstance which would aid to some extent. The meeting
with Corliss College was to be played away from home, but Corliss――or
Careless, as the Graftonians liked to call it――while strong, was not
the problem that either of the other two was. As for Yarrow High――well,
that was only a practice game to fill in between the first Mount Morris
engagement on the ninth of June, which was a Saturday, and the second
one, which fell on the following Friday, the Mount Morris Class Day.
In case each of the ancient rivals secured a game the play-off would
be at Grafton the next day, the teams remaining after the close of the
schools to settle the controversy.

On the Monday succeeding their defeat at Rotan the players were given
a particularly strenuous afternoon of it. With the exception of Gordon
Parker, whose leg still protested at the injury done it by a Rotan
baseman’s spikes, all the players were out and not one was spared,
unless we exempt Ben Myatt. Dud put in a hard afternoon, for he pitched
six innings for the scrubs and was fairly well hammered. Still, he
managed to keep the hits of the regulars so well scattered that Mr.
Sargent was satisfied to leave him on the mound until, in the seventh,
it became advisable to let a pinch hitter take his place. After that
Weston finished up for the scrubs and was so erratic that the one-run
lead handed over to him by Dud soon vanished, the regulars winning out
by the score of 9 to 6. When Dud heard the result in the Field House
later he tried to be sorry for Weston, but the effort wasn’t very
successful. Dud, you see, was already entertaining visions of pitching
a half-game or so against Mount Morris and thus winning his letter.
Not that the letter part of it interested him so much, however. Just
the glory of being in a Mount Morris game would be enough for him. Of
course, he couldn’t figure out as yet just how that desirable result
was to come about. There was Ben Myatt for the first game and Nate
Leddy for the second, or the other way around, with Weston to take
a hand if needed. As for Brunswick, Dud wasn’t worrying about him.
Brunswick was keeping along at about the same pace he had begun the
season on, neither worse nor better, while Dud could honestly assure
himself that he was improving from day to day, or, at least, from game
to game. And he didn’t have to rely wholly on his own verdict, for
others had seen the improvement and told him of it. Ben Myatt had
praised him warmly, Captain Murtha had had a good word more than once
and Mr. Sargent had let Dud see that he wasn’t blind to the latter’s
growing ability.

But Dud was forced to presuppose a third game in the big series before
he could see himself turning back the Mount Morris hitters, and a third
game might not materialize. Of course, if Gus Weston kept on blowing
up every time he went into the points, why, that would improve Dud’s
chances a whole lot, and it was this thought that made it difficult for
Dud to grieve over the loss of that game to the scrubs! With Weston out
of the way――――

But Weston was an old hand, had been pitching for three years and was
just as likely to steady down again the next time and send his stock
soaring again. All that was to be done, reflected Dud, was to hope for
the best――which, from Gus Weston’s point of view, was the worst!――and
keep right on getting better and better every day. He didn’t wish
anyone ill luck, but if only Leddy might have a slight attack of
measles or something and Gus Weston develop a bum wing――well, Dud was
forced to admit that it would be Providential!

But the measles didn’t afflict Leddy nor did Weston complain of trouble
in his arm, and practice went on each day and Dud pitched or didn’t
pitch but always stood in front of the net and took his turn at
“looking like a silly goat,” to use his own expression, while he tried
to connect with the puzzling offerings of Leddy or Weston or Brunswick.

St. James descended like a wolf on the fold on Wednesday and took
Grafton’s measure without a great deal of trouble. To be sure, the game
went to the fifth inning before St. James solved Leddy’s slants and by
that time Grafton had herself assailed the opposing twirler for three
hits and scored one run. But when the visitors did take to Leddy’s ways
they took enthusiastically. Nate got through the fifth with difficulty,
some brainless base-running on the part of the enemy aiding him out of
a tight place, but in the sixth, after the bases were filled with only
one out and two runs already across, he was retired from service and
Myatt went in to save the day. And Myatt might have done it had he been
backed by errorless fielding, but Nick Blake booted one in the seventh
and Ayer fumbled a heave a minute later and two more runs came over.
Grafton managed to add to her score in the eighth, increasing it to two
when Winslow cracked out a two-bagger after Nick Blake had been passed
to first and had stolen second. But that was the last of the home
team’s scoring, while, just to clinch the game, St. James broke through
with a couple of hits, one good for two bases, and added a fifth run in
the ninth. Grafton tried everything she knew in the effort to start a
rally in the last half of that inning, but the best she could do was to
get Ayer as far as third base, at which station he remained while Hugh
Ordway reached first on a weak infield hit that bounded erratically,
and Jimmy, batting for Boynton, hit into a double, his luck for once
deserting him. So 5 to 2 was the final score, and it pretty fairly
represented the merits of the two teams. St. James had been there
with the hits when hits meant runs and Grafton had failed to show any
attack worthy the name. In view of results, it was cold comfort to know
that, outside two errors and a wild pitch by Leddy, she had played an
excellent defensive game. Results were what counted and another defeat
had been scored up against Grafton.

That game came off on the last day but one in May, and on Friday June
came in with a spell of torrid weather. The heat combined with the
knowledge of impending final examinations tended to rather take the
starch out of fellows, and the ball players were no exception. Practice
became half-hearted, in spite of Guy Murtha’s impassioned pleas and
scoldings, and when Saturday dawned things looked bad for Grafton
as regarded that Lawrence Textile contest. Most of the fellows were
pulling their feet behind them and wearing worried frowns. The mercury
climbed up to eighty-four at noon that day and what breeze had made
life bearable in the forenoon died away entirely. Lawrence arrived
shortly after one o’clock and, after getting a taste of conditions in
the region of Grafton, willingly consented to a postponement of the
start of the game from two-thirty to three o’clock. The delay, however,
was of not much avail, for at the half-hour it was just as hot as it
had been at two-thirty, and the spectators went to the field armed with
newspapers and fans and all sorts of devices to shield their perspiring
countenances.

Coach Sargent again altered the batting order. Parker, while probably
able to get in, was not used and Jimmy took his place in center field.
Hugh Ordway went to third place on the list and Jimmy to seventh. Ben
Myatt started the game, with Gordon behind the bat. Lawrence’s twirler
was a tall, able-looking chap of about twenty years, unless appearances
were deceptive, named Fairway. Nick Blake was responsible for an
excruciating pun when, during Grafton’s third time at bat, he confided
to Jimmy that it looked as if that pitcher was in a fair way to beat
them. Jimmy charitably assumed that Nick was affected by the heat. Up
to that time neither team had presented more than three men at the
plate in an inning, the two pitchers going very smoothly and working
the corners for all they were worth. But in that last of the third the
luck broke for the home team.

Jimmy, surviving Nick’s pun, chose a likely bat and took his stand.
Being first man up, it was required of Jimmy that he secure his base
by any method short of robbery. Fairway sneaked the first one over
on him and teased him with a slow ball, which Jimmy wisely let pass.
After that an attempt to bunt resulted in a foul down the third-base
side. With two against him, Jimmy took a firmer grip of his bat and
bent all his energies to the task. Naturally, Fairway could afford to
waste a ball, and did so, and it was two-and-two. Jimmy took heart.
The next one looked good and he swung briskly. Another foul resulted,
the first-baseman almost making the catch. Another offering curved up
to him and again he laid his bat against it and again it went foul.
Fairway dragged his sleeve across his perspiring face, had a good look
at the signals and unlimbered. The ball shot in, knee-high and looking
good, and Jimmy started his swing. But something warned him in time and
he recovered just as the ball took a most deceptive drop in front of
the plate.

“Ball――three!” called the umpire. Jimmy grinned and hitched his
trousers. From the bench came encouraging and approving cries. Jimmy
stepped out of the box and wiped his damp hands in the dust. Then he
wiped them on his trousers. Then he stepped back with bat poised.

“All right, Fairy!” called the catcher. “Right over now, old man!”

Jimmy’s smile broadened. “Fairy” was such an amusing title for that
tall, husky youth down there! Then the ball was singing up to him, his
bat was swinging at it, there was a _slap_ and Jimmy was legging it to
first. But again he had fouled, and again the Fates that rule over the
lives of such as James Townsend Logan came to his rescue. The catcher,
running back with gaze set skyward, hands poised for the descending
ball, managed at the last instant to get the sun’s rays fairly in his
eyes. The ball struck his mitten, bounded out, was juggled and dropped
to the sod. A shrill shout of joy arose from the Grafton bench. The
catcher angrily sped the ball to third and looked for his mask in a
very disgruntled manner. Jimmy held it out to him.

“Hard luck,” said Jimmy consolingly. “Next time I’ll put it where you
can catch it.”

The Lawrence backstop grunted.

That trifling incident proved psychological, as many trifling incidents
do in baseball, and Fairway’s next attempt at a strike passed a foot
wide of the base, and Jimmy, dropping his bat, trotted to base amidst
the plaudits and laughter of the spectators. The coachers got busy on
the instant, Captain Murtha at first and Bert Winslow at third, and
sent a veritable fusillade of interesting remarks across the diamond.

“On your toes, Jimmy! Take a lead! Watch his arm! Look out! Up again!
At a boy! Here we go! Go on! Go on! _Who-oa!_”

Jimmy, hooking a leg back to the bag, grinned, climbed to his feet
again, shook the dust from his togs and inched along the base line.
Fairway gave him up after two attempts and turned his attention to Pete
Gordon. Gordon was there to sacrifice, of course, and the safest way
to do it was to bunt. But Pete was the slugging kind of a hitter, the
sort who doesn’t very frequently connect, but slams out wicked liners
or screeching flies when he does. Bunting, therefore, was not his
strong suit, and his two attempts failed, the first one going foul and
the second resulting in a harmless swing against the atmosphere. After
that, with two strikes against him and only one ball to his credit,
Pete was not dangerous, and when he finally hit one it arched amiably
into center fielder’s hands and Jimmy retraced his steps to first.

Myatt, however, did better, for Ben landed against the second delivery
and whizzed it over the pitcher’s upraised glove and safely into the
field, and Jimmy slid to second unhurriedly. Nick Blake went out on
strikes, and it was Bert Winslow who came through with the longed-for
safety, rapping the ball straight down first base line and a yard to
the right of the baseman’s best reach. Jimmy scampered home, Myatt
reached third, and Bert managed to get to second ahead of right
fielder’s throw. But that ended Grafton’s chances for the time, for the
best Hugh could do was to lift a fly to short left that shortstop got
after a run.

At one to nothing the game went to the fifth, Myatt holding the enemy
harmless in the fourth and Grafton failing to reach first base in her
half. But in the first of the fifth a fumble by Winslow put a runner on
first. Myatt struck out the next two batsmen and Grafton’s adherents
began to breathe easier. But Fairway, the Lawrence twirler, who had
fanned ingloriously the time before, took a liking to Myatt’s first
offering and poked it straight between Blake and Winslow. Result,
an eager youth on third casting longing eyes at the plate! Also, an
equally anxious runner on second, Fairway having gone on to that sack
during the throw to the plate.

Myatt started in with the head of the opposing batting list by putting
himself promptly in the hole, pitching three remarkably poor balls
one after another. Then he got two strikes across, neither of which
was offered at, and tried to follow it with a third. But the heat was
beginning to tell on Myatt, and the next attempt, while it looked
pretty good from the bench, was adjudged a ball and the bases were
full.

“Weston,” called Mr. Sargent, “get a ball! You, too, Baker.”

Possibly the sight of the two relief pitchers and Brooks trudging
off to warm up put Myatt on his mettle, for he fairly stood the next
batsman on his ear, fanning him with just four deliveries while the
Grafton sympathizers cheered and yelped. Three disappointed runners
left as many bases and turned sadly to their positions.

Grafton tried hard to add to her score in her half of the fifth, but
Fairway was quite master of the situation. The sixth passed without a
thrill, even if Lawrence did manage to work a pass and get a scratch
hit. Nothing came of it, for Blake, Murtha and Ayer pulled off a double
and stopped the rampage. For Grafton, Winslow, Ordway and Murtha went
out in order.

The seventh witnessed Myatt’s Waterloo. For several innings he had been
in bad shape owing to the heat, and when he faced the first batsman in
the seventh it was not difficult to see that he was working on pure
nerve. When the first man had found him for a single and he had pitched
three balls to the second, Murtha stepped over and held a conference.
Myatt shook his head and Bert Winslow joined them. Over behind third
Gus Weston and Dud had taken up their work again, and Will Brunswick
had been sent to join them.

“There’s a job open for somebody,” remarked Brooks, throwing the ball
to Gus. “Ben’s quitting.”

The three pitchers, their backs to the bench, never turned, but three
pairs of ears were, you may be certain, very alert. It was Weston
who was summoned, and Gus, throwing aside his sweater, which he
had worn tied across his chest, lolled onto the field. Dud watched
him enviously, first because he had been chosen to relieve Myatt
and secondly because he was able to approach the honor with such a
wonderful assumption of indifference!

Weston pitched his trial deliveries, rather wildly as a matter of
fact, received the intelligence that the batter had three balls to
his credit and no strikes, and instantly supplied him with a fourth!
The Lawrence coaches and the Lawrence players on the bench hooted and
jeered joyfully as the batsman walked to first, the runner on first
jogged down to second. But that was what might have been expected, that
pass to the batter, for it is no mean task to go to the mound with the
score three against you and keep the batsman from walking. Dud had to
acknowledge that as he and Brunswick and Brooks retired to the thin
strip of shade afforded by the little house in which were stored the
tennis nets.

But this was not Weston’s day. To Grafton’s dismay, Gus very promptly
passed the third man, working only one strike against him, and behold,
the bases were filled and there were no outs! So suddenly can the
fortunes of battle shift in the game of baseball! Brooks, his gaze on
the bench, jumped to his feet.

“Come on, fellows!” he said. “At it again! Peter signaled.”

“Gee,” murmured Brunswick, “I don’t see much use warming up a day like
this! I haven’t a square inch on me that’s dry!”

“Never mind your troubles, Willie; shoot ’em!” responded Brooks,
grinning as he drew his mitt on. “One of you guys will have to go in
there in about two shakes. They’re holding the game now for you to
limber up your old arms. Shoot ’em, Dud!”

Over on the diamond Captain Murtha and Bert Winslow and Nick Blake had
surrounded the unfortunate Weston, Pete Gordon, ball in hand, standing
guard at the plate. A faint breeze came up from the river and awakened
murmurs of relief from the sweltering spectators. Lawrence demanded
that the game go on, half a dozen impetuous youths leaping from the
bench to confront the umpire. The group in the center of the diamond
melted and Weston held up his hand for the ball. Gordon tossed it back
to him, knelt and signaled.

“All right, Gus, now?” he encouraged. “Make ’em good, old man! Let’s
get this one! Slide ’em over!”

The infielders crept up to short-field, the runners capered and took
daring leads and the coachers shouted themselves hoarse. Gus wound up
and shot the ball away. It dropped prettily across the base, but the
batter refused it and the umpire upheld him.

“Ball!” announced the latter. Weston, hands on bent knees, stared as
though dumfounded. Then he straightened, turned on his heel and cast
his arms derisively apart. Lawrence jeered enjoyably.

“Pretty good, Gus,” called Gordon. “Never mind, though. Let’s have it
this time!”

But Weston, though he took time and pains, shot one in that sent the
batsman staggering out of his box and sent Guy Murtha to the mound.
“That’ll do, Gus,” said Guy. “This isn’t your day, old man.”

“It’s so beastly hot,” grumbled Weston.

Murtha nodded non-committingly and raised a hand. At the bench Mr.
Sargent turned to Nate Leddy. “Better warm up,” he said. “We may need
you. Send Baker in.”




CHAPTER XIX

BACK TO THE BENCH


The coach met Dud at third. He appeared smiling and unworried, but his
characteristic trick of jumbling his words betrayed the fact that he
was not as calm as he looked.

“Think you can go in there and pull us out of this mess, Baker?” he
asked. “Take all the time you want and set your gignals right――I mean
get your rignals sight――er――well, go ahead, my boy, and show what you
can do!”

Dud made no answer, which was perhaps just as well since had he replied
truthfully to the coach’s question he would have been forced to say
that he was quite certain that he couldn’t do anything of the sort!
Instead, he walked toward the mound with a fair appearance of ease and
in a condition of blue funk. Murtha met him, and although the latter
smiled cheerfully and tried his best to look as if he thought all his
troubles were now past, it wasn’t difficult for Dud to perceive that
the captain was a bit disappointed in Mr. Sargent’s selection. He would
have much preferred Nate Leddy, but he had a good deal of confidence
in the coach’s judgment and, after all, young Baker had shown real
pitching more than once.

“Good boy, Baker,” he said cheerfully. “Let’s see what you can do now.
Listen, let Gordon do the head-work, see? Just try to give him what he
wants. They’ve got three on and no one out, Baker, and the score’s two
against you. Whatever you do, old man, don’t pass him. Let him hit if
you have to and try to make him pop up. Do your best, Baker, for we
want this game!”

Guy handed him the ball and Dud, very trembly at the knees, conscious
of the hot glare of sunlight that made heat waves dance along the
paths, conscious of the encouraging voices of teammates and of hearty
applause from the stand, wrapped his fingers about the leather and
sent in his first “warming-up” ball. A whoop of joy and derision came
from the visitors’ bench, for the ball had almost eluded the spry
Gordon. Back it came and Dud, trying his best to calm his nerves, shot
it in again. It was all right that time and the next. Then the ball
struck the ground in front of the plate and Gordon had to drop and
block it. One more, high and wide, ended the practice and the Lawrence
third-baseman stepped up to the plate again as the umpire called
“Play!” From the Lawrence bench and from the Lawrence coachers came a
sudden hubbub of sound, but through it Dud heard Nick Blake’s cheerful
voice.

“We’re all with you, Dud! Go to it, son!”

“Dud!” Nick had never called him that before, and somehow the thought
steadied him remarkably. To be sure, his knees were still a trifle
wobbly as he studied Gordon’s fingers laid against the back of his
mitt, but the stage-fright was passing.

“Let’s get him, Baker,” called Gordon as he arose from his crouch and
held hands wide apart. “You’ve got the stuff, old man!”

With a man on third watching for the least excuse to race home, a full
wind-up was out of the question, and Dud realized that he must depend
more on cunning than speed. Gordon had shown three fingers horizontal,
and three fingers horizontal called for a low curve ball. Dud,
emulating the example of Myatt, surveyed the bases slowly, pulled his
cap down, tried to shut out the wild cries of the coachers, snuggled
the ball in his fingers, threw his arm up, took his stride and pitched.

At the plate the batter moved up on the ball, hesitated and let it pass.

“Strike!” said the umpire.

There was cheering from the stand, yells of triumph from the players
in the field, but Dud scarcely heard them. Gordon, walking down the
alley, thumped ball and mitt together. “That’s the stuff, Baker!” he
cried. “One-and-two now! Let’s have him out!” He tossed the ball back,
a watchful eye on third, went back to his place, crouched, signaled and
again held hands wide apart. He wanted a drop and he got it, but it
shaved too closely the outer corner and the umpire judged it a ball.
Gordon turned indignantly.

“_What!_”

“You heard what I said,” returned the official crisply.

Gordon grinned and returned the ball. “It looked good, Baker! Let’s
have it again!”

But it was “one finger” this time, and the fast one that sailed
straight across the plate caught the batsman napping, and the umpire’s
“_Strike――two!_” was drowned in a shout of joy from the Grafton
sympathizers.

“That’s the pitching, Dud!” called Nick, scooping a handful of dust
from the base path and tossing it joyfully into the air. “Fine work,
Baker!” “Keep after him!” “No one walks!” They were all calling
encouragement to him now. He almost forgot the shouting, cavorting
runners and the bawling coachers. Back came the ball once more, Gordon
grinning widely. Then he dropped to one knee and laid four fingers
across the big brown mitt.

“Right in the slot, old man! He can’t see ’em! At a boy! Let her come!”

And Dud let her! It was a slow one that did the trick, a ball that
sped away from the mound with all the ear-marks of a moderately fast
straight delivery but that never crossed the rubber until the batsman’s
sharp swing had passed harmlessly. Then it descended into Gordon’s
eager hands and the umpire waved an arm skyward.

“_He’s out!_”

How the stand shouted then and how silent the Lawrence bench suddenly
became! The third-baseman, disgusted and puzzled, dragged his
dishonored bat away with him and tossed it contemptuously into the
pile. But that was only one down, and a big, capable-looking youth with
a grim determination shown in his tight-set mouth was already waiting.
A wide one that went as a ball, a drop that the batter tried for and
missed, a second ball――Dud had attempted to cut the inner corner of
the plate with a hook and had failed by an inch――and then, in response
to Gordon’s signal of one finger, a fast one that reached the batsman
waist-high and which he met with his bat.

_Crack!_

He was speeding to first, the bases were emptying. Dud, heart in mouth,
turned in time to see Nick Blake spring two feet into the air and spear
the ball, and then, without a wasted motion, dash across the second
sack a scant instant before the runner from first slid, feet foremost,
into it in a cloud of dust!

Nick had played the double unassisted and the side was out! Grafton
stood up in the stand and shouted herself hoarse. Dud, still a little
dazed by the suddenness of the triumph, stood a moment beside the
pitcher’s box ere he turned toward the bench. Then Guy Murtha was with
him, had him by the arm and was laughing softly and saying extravagant
things that he probably wouldn’t have said five minutes later. But Dud
didn’t altogether sense them. He only knew during the ensuing minute
that Nick had saved him――and the game! And if he could have done what
he wanted to do he’d have embraced that youth on the spot. As it was,
ignorant that some of the applause was really meant for him, he made
his way to the bench and sat down a bit breathlessly, and someone was
waving a dampened towel in front of him and there was much talk and
laughter.

And so Grafton started her half of the seventh with the score still 1
to 0 and Ayer at bat. Ayer popped innumerable fouls into all sorts of
out of the way places and then, with two strikes and one ball against
him, stood inertly by and let a perfectly good straight one pass. He
shook his head dejectedly as he turned away. Boynton reached first
on second-baseman’s questionable error――the Lawrence scorer gave
Boynton a hit――and went to second a moment later when Jimmy was thrown
out at first. Gordon brought the inning to an end by fouling out to
third-baseman.

Then Dud was back in the box again and Gordon was shouting one thing
and signaling another and again the Lawrence coachers were doing their
level best to rattle him. But that first of the eighth was easy work
for Dud. The luck was all Grafton’s. The first of the enemy beat out
a bunt and then was caught by Gordon going to second. Dud scored his
second strike-out on the next man, using just four deliveries. The
succeeding batter proved more troublesome, for after Dud had worked two
strikes across he began to lay against the others and foul them off
with a fine impartiality. Everything, it seemed, was fish that went to
his net, and Dud was beginning to despair of ever getting rid of him.
He slipped up once and sailed one over the stubborn batsman’s head, and
added a second ball to the score. Then, however, Gordon signaled a low
curve and this time the ever-ready bat missed! So did Gordon, for that
matter, but he found the rolling sphere and got it to Ayer well ahead
of the runner. Dud got a round of applause all to himself this time,
as he went back to the bench to pick out his bat, but he was so busy
wondering just how much of a fool he would look when he stood up there
and tried to hit the redoubtable Fairway that he didn’t even hear it.

I’d like to tell you, in view of what occurred later, that Dud picked
out one of Fairway’s slants and drove it across River Street for a
home-run. But nothing of that sort happened, and if Dud didn’t look
like a fool at the bat on that occasion it was only because pitchers
aren’t supposed to be hitters. Dud was an easy proposition for the
rival twirler. He promptly forgot everything he had ever learned about
batting and swung wildly at the first two offers, held himself away
from temptation at the third one and fanned the air an inch above the
succeeding ball. He returned to the bench shame-facedly, but no one
paid any attention to his fiasco and it dawned on him that he had done
just what they had expected him to do and a great big determination
arose in him to do better the next time, to learn how to judge a ball
rightly and to eventually become that rara avis of baseballdom, a
pitcher who can hit! But there was, it proved, no second chance for him
today. Nick Blake fanned as effectively if not as promptly as Dud had
and Bert Winslow was thrown out at first. And the ninth inning began.

Once more Dud proved his mastery of the enemy, but there were no
strike-outs for him this time. The first Lawrence batsman hit to
Winslow and went out at first, the next man flied out to Ordway and
the third, after Dud had put two strikes across, lighted on a low
curve and popped it unexpectedly into short right for a base. Dud made
three attempts to catch him napping and failed and the next minute
the runner was sliding to second ahead of Gordon’s hurried throw. But
Lawrence got no further, for the following batsman, trying hard to hit
safely out of the infield, merely succeeded in smashing a liner into
Ayer’s hands.

Once more Grafton swung her bats and tried to break the deadlock. The
heat was moderating now and long shadows were creeping across the
diamond, but the players of both sides were fagged and wilted and
prayed for the end of the contest. But it wasn’t to come yet, for
Ordway fanned, Murtha flied out to left field――it would have been a
wonderful hit if that fielder hadn’t raced back like a rabbit and
made a one-hand catch that brought applause even from the Grafton
adherents――Ayer beat out a bunt and Boynton hit a weak grounder to
shortstop and the ninth had passed into history.

Dud was back at his post again, a little tired, too, in spite of
the fact that he had worked only two innings. He had the head of
the list against him now and realized that this was no time for
slip-ups. Lawrence began enthusiastically. The little, blond-headed
second-baseman outwitted Gordon and Dud and walked to first. The next
batsman fouled out to Ayer. Then came a sharp _rap_ and the ball
sailed over second base and there were two on and only one out. But
things looked better a few minutes later, for Dud scored his third
strike-out, turning the left-fielder ignominiously back to the bench.
That surely ought to have ended things for all practical purposes, but
right there Luck took a hand in the game. The next batsman was anxious
to hit, and Gordon knew it. In consequence the latter signaled high
ones and Dud tried to serve them up. They caught him on the second
for a strike, after the first had gone as a ball, and then Dud fooled
him with a low one that barely crossed and the score was two-and-one.
It seemed all over but the shouting and Gordon risked all on the
next delivery. One finger was the signal and Dud sped the fast one
in breast-high with not a thing on it but steam. The batsman leaned
against that nice ball and drove it far and high into right field and
although Boynton was under it he missed the catch. And although he
recovered it quickly and sped it back to second, and Guy Murtha pegged
it on to third, the runner there was safe and the chap who had hit took
advantage of the play and slid to second unchallenged.

Lawrence caught hopefully at the chance before her. A pinch hitter took
the place of the center fielder. Gordon had no line on the new man
and had to guess his tastes. A high one was refused and was judged a
ball, a curve that just didn’t cut the outer corner went as another
ball. Gordon signaled for a drop and the batter bit at it and had one
strike against him. Then another drop failed to please the umpire and
Dud was in the hole. Gordon called for a high one over the plate and
Dud tried to put it there. But he didn’t. The ball went wide and Dud
saw with dismay the batsman trotting to first and heard the triumphant
yelps of the enemy. Another pinch hitter was up and Gordon, a little
anxious of countenance now, was asking for a curve ball. Dud responded
and scored a strike, the batter hitting hard but uselessly. Then came
a ball, then a second. Gordon was calling all sorts of encouragement.
Guy Murtha came over and told Dud to take his time. His teammates were
assuring him that he could do it. The enemy’s coachers, back of first
and third, were howling and dancing like Comanche Indians. The runners
were running back and forth along the paths. Pandemonium was fairly
loose and the din thumped against Dud’s ears excruciatingly. He felt
his courage ebbing out of his finger-tips. He wanted to ask Murtha to
let him quit, to put someone else in, but was more afraid to do that
than he was to go on. Gordon was pleading for a straight one. Dud glued
his eyes to the catcher’s chest, took his half wind-up and sped the
ball. And even as he released it he knew that he had failed again!

“_Ball――three!_” called the umpire through the din.

Gordon was hurrying down the alley toward him, shaking the ball at him,
his eyes blazing.

“Settle down!” he growled. “Put ’em over! You can do it! Now get on to
yourself!”

Dud took the ball, nodded dazedly and turned back to the mound. Murtha
was there, Murtha and Winslow, too, and the captain was looking over
past third base and juggling a pebble in his dirt-grimed hands. When he
turned his gaze sought Dud grimly.

“Guess you’d better let someone else in, Baker,” he said. “Sorry, but
we need this, old man.”

Dud passed him the ball, tried to say something, he didn’t know what,
and turned, white-faced and with hanging head, toward the bench.




CHAPTER XX

JIMMY ENCOURAGES


That game with Lawrence Textile went to thirteen innings and ended,
still a tie, 1 to 1, to allow the visitors to get their train. Nate
Leddy, going to the rescue with three on, two out and the pitcher’s
score one-and-three, pulled out of the hole very neatly. Instead of
attempting the difficult feat of striking the batsman out, Nate dropped
one over knee-high and the ball went straight up from the swinging bat
and straight down again into Gordon’s mitten, and Lawrence saw her
golden opportunity vanish. After that for three innings, although the
suspense kept up every moment, neither side got anywhere near a score.
Leddy and Fairway, the latter showing fatigue and substituting control
for speed, were masters every minute. Fairway’s work to the very end
was such that the spectators applauded him every time he left the mound
or went to bat. After that hair-raising, nerve-racking tenth inning,
Grafton could feel only satisfaction at the outcome. Even Captain
Murtha had no regrets, and if Coach Sargent was disappointed he made
no sign.

Perhaps, aside from the Lawrence players, the only disconsolate one
was Dud. He had hurried from his shower straight to his room, his
main desire being to get out of the way before the game ended and the
fellows came piling into the Field House, and so he didn’t learn the
outcome of the contest until Jimmy arrived, half an hour later. By
that time Dud’s common sense had come to the rescue and he was able
to review his performance in the pitcher’s box without being prompted
to suicide. After all, he had fared no worse than Gus Weston, he told
himself comfortingly, and even Ben Myatt had begun distributing passes
before he had been taken out; although, of course, Ben had far more
excuse for giving out, since he had pitched six innings.

Dud was still wondering what had happened to him. He had been all right
until Boynton had made that memorable muff. After that he hadn’t been
able to get the ball where he wanted it. It wasn’t that his arm had
tired. It had been just as good as when he had started. And, as Dud
recalled it now, he hadn’t been nervous; not, anyway, until he had
issued that first pass in the tenth. It just seemed, looking back on
the fiasco, that the ball had suddenly simply refused to go where it
was sent! He wondered whether Mr. Sargent would ever give him another
chance, whether the fellows were secretly laughing at him. Well, he had
surely afforded Bert Winslow a fine opportunity to say “I told you so!”
Bert had all along been politely contemptuous of Dud’s ambition to make
the first team, although of late he had been very decent to him indeed.
He rather hoped he wouldn’t run across Bert for a day or two!

Dud didn’t make the mistake of feeling himself disgraced, at least not
after the first few miserable minutes, but he did feel that he had
failed pretty badly as a pitcher, and that before the whole school,
and he dreaded having to face the fellows again. He was pondering the
idea of remaining away from dining-hall that evening when Jimmy came
tramping along the corridor and entered.

“Hello, you! Where’d you get to?” Jimmy skimmed his cap to the bed and
threw himself tiredly into a chair. “Did you see the game out?”

Dud shook his head. “What――what was the score?” he asked dejectedly.

“Just the same as when you ducked; one each.” Jimmy gave a brief but
graphic history of the final three innings. “Why didn’t you come back
and see the rest of it?” he concluded.

“I guess I would have if I’d known they weren’t beating us. I’m glad
they didn’t. Did――did anyone say anything?”

“Say anything? What about?”

“About me, I mean.”

“Oh, that’s what’s worrying you? I thought you looked a little bit
down-hearted. Don’t you let that bother you, son. They all have to
go through with that before they arrive. You did pretty well, on the
whole. Three strike-outs, wasn’t it? And then you pulled us out of
that hole in the seventh! Don’t be a clam, Dud. No one expects a green
pitcher to go into a game like that and twirl like a veteran. Why, the
row those fellows kicked up even made _me_ nervous, away out in the
field!”

“It wasn’t that,” said Dud sadly. “I don’t know what it was. Of course,
I was rattled just at first, but afterwards I didn’t pay any attention
to the noise. I guess Mr. Sargent thinks I’m a pill!”

“Rot! I’ll bet you lasted longer than Pete expected you to. Of course,
I’m not saying that it wouldn’t have been a bully thing for you if
you’d gone the distance; you’d have had the whole school inviting you
to dinner; but you did pretty well as it was. And, say, talking about
that――being popular, I mean, and making a hit――that little meeting with
Hobo and Blake was a lucky thing for us, wasn’t it? Look at the way
they’ve taken you up, Dud! Fine, what?”

“I suppose so,” agreed the other rather listlessly. “They’ve been
awfully nice to me――――”

“You bet! And a lot of their crowd, too. Why, say――――”

“But I don’t, somehow, care so much about being――being a ‘regular
feller’ as I did, Jimmy. I――I’d rather be a good pitcher.”

“Isn’t that human nature?” demanded Jimmy, apparently of the ceiling.
“Just as soon as a fellow gets what he wants, he doesn’t want it! You
make me tired, Dud! Here I’ve schemed and labored for you――――”

“I know, and I’m awfully much obliged,” said Dud soberly. “Only――please
don’t do it any more, Jimmy. I’ve had enough of it, I guess.”

“My dear demented friend, you’ve just started! You mustn’t think that
just because Hobo Ordway and Nick Blake and Bert Winslow and a few of
that close corporation have taken you up that the battle’s won. Far be
it from such! The fun’s only started, son. You’ve got two years here
yet and you want to make hay while the sun shines. Just you leave it to
me――――”

“No, you leave it to me now,” said Dud. “I guess it’s like Blake said;
every fellow must hoe his own row. And――and I haven’t got time to――to
be popular, Jimmy. I just want to get so I can pitch like Ben Myatt.”

“Say, that’s hitching your wagon to a star, all right; Ben being the
‘star’! Maybe you’re right, though. There’s always the danger of
having fellows think you’re trying too hard; and they don’t like that.
Maybe your scheme is the best, Dud. Foxy, too, I call it.”

“I haven’t any scheme,” denied the other impatiently. “I just want to
quit thinking anything about whether fellows like me or don’t like me.
I guess if they do it will be because――because I don’t care!”

“That’s what I’m saying,” said Jimmy, grinning exasperatingly. “Just
let them think you don’t care a fig and they’ll flock to you. Yep,
that’s a good idea, Dud.”

“Jimmy, if folks didn’t know you better they’d think sometimes that you
were a regular――regular――――”

“Feller?” asked Jimmy helpfully.

“Bounder!”

“Oh! Thank you kindly. And such is gratitude! Never mind, son, all you
need is food. Let’s get to it.”

“I don’t think――that is, I’m not very hungry――――”

“Not hungry! You’re not sick, are you?” Dud shook his head. “Then
what’s wrong with you?”

“Well, if you must know,” replied the other desperately, “I――I don’t
want to go over there and see the fellows grinning at me.”

“Grinning at you? What would they be doing―――― Say, for the love of
lemons, Dud, get that idea out of your bean! Why, no one’s grinning at
you, you three-ply chump! Why should they? Didn’t you go in there and
save our bacon for us? Didn’t you work three innings like a regular
‘Matty’? Sure, you did! Then what――――”

“And I went to pieces, too, and filled the bases that time,” said Dud
bitterly. “Even if they don’t grin I shall know they want to!”

“Piffle! Honest, Dud, I didn’t know you were such a chump. Look here,
you’ve been wondering again! Don’t tell me! I can see it. You’ve got
your ‘I-wonder’ expression on! You stop thinking about Dud Baker and
wash your dirty face and hands and come to eats. I’ll guarantee that
you won’t get grinned at once, old man. If I see any fellow trying it
I’ll punch his head!”

After all, Dud only wanted to be reassured and had no real intention of
missing his supper, for he was undeniably hungry. And so, presently,
they were off to dining-hall together, and things were just as Jimmy
had predicted. There were no grins, save an occasional friendly one,
and no one paid much more attention to Dud than usual. They slipped
into their places at table――neither had been called to the training
table yet, since accommodations at that board were very limited――and
Jimmy, in high spirits, bandied remarks with the others between
mouthfuls, and Dud tried hard to forget anything that had happened
since luncheon.

There was, naturally, much talk of the game and much criticism of
various plays, as there always was, and Jimmy, as a participant, was
listened to with respect if not with entire credence. At the training
table, across the hall, there were no signs of depression, if one could
judge by the talk and laughter. In fact, the whole school was looking
back on the afternoon’s contest as something very much like a lucky
victory. And perhaps it was. At all events, a comparison of the scores
showed that Lawrence had made more hits and fewer errors and that the
renowned Mr. Fairway had behaved more creditably than the four Grafton
pitchers judged together.

When Dud and Jimmy left the dining-hall they ran into Nick Blake and
Bert Winslow in the corridor. Dud had determined to avoid any such
meeting, but fortune ruled otherwise.

“Hello, James T.,” greeted Nick. “How’s Tris Speaker Junior tonight?
Hello, Dud Baker.”

“My arms are a trifle lame,” responded Jimmy. “When a fellow makes all
the hits in a game――――”

“Hah!” ejaculated Nick mirthlessly. “Again, hah! You make me laugh,
Jimmy. He’s a regular funny fellow, isn’t he, Dud? How are you feeling,
by the way? Say, that was some twirling you did in the seventh, my
lad!”

“How about the tenth?” asked Dud, smiling wanly.

“Well, no harm done, you know,” said Nick cheerfully. “They all get
theirs sooner or later, and I dare say if you’d stayed in you’d have
pulled yourself out all right.”

“If we hadn’t needed the game so much,” observed Bert, “he’d have
stayed in, I guess. I was hoping Guy would let him. It’s a bully good
thing for a pitcher to have to dig his way out, Baker. Gives him
confidence, you know. If I was captain of a team and a pitcher got in
a hole I’d just let him stay right there and crawl out of it. Just
let him have to do it, and if he’s the least bit of good, he will. My
notion is that if a pitcher thinks he’s going to be relieved any time
he goes bad, he’s going bad too plaguey often! That sound like sense to
you, Jimmy?”

“I haven’t heard a word that sounded like sense since I got here,”
answered Jimmy gravely. “If someone would suggest something to do more
exciting than hearing Lit and Forum jabber over some subject like:
‘Resolved: That Marcus T. Cicero was faster on the bases than his
brother Quint,’ or ‘That the Penguin is mightier than the Swordfish’!”

“That’s so, it’s debate night, isn’t it?” said Nick. “Who’s going? You,
Bert?”

“I suppose so. You?”

“Well, if there was anything better――――!”

“There’s a moon,” said Jimmy tentatively.

“Go on, pray! Your words interest me strangely,” prompted Nick,
assuming an attitude of suspense.

“And there’s a river――――”

“I get you! Will you go, Bert?”

“Bathing? I guess so. Let’s find Hugh. You’ll come, Baker?”

“Thanks, but I’ve got――――” Dud stopped abruptly. Jimmy, smiling
sweetly, had surreptitiously kicked him on the shin.

“Yes, he’ll come,” said Jimmy. “As this happens to be a Saturday night,
Dud, your excuse of having to dig Latin or something is very poor.
Let’s find a crowd, fellows.”

“Let’s not,” said Bert. “I’ll round up Hobo and Ted Trafford. They went
off a minute ago. That’s enough. By the way, though, I suppose you
fellows know that the rules forbid it?”

“No, honest?” Jimmy was evidently as pained as he was surprised. “Did
you know that, Nick?”

“News to me, Jimmy! I was never so surprised in my life! Are you sure
of what you tell us, Bert?”

“Oh, go to the dickens! Come on then before the moon goes down.”

“Or the river evaporates,” added Jimmy. “I’m going to suggest, fellows,
that we avoid publicity as much as possible. The last time I had
anything to do with that old river it nearly got me into trouble!”

I feel that I ought to record here that Dud’s conscience made itself
heard, and that, refusing to transgress the rules of the school, he
persuaded the others to forego the enterprise. I’d like to record
that, but I can’t, for Dud’s conscience must have been asleep, and
ten minutes or so later he was following the others――and Pop Driver,
who had been discovered in the company of Hugh and Ted Trafford and
persuaded to join the party――across the Green and Lothrop Field to
the Beach, as the scanty expanse of sandy shore bordering the Cove
was somewhat ironically called. And I am forced to relate that the
moonlight bathing party was a huge success, that it lasted until nearly
ten o’clock and that faculty remained forever in ignorance of it. So,
it would seem, for once the transgressor went unpunished. But perhaps
not, after all, for Nick cut his foot open on a mussel shell or a
piece of glass and Ted Trafford caught an awful cold that lasted him
nearly until school closed! Possibly the reason that the others escaped
retribution was just because their crime was not, after all, especially
wicked.




CHAPTER XXI

ON THE MOUND


Dud wondered――Jimmy wasn’t there to stop him!――what Mr. Sargent would
say to him on Monday regarding that performance of his in the Lawrence
Textile game. As a matter of fact, Mr. Sargent said absolutely nothing,
either then or at any other time. There was very light practice that
afternoon, most of it batting, and the fellows were dismissed early,
many of them returning after changing to the practice diamond to watch
the second team put away the Grafton High School nine. It wasn’t
a vastly exciting affair, however, for the second, with Joe Kelly
pitching, had things about its own way. Dud and Jimmy departed at the
end of the seventh inning, leaving the home team five runs to the good,
and spent a half-hour on the river in Nick Blake’s canoe. (Jimmy asked
permission when they returned, and so that was all right!) Jimmy was
troubled today and made Dud his confidant as they paddled slowly along
under the drooping boughs. His trouble concerned Starling Meyer. But
we’ll let Jimmy tell it in his own inimitable way.

“Someone,” said Jimmy morosely, “has told Star he could play baseball.
Huh! That’s all right, too, but what’s the use of making me let go
the second and then dumping me in just when the fun begins? How do I
know I’ll be dumped? Well, I don’t, I suppose. But, listen, if that
chap keeps on butting in where’ll I be? Ordway and Boynton and Parker
are sure of the outfield places unless they break a leg or a neck or
something. Well, sure, that’s O. K.; they’re better than I am. I know
that. The only chance I get is when one of ’em is out of the game.
One of ’em’s likely to be out now and then and so I get a whack. All
right, say we. But here comes this――this Indian, Meyer, butting in and
snooping around for the crumbs, too. That makes two of us; three, if
you count Ben Myatt; and Pete’s likely to put Ben in center or right
any chance he gets because Ben can bat like a whale! If Star Meyer’d
mind his own business, which is playing hockey and running creation,
I’d have a fair chance to get into one of the Mount Morris games,
wouldn’t I? Sure, I would! Parker isn’t very spry on that game leg of
his, and I’ve noticed that Boynton is looking sort of like a friend of
mine looked before he went into a decline. And Hobo might fall out of
his canoe any day and get drowned――if he’d only use it more. I must
suggest it to him. He doesn’t get enough exercise. Why the dickens
can’t Star keep out of it? That’s what I want to know. Something told
me away last winter that I’d have trouble with that galoot before the
year was over!”

“I thought I was the one,” said Dud slyly.

Jimmy grunted. “So did I. Well, anyway, one good thing is that faculty
hasn’t forbidden _me_ to take a fall out of him!”

“But you can’t very well thrash a fellow for just playing ball, Jimmy!”

“I can beat him up for interfering with my affairs,” responded the
other with dignity. “Bet you anything you like he will work around Guy
Murtha and Guy’ll take him along to Corliss day after tomorrow.”

“I suppose Parker will be back by then,” suggested Dud.

“Parker? Oh, I dare say. But, listen, Dud, between you and me now,
I don’t believe Parker stands awfully high with Pete. I wouldn’t be
surprised if he didn’t get back again; regularly, I mean. And if he
doesn’t, why, maybe little Jimmy T. Logan will have a chance, eh? That
is, if Meyer doesn’t persuade Guy that he’s a ball-player beforehand.”

“You’re hitting better than Star, aren’t you?”

“N――no, I don’t think so. Wish I were! Still, I get my base a heap
oftener. I suppose shooting at hockey helps Star hit the ball. Say, do
you know, Dud darling, I’m going to be sort of peeved and disappointed
if I don’t get into one of those Mount Morris games? I wasn’t awfully
keen at first, as you know, but now that I’ve started I’d like to make
good. Besides,” he added gloomily, “the family’ll be here for that
second game and I’d feel like an awful chump if I had to swing my legs
on the bench all the afternoon!”

“You’d be in good company,” said Dud.

“Meaning you?” asked the other, as he turned the canoe back toward
home. “Oh, you’ll get your chance, Dud. Mount Morris has got some
hitters, they say, and if she has neither Myatt nor Nate Leddy will
last the games through. As for Brunswick, I guess he’s a goner for this
year.”

“There’s Weston, though.”

“That’s so, too. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised to see Gus turn around
and pitch a corking game some day soon. I guess the trouble with Gus
is that he’s too temperamental. He and I are alike that way. If the
weather isn’t just right or the moon’s in the wrong quarter or the
tide’s too high or his shoe pinches him, Gus can’t pitch a little bit.
But some day all the signs are going to be just right, and Gus will
slip on a pair of old shoes, and he will go out there and make ’em eat
out of his hand.” Jimmy paused. Then: “Maybe,” he added cautiously,
“you can’t tell about Gus. Like me, he has the artistic temperament.”

“Well,” said Dud, after a long silence and as they swung the canoe into
the Cove, “I hope you get into all the Mount Morris games, Jimmy, and
do finely. And I hope,” he added wistfully, “that they let me pitch an
inning or two in one of them. I――I’d like that.”

“And I,” responded Jimmy, “hope as how you gets your hope! Easy on! Let
her run, sonny!”

It looked the next day as though Jimmy might be right about Gordon
Parker, for although that youth was back for practice with his leg
evidently as useful as ever, he did not get back into the outfield
when the first and second lined up for the practice game. Instead,
Boynton played in right, Jimmy in center and Ordway in left until
the fifth inning, when Star Meyer took Jimmy’s place, much to that
youth’s disgust. Leddy and Weston pitched that afternoon. Ben Myatt
had been more affected by the heat on Saturday than he or anyone else
had suspected at the time, and was said to be nursing himself for the
next day’s game with Corliss College. Save for pitching to the batters
in practice, neither Dud nor Brunswick did any work that afternoon.
Dud watched the game from the bench and listened, during the last two
innings, to Jimmy’s frank expressions of hurt feelings. Every time a
fly ball went into center field Jimmy watched it hopefully.

“Hope he muffs it! Hope he mu―――― Isn’t that rotten luck? Anyway,
that’s a bum throw-in! If I couldn’t do better than that――sometimes――I
wouldn’t try to get an honest man’s job away from him. Say, you’re
next, Churchill. Knock a long one into center, will you? Put it about
fifty feet over Meyer’s head, like a good fellow!”

But in spite of Jimmy’s hopes and criticisms Star played a good enough
game in center and managed to get a rather lucky hit the only time he
went to bat. Jimmy tried to bribe Manager Barnes to score it as an
error for the second team shortstop, but failed.

There was an early and rather hurried dinner for the players the
next day and the team, eighteen strong, bowled away to the station
shortly after one o’clock. Much to his surprise, Dud made one of four
pitchers to accompany it, and Jimmy, too, was of the number. Jimmy’s
satisfaction, however, was somewhat spoiled by the presence of Star
Meyer. Parker was left behind. So, too, was Ben Myatt, still suffering
from what the school physician had diagnosed as “a touch of heat.” Ben
was instructed to keep out of the hot sunlight and, when playing, wear
a fold of paper inside his cap. Mr. Sargent, however, had no intention
of allowing Ben to pitch again until he was so far recovered as not to
require that paper. The first of the series with Mount Morris would
be played on Saturday, just three days later, and so Ben had been
instructed to stay right at home and be very, very good to himself.
Leddy, Weston, Brunswick and Dud would undoubtedly manage between them
to dispose of Corliss, for Corliss, although called a college, was
little more than a preparatory school and was not considered dangerous.

Corliss lay an hour and forty minutes away by railroad, although the
actual distance was about thirty-eight miles. The team had to change
at Needham Junction first and, later on, at North Taunton, and in
consequence was somewhat weary when it finally disembarked from the
trolley car that had brought it from the Corliss Station to the nearest
point to the school. They paraded up a tree-shaded street, past some
yellow-brick building that looked uncomfortably hot and glary today,
and eventually reached the field, a very ambitious affair, inclosed
with a brick wall and containing a permanent stand of concrete and a
picturesque building of the same material roofed with red tiles. The
fellows secretly admired that field, but they pretended to consider
it too dressy and made a good deal of fun of the commodious and
well-appointed building into which they were shown. There they had a
room all to themselves and three shower baths as well. By the time
they had changed to playing togs the stand was well sprinkled with
spectators and a welcoming cheer greeted them as they took the field
for practice. Only some dozen and a half Graftonians had accompanied
the nine, for examinations held many at school and others were too
poor to pay for the trip. But the handful of patriotic youths gathered
themselves into a small but devoted group in a corner of the big stand
and from the first appearance of the Scarlet-and-Gray on the diamond to
the end of the contest made enough noise for thrice their number.

All four pitchers were set to warm up while the fielders practiced.
Will Brunswick, by this time reconciled to his fate, went through the
motions in a mechanical fashion, but the other three set to work hard,
each hoping to get the call. After the Corliss players, a rather hefty
lot of blue-stockinged and blue-sleeved youths, had taken the field
and completed their warming up, Mr. Sargent had a consultation with
Guy Murtha and Pete Gordon. Dud pretended no interest as he sat on the
bench between Hugh Ordway and Neil Ayer, but secretly he was a very
anxious boy. Manager Barnes was getting the batting order now from the
coach and Dud, while answering a remark of Hugh’s, strained his ears to
hear.

“Blake, Winslow, Ordway, Murtha, Ayer, Boynton, Meyer”――Dud felt sorry
for Jimmy then――“Gordon and――I’ll give you the pitcher later.” Mr.
Sargent nodded to Nick Blake. “Start it up,” he said.

Nick went to bat while Mr. Sargent arose and, after watching the work
of the opposing pitcher, a broad-shouldered and rather slow-moving
fellow named Walters, for a few moments, moved along and spoke to Nate
Leddy. Dud’s gaze followed, although he tried not to let it. The coach
and Leddy spoke for several moments, their eyes all the while on the
Corliss twirler. At last Mr. Sargent nodded and Leddy settled back in
his seat, turning to his companion on the left, Boynton, and making a
remark that brought, as Dud saw, a look of surprise to the face of the
right fielder. Mr. Sargent remained behind the bench, watching Nick
Blake trying to find something useful to him amongst the slow, wide
curves that the blue-legged pitcher was offering. Nick finally slammed
one across the diamond, but was an easy out, shortstop to first.

Bert Winslow raised a long fly to left field and likewise retired and
Hugh Ordway, after fouling off a couple, was badly fooled on a drop and
fanned. As the players arose from the bench to trot into the field Dud,
who had forgotten the coach for the moment, felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Baker, I’m going to let you start,” said Mr. Sargent. “You’ve pitched
to Brooks a good deal, haven’t you? Would you rather have him handle
you than Gordon?”

“He knows my stuff pretty well, sir,” stammered Dud. “But it’s just as
you say, sir.”

The coach called to Ed Brooks. “You catch Baker, Brooks,” he said.
“Let’s see what you can do, my boy. Study your batters and watch the
bases. Barnes, put Brooks down for Gordon and Baker last. All right
now, you two. Show what you can do.”

Dud started for the mound, drawing on his glove, but Brooks overtook
him on the way. “Say, Dud, don’t let’s slip up on signals, eh?” he said
anxiously. “If you don’t get ’em sing out. And if you use that side-arm
pitch signal beforehand, will you? I’m always afraid of that getting by
me. Lift your cap in front and I’ll know, see? All right, Dud!”




CHAPTER XXII

DUD COMES BACK


Dud started out with one idea, which was to redeem himself. He was
pretty sure that Mr. Sargent would not expect him to go more than five
innings, six at the very most, and he determined to use every bit of
strength and science he possessed during those six frames, to pitch
himself out if necessary, but at all hazards to show form. He was
nervous at first and showed wildness with his practice balls, and after
that made a bad start by passing the first man up for Corliss. But
subsequently he settled down nicely, and although he had no strike-outs
to his credit in that first inning, he allowed no hits, and the runner
on first never left that bag.

Grafton got two hits in the second, one rather scratchy, but failed
to score. Corliss once more got a man to first on a hit that took a
bad bound in front of Nick Blake and once more watched him die there.
In the third, after Grafton had retired in one, two three order, Dud
began to find his control, and he and Ed Brooks disposed of the Corliss
pitcher and the first two batsmen on the Blue’s list with no trouble,
Walters fanning, the next man popping a fly to Neil Ayer and the next
being thrown out at first by Bert Winslow.

Grafton got her first run in the fourth inning. Hugh Ordway was passed,
Murtha sacrificed him to second and, after Neil Ayer had struck out,
Boynton slipped a fast grounder down the alley between shortstop and
second, and Hugh romped home and beat the throw by a yard. Star Meyer
flied out to center field.

Dud added speed to science in the last of the fourth and two of the
Blue’s best batsmen fanned wildly, and the little group of Graftonians
in the corner of the stand cheered themselves patriotically and
appropriately scarlet of face. The succeeding batter drove a liner into
Captain Murtha’s glove and the fifth inning began.

Ed Brooks allowed Walters to put him in a hole with the first two
deliveries, and then, after disdaining a couple of wide ones, swung
despairingly at a third and somehow managed to get it on the tip end of
his bat and land it safely behind shortstop. Then began a fusillade of
the Corliss pitcher that ultimately spelled retirement for that youth.
Dud, who had rolled a weak one down the first-base path and been an
easy out the first time at bat, now tried twice to bunt and failed.
After that there was nothing to do but take a good healthy swing and
try to get the ball out of the infield. With the score two-and-two, Dud
cut loose and poked a hit past third-baseman that put Brooks on the
third sack and himself on first. Blake bunted and the pitcher fielded,
the latter making the mistake of holding the ball too long to protect
the plate. When he finally tossed to first he was too late and the
bases were full.

At this interesting juncture Bert Winslow ought to have stepped into
the limelight with a smashing home-run or a three-bagger at least, but
the best Bert could do was to bounce one away to shortstop and Brooks
was an easy out at the plate. But the bases were still filled, with
only one man down, and there were cries of “Lift it, Hobo!” “Knock it
in the nose, Hobo!” as Hugh went to the plate. Walters, showing the
strain now, pitched two wild heaves which his catcher barely stopped
and then slipped one across in the groove. Hugh swung at it but was too
late. A third ball followed and Grafton yelled exultantly. But again
Walters made good, Hugh not offering. Everything depended on the next
delivery, and as the ball left the pitcher’s hand the three runners on
the paths started away. They need not have hurried, though, for the
ball went low and wide and Hugh walked, Dud crossing the platter with
the second tally for the Scarlet-and-Gray.

By this time Corliss had two pitchers warming up and it was easy to
see that Walters’ minutes were numbered. Captain Murtha brought affairs
to the crisis by landing on the pitcher’s second delivery and lifting
it high and far to right field. It was well over the fielder’s head,
and that youth failed to get under it. Two more runs tallied and Guy
took second. After that Walters passed Ayer and was promptly derricked.
The new twirler, Hoyt, had difficulty in getting under way, and before
he succeeded two more hits and as many runs had been scored. Of the
hits Boynton contributed one and Brooks one. Star Meyer made the second
out and Dud the third, Dud being robbed of a hit by a pretty running
catch of a short fly to center.

The score was 6 to 0 when the last half of the fifth started and there
seemed to be no doubt as to who owned the game. Dud was beginning to
feel tired, but believed himself fit for another inning, or two if
necessary. But things broke bad at the start. The first of the enemy to
face him showed no eagerness to hit and before he knew it Dud was two
balls to the bad. Then, although he managed to get a strike across, he
followed with a third ball, and the final result was that the Corliss
youth smashed a hot liner straight over third base and took two bases
on the hit. The succeeding batsman fouled out quickly to Winslow. Then
Brooks tried to catch the runner off second and the ball got away from
Murtha, who took the throw, and the runner reached third.

Dud felt himself slipping then and shot an inquiring look toward the
bench. But Mr. Sargent was evidently still unworried, for Leddy and
Weston were both there and no one was warming up. Dud gritted his teeth
and went on. The batsman had a strike and two balls on him when Dud,
trying to break a high one over the inner corner, lost control of the
ball and it went straight for the batter’s head. But Dud’s shout of
“_Look out!_” was not necessary. The man at the plate dropped just in
time and the ball sailed past Brooks and brought up at the net, the
runner on third sprinting home.

Murtha and the others did their best to steady Dud again, and Ed
Brooks, walking down to place the ball in Dud’s hand, said: “That was
my fault, Dud. I ought to have got it. Sorry, old man. Don’t mind it,
though. Let’s have this fellow, eh?”

Dud nodded. It was nice of Brooks to call it his fault, but of course
it hadn’t been anything of the sort. Dud glanced again toward the
bench as he went back to his place on the mound. He wished that Mr.
Sargent would get his relief ready. He wondered why he didn’t. He was
giving way to a sort of fright now, although he didn’t show it unless
by the longer time he took to grip the ball and study Brooks’ signal.
About him the infield players were speaking words of encouragement.
The batsman had him in the hole. He must make him hit. But something
told him that he was worked out, that there was no use trying, that
today was to be just a repetition of that other day when he had gone to
pieces there on Lothrop Field with the whole school looking on!

Brooks had signaled for a straight ball and Dud tried to pitch it.
Instead of being straight, though, it was a hook, but it crossed the
corner of the plate and the umpire was charitable to Dud. Brooks,
looking anxious, threw it back slowly and again spread his hands. The
little group of Grafton rooters cheered. Dud, however, took no joy of
the doubtful decision. Luck had aided him that time, but this time, he
told himself, he would surely fail. And fail he did. The ball passed
well inside the plate and the batsman, staggering away from it, dropped
his bat and trotted down the path. Corliss was cheering madly now,
sensing the fact that the Grafton pitcher was at last weakening. Guy
Murtha hurried to the box and told Dud to take his time, to let them
hit. Dud muttered agreement, conscious chiefly of disappointment. He
had expected Guy to take the ball away from him! What, he wondered
almost angrily, was the matter with them? Couldn’t they see that he was
through? Why did they want to keep him there when he was only making
things worse every minute?

None out now and a runner on first. The next batsman didn’t wait for
a pass but lighted on Dud’s first offering and sent it rolling toward
third. Dud and Brooks and Winslow all started for it, but it was Bert
who scooped it up and pegged it to Ayer, and Bert wasn’t set for the
throw and the ball went a yard away from the first-baseman. The first
runner dashed to third and the next slid into second base. Dud went
despairingly back to the mound to face the next ambitious blue-legged
youth. A hit meant two more runs for Corliss, he told himself. Surely
then they’d let him go out! But the hit didn’t come just then. Instead,
it was a short fly that left the bat and Nick Blake ran back and got
it safely and slammed it home. But the man on third didn’t try to
score. Then the hit did come, after Dud by some miracle had induced the
batsman to swing at two wide balls, and it sped into short center field
and two joyful Corliss runners tallied.

Dud looked inquiringly at Murtha and got only a “Never mind that,
Baker! Go to it!” Then his eyes sought the bench, and there sat Leddy,
hands in pockets, and Gus Weston chatting unconcernedly with Barnes
over the score-book, and Mr. Sargent, leaning forward with hands
clasped loosely between his knees and his straw hat pulled over his
eyes! Dud couldn’t understand it at all. Did they want to get beaten?
Couldn’t they see that he was throwing the game away, that he wasn’t
any good after all, that he never had been?

“Settle down, Dud!” called Nick Blake. “At a boy! Let’s have ’em, old
top!”

“One gone!” chanted Captain Murtha. “Let’s have the double, fellows!”

Dud turned desperately to his task again. He tried to remember what the
fellow facing him now had done before. Struck out, hadn’t he? Or was he
the chap who had smashed out that double? Well, it was up to Brooks,
and Brooks wanted a drop. Dud tried to catch the runner at first and
failed twice and then pitched to the plate. The drop was good and the
batsman swung at it.

“That’s the stuff!” called Brooks cheerfully. “He can’t hit ’em, Dud!
Right across now. Show him a good one.”

A wide and low one followed and then another. Two-and-one now, and
Brooks showing three fingers for another drop. Dud tried it and failed
and the umpire announced “Ball three!” Corliss shouted and stamped and
clapped. Dud had none to waste and he took all the time he wanted for
the next. But it slanted away erratically and the batsman tossed his
bat behind him and sprang gleefully toward first, while the runner at
that station went on to second. Murtha came to the box.

“Look here, Baker, what’s the matter with you? Are you trying to
present them with the game? For the love of Mike, put some of them
over! Let them hit ’em, I tell you. We’ll take care of them!”

“Maybe,” muttered Dud, “you’d better let me out, Murtha.”

“Let you out? Is that what you’re up to? Well, listen, Baker; you’re
going to stay in here until you get the third man if it takes all the
afternoon! So you might as well get busy. You can throw the game away
if you want to, but you’re going to stay right here, son! Understand
that?”

Dud viewed him, astonished. Then he nodded. “All right,” he said
finally. “I’ll do my best.”

“That’s the talk,” responded the captain kindly. “Get a grip on
yourself, Baker. You’re just as good as you were an hour ago, man! All
you’ve got to do is to think so! Now settle down and make ’em eat out
of your hand!”

Dud gave up trying to understand things after that. They meant to
keep him at it until he had retired the side. That was the principal
thing to think of. He wasn’t to look for relief but must earn his own
salvation. Well, in that case he knew where he stood, and that was
something of a comfort. At least, he wouldn’t have to look over toward
the bench every few minutes. Either they thought he could hold what he
had or they were just keeping him in to punish him. Either way, it
didn’t much matter, he decided. All he had to do now was to retire two
more batsmen in some way or other. That realization seemed to simplify
matters remarkably!

Dud turned and studied the bases. A runner on second and a runner on
first. And one out. Why, that wasn’t so bad! A double play would end
the trouble, or a hit anywhere in the infield would probably account
for one. He mustn’t let the batsman bunt toward third, though, for that
would draw Winslow off his bag. Better give him low ones and try the
inner corner. If only he could get his slow ball working again he might
squeeze out of the hole he was in.

“Two fingers,” said Dud to himself. “But that won’t do, Ed. He wants to
dump one down toward third.” Dud shook his head and Brooks laid three
fingers across his mitt. Dud nodded. Yes, a drop was the best. If he
could make it go, he added doubtfully to himself. But he did make it
go. And the batsman professed intense astonishment when a strike was
called. Brooks signaled for the same thing again, and again Dud essayed
it, and again he earned the decision, for this time the batter swung
viciously at it without, however, any result. Dud breathed easier.
With two strikes across he could waste a couple and perhaps fool the
batsman with a hook. Brooks showed two fingers and Dud served a curve
waist-high but wide of the plate. Then another, a little closer, but
still not tempting. Dud refused two signals and at last got Brooks to
show four fingers. Then Dud nodded, glanced behind him to where Murtha
and Blake were running the blue-legged youth back to base whenever he
tried to steal a start, and wound up. Forward shot his arm and away
sped the ball, straight for the plate and fairly high, and around swung
the bat and swept through empty air! For the ball had been a slow one
and the batter had hit inches ahead of it!

Dud stopped slipping then, brought up with a round turn, in fact! If he
could still make that slow ball of his go right he could fool any of
them! He wondered what had got into him! Why, he was just as good as
ever! What a silly fool he had been to think anything else! They were
shouting shrilly and triumphantly over in the corner of the stand and
Brooks was grinning all over his round, freckled face. Dud spread his
hand in the dust and fondled the ball and waited calmly for the next
batsman. He was no longer afraid, no longer doubtful. He had, he told
himself exultantly, come back!

Brooks asked for a curve and Dud refused it. A fast, straight ball
instead was what the batter saw speed past him. Perhaps, though, he
didn’t really see it, for it fairly sizzled with the “steam” that Dud
put on it. After that a low curve broke badly and then a second one
barely trimmed the outer corner of the rubber, but the batsman swung at
the latter and missed it. A foul back of the plate just escaped Brooks
and spoiled what Dud had intended for a third strike. Two-and-two now,
and the Corliss coachers shouting imploringly for a hit and the runners
dancing on their toes, eager to be off. Dud might still waste one if
he liked, but his fingers, when the ball came back to him, curved
themselves around the ball cunningly in response to the catcher’s
signal and Dud stepped forward and pitched, and every ounce of speed
he had went into that delivery. Straight as an arrow it flashed to the
plate, cut it squarely in halves and thumped into Ed Brooks’ mitt. The
batter never even offered at it and his bat was still at his shoulder
when the umpire waved him aside!

Dud, walking across to the bench, heard the cheers of the tiny band of
Grafton rooters and smiled a little. Those cheers sounded awfully good
to him just then! He had come through and the only desire in his heart
now was to be allowed to finish!

And finish he did, and went straight through to the end of the ninth
without further punishment. In those four succeeding innings the enemy
made just three hits, one of them a two-bagger that netted nothing
beyond a journey to second base. Six strike-outs were added to his
credit and he made two assists. And in the meanwhile Grafton sweetened
her total with three more runs, so that when Dud ended the game by
causing a Corliss pinch hitter to fly out to Boynton in left the score
stood 9 to 3.




CHAPTER XXIII

BEN TELLS A SECRET


The team missed connection at North Taunton coming back and had to kick
their heels about the platform there for more than an hour, reaching
school finally just before eight, a very tired lot. There was a cold
supper awaiting them in the dining-hall, and after that had been
demolished few of the fellows had inclination for anything but bed.

Jimmy, who had remained on the bench all the afternoon, was in a
particularly pessimistic frame of mind, and Dud’s last conscious memory
was of Jimmy, pajama-clad, seated on the edge of his bed, muttering
dire threats against Star Meyer.

Thursday was a busy day for Dud, with examinations beginning in real
earnest. In the corridor of School Hall at noon he was hailed by Roy
Dresser. “Say, Baker, Myatt’s looking for you. Told me to tell you to
drop around to his room if I saw you.”

As there was still a half-hour before dinner, Dud turned his steps
toward Lothrop and climbed the flight of slate steps that led to the
second corridor. Ben Myatt roomed with Nate Leddy in Number 8, and both
occupants of the two-room suite were in when Dud entered. He hadn’t
seen Myatt for several days and he was surprised to find him stretched
out on the couch looking rather pale and fagged.

“Hello, Dud,” he said. “Mind if I don’t get up? I’m feeling a bit rocky
today. Pull up a chair.” Dud replied to Leddy’s greeting and found a
seat. Leddy went on sorting some books at his desk. “Nate,” continued
Myatt, “has been telling me about your good work yesterday, Dud. I was
awfully glad to hear it, son. How’s the arm today?”

“Quite all right, thanks. Oh, it’s a little stiff, but I guess it will
limber up this afternoon.”

“Better go easy with it. Nine innings is quite a stretch the first
time. You’ve never gone the full limit before, eh?”

“No, and I thought for a while yesterday that I wasn’t going to be able
to. I guess Leddy told you what a mess I made of that fifth inning.”

Ben nodded. “I wonder,” he ruminated, “how many of us have had an upset
in that ‘fatal fifth.’ It seems that the fifth is crucial. Anyway, I’ve
always had a sort of superstition about it. If I can last out the fifth
I can go the limit, but almost every game I pitch something happens
in that inning. Sometimes it’s only a stumble and sometimes it’s a
regular fall-down. I dare say you thought it funny Pete didn’t pull
you out yesterday when you went bad, eh?”

Dud nodded his head. “Yes, I expected him to, and when he didn’t
I――well, I sort of thought he was keeping me in to――to discipline me. I
suppose he was.”

“Not exactly. We were talking you over the other evening; I guess it
was the night after the Lawrence game; and Pete said he guessed you
wouldn’t stand a full game this year but that you might next. I told
him you could stand it any time if he’d let you do it. ‘You put Baker
in a game that’s on ice,’ I said, ‘or a game you don’t particularly
care about winning and let him see himself through. Every pitcher has
got to get into trouble once and dig out again before he finds himself.
After he has done it once he knows that he can do it and after that he
does it.’ Pete thought I might be right and Guy said he was certain of
it. Great Scott, don’t I know? Haven’t I been through it? I’ve stood up
there with the crowd yelping and been so scared I couldn’t half see the
plate! Just had to trust to luck when I let ’em go that they wouldn’t
fly over the backstop! Don’t you feel, now that you’ve stood the gaff,
that you could start out this afternoon and pitch nine innings without
getting wobbly?”

“Yes, I think I could,” responded Dud cautiously. “But I mightn’t. When
a fellow’s stuff stops breaking right for him and a play goes wrong in
the infield and there are a couple on the bases――――”

“Right you are,” said Leddy. “I know the feeling, Baker. It’s the
deuce!”

“It sure is,” agreed Ben. “But what I’m trying to say is that a chap
has got to get good and scared and get over it before he’s worth a
hang in the box. You had your scare in the Lawrence game, Dud. I could
see just how you felt. But they had to pull you out to save the game.
You had another one yesterday and they didn’t have to pull you out and
you found it was up to you to crawl out of the hole all by yourself,
and you buckled down and did it. You didn’t know it, but if we’d been
trimmed thirty to nothing yesterday you’d still been in there pitching
’em over when the game ended! That was Pete’s plan from the first. ‘If
Baker’s in shape,’ he said to me, ‘I’ll put him in and let him pitch
the whole game.’”

“I’m glad I didn’t know it,” laughed Dud. “I’d have been frightened
stiff if I had!”

“Wouldn’t have blamed you a mite,” said Nate. “To tell the truth,
Baker, when Pete told me on the bench there yesterday that he was going
to put you in for the limit I thought he was crazy. I didn’t expect you
to last more than four innings. I don’t mind telling you now, because
it turned out all right and you fooled me beautifully. I apologize. You
pitched as nice a game for a rookie as I ever saw in my life, old man,
and that’s a fact!”

“I wish I could have seen it,” said Ben. “Fact is, Dud, I sort of look
on you as a pupil, although I never really taught you a thing except a
little common sense. You had everything you’ve got now when I got after
you that day in the cage, but――――”

“You taught me how to use what I did have,” said Dud stoutly. “If it
hadn’t been for you I’d never have made good a little bit.”

“Well, all right. Thanks for the testimonial. What I wanted to see
you about today was this. Nate and I talked it over and we decided
to put you wise to what’s up. Pete probably thinks it’s better to
keep quiet about it. Anyway, it wouldn’t help any to let it get over
to Mount Morris. So you keep it to yourself. I’m dished for the rest
of the year, Baker. When I was a kid I had a sunstroke. A lot of us
were on the beach one beast of a hot day and we were doing stunts and
racing and going on the way kids will, you know. Well, I keeled over
and was sick for two or three days; had rather a narrow squeak of it,
I believe. I’ve never had any trouble since, though, until Saturday.
It was beastly hot that day, and I guess I was feeling sort of punk,
anyway. Well, the result was that I had to give up, and after I got
to the Field House I was as sick as a dog and felt like the dickens.
Now the Doc says I’ve got to keep out of the sun all summer. Oh, he
says there’s no harm in going around if it’s just ordinarily warm,
but I’m supposed to wear some sort of a ventilated hat or stick a
newspaper in it or something. If the day’s all right I’ll have a try
at twirling Saturday, but I’m pretty sure I’ll be good for only four
or five innings. That means that Nate here will have to finish out. Or
Nate may start and I’ll go in if it’s necessary. Anyhow, there’s the
second Mount Morris game the next Friday, and, in case they get one
away from us, we’ll have to play them again the next afternoon. See
what I’m getting at, Dud? You’ve got to take your turn in one of those
games, old man. You can’t figure it any other way. Gus may get a whack,
of course, and if Gus happened to have a good day it would help the
situation a lot. For my part, I don’t believe we can count on finishing
the series this year in two games. Mount Morris is good and she’s got a
pitching staff that’s every bit up to ours. So there it is. Nate will
have to pitch part of the Friday game, at least, and if he does he
won’t be up to twirling again the next day. We want to win the series,
naturally, and we’ve been talking it over. And we decided that it
would be the best thing to put you next to what was up and let you get
accustomed to the idea. I don’t know how you are that way, Dud, but I
know that a good many fellows if they were suddenly called on to go in
and pitch in a deciding game with the rival team would have nerves so
badly they wouldn’t know a drop from a jump.”

Dud took a long breath. “Gee!” he said. “Can I do it?”

“Yes, I’m sure you can――after yesterday. Yesterday’s experience was
just the sort of medicine you needed. Don’t you think so yourself?”

“Yes, I do. At least, I don’t think I’d ever go to pieces quite so
badly again, Ben. But――but pitching against Mount Morris――――”

“Pshaw,” said Leddy. “Mount Morris isn’t so different from Corliss.
They play a little better, that’s all. The big thing is to just go in
and tell yourself, and make yourself _believe_, that you’re a heap
better than any batsman they can put up. Isn’t that so, Ben?”

“Yep, I think it is. Confidence is a big factor in pitching, Dud. And
we want you to spend the next week or so accumulating a lot of it.
You’re not likely to have to work Saturday, although you never can tell
what’ll happen in a ball game. Anyway, you won’t have to work more
than an inning or two. I’m pretty sure I can go four and Nate isn’t
likely to break down under five, I guess. I wish to goodness we had one
south-paw in the bunch!”

“Brunswick’s a left-hander,” offered Dud.

“I know, but he isn’t ready yet. I guess he’ll come around nicely next
year. Well, that’s the outlook. Now, if you take my advice, you’ll do a
little work every day, Dud; not a great deal, but enough to keep silky;
and you’ll get used to the idea of going into one of those Mount Morris
games and doing a lot of pretty pitching. I’m going to get out of here
tomorrow and we’ll have a try-out, just you and I, Dud. I want to see
that cross-fire of yours again. If you can make that good it might be
a big asset against some of Mount Morris’ right-handed batters. How is
your hitting nowadays, Dud?”

“Pretty poor, I’m afraid,” replied Dud ruefully.

“Try and brace up with it. You never can tell when a hit will mean a
whole lot to your team. And a pitcher that can smash out a safety now
and then――especially when it’s needed a lot――is pretty useful.”

“That’s the only thing that got Ben his place,” said Leddy dryly.

“It helped a lot, anyway,” laughed Ben, “especially when I started in
with the second and didn’t have much more than my glove. But you try
to meet ’em between now and next Friday, Dud. And, by the way, better
not let Pete Sargent know that you’re on. Maybe he will give you a hint
himself in a day or two, but until he does you let him think you don’t
suspect anything.”

But Dud got no hint from the coach that week. The next day, Friday,
Ben lugged Dud off to the practice diamond after the teams had gone
in and put him through his paces. Dud’s round-arm delivery interested
him considerably, and Ben had to have a try at it himself, without,
however, getting any such result as Dud did.

“I like that,” said Ben. “If you can make it a bit more certain, Dud,
you’ll have a good ball there. I know if you pitched that to me and
I didn’t know what was coming I’d back out of the box! Let’s try it
again.”

Dud put in every moment at batting that he could find opportunity for.
But he didn’t seem to make any improvement. He could land on some of
Brunswick’s offerings fairly well, but Gus Weston or Leddy nearly
always got them past him. He wasn’t used in the box on Thursday, and
had only two innings of work Friday, but his pitching arm was back in
shape and he assured himself over and over again that he was quite
ready to face Mount Morris or anyone else. Nevertheless, his heart had
a way of jumping into his throat sometimes when he suddenly remembered
what might happen a week hence! Jimmy wasn’t much use to him at that
time, for Jimmy was having hard work with examinations and was,
besides, much disgruntled over Mr. Sargent’s preference for Star Meyer
in center field. Even when, the day after the Corliss game, he dwelt
on what he termed Dud’s “coup,” he was only half-hearted.

“You own the school now, Dud,” he proclaimed. “Your middle name is
Popularity. Didn’t I tell you that if you followed my advice and
specialized on pitching a baseball you’d get to be a regular feller?
Sure, I did! And you’ve gone and done it!”

Dud, though, failed to discern any enormous popularity. Of course those
who had seen the game were warm in their praise of his work, and those
who hadn’t been present looked on him a bit more interestedly, but
if he had expected to wake up on Thursday and find himself suddenly
famous――and, as a matter of fact, he hadn’t thought of any such
thing――he would have been disappointed. No one patted him on the back
and told him how good he was and no one particularly sought the honor
of his society. But the Corliss contest had not been a very important
one and the school had fully expected to win it, anyway. Real fame was
to be garnered only in a game with Mount Morris.

Saturday dawned hot and breathless, with an unclouded sky overhead.
There were no examinations that morning and the fellows had nothing to
do but look forward to the afternoon’s contest with their old rival and
speculate on the outcome of it. A few heroic ones played tennis and the
canoes were pretty busy, but the heat made idleness almost a virtue.
It was rumored at dinner time that Leddy would start in the box for
Grafton and that Myatt would be held in reserve.




CHAPTER XXIV

THE FIRST GAME


When, at two o’clock, the invading hordes swept down on Grafton it
looked as though Mount Morris Academy had arrived in toto. Of the
hundred and eighty-odd students enrolled at the Greenbank school
that year, fully a hundred and fifty swarmed over from the station
after the arrival of the train. They came in hilarious mood, marching
along Crumbie and River Streets four abreast and waving small green
megaphones through which they hoped to later roar the enemy into
subjection. Green and white, the Mount Morris colors――I am aware that
white is not a color, but how else can I put it?――were much in evidence
in the shape of pennants and neckties and arm-bands, while a frivolous
fox-terrier led the procession, straining at his leash, attired in
a green blanket with the school monogram in white. Altogether, that
invasion was notable and picturesque, and Grafton, looking on from the
windows of Lothrop and Trow or from along the campus fence, cheered
approvingly. Mount Morris cheered back and waved her pennants, turned
into School Street and disbanded at the gate. Subsequently those who
had acquaintances at Grafton were to be seen climbing stairways, while
others wandered around in critical survey of the school buildings.

Add some two hundred Grafton fellows and another hundred sympathizers
from the village and roundabout and you’ll understand that the seating
capacity of Lothrop Field that afternoon was severely taxed. Politely,
but not over-eagerly perhaps, Grafton yielded the grandstands to the
visitors and townsfolk and found accommodation on the grass. Only a
band was lacking to make the occasion complete; and I’m not sure that a
band would have had much chance with all that cheering and singing!

The game started at two-thirty, or, to be exact, four minutes after
the scheduled time. The sun was pretty hot and what slight breeze
crept up now and then from the river did little to mitigate its ardor.
Nate Leddy began proceedings by slipping a strike over on the head of
the Mount Morris batting list, and the Scarlet-and-Gray cheered what
they were pleased to consider a good augury. The enemy retired without
reaching first and when the teams changed places it was seen that Mount
Morris, instead of putting in her best pitcher, Saylor, was going to
use Moulton. Moulton was a left-hander and Grafton had taken very
kindly to his pitching last year in the second game of the series.
Saylor was evidently to be saved for use against Myatt.

But it was soon apparent that Moulton had progressed in the gentle
art of pitching a baseball since the previous season, for Blake and
Winslow both fanned and the best Ordway could do was to fly out to
second-baseman. Save that the cheering and singing and coaching were
in their enthusiasm sufficient to mark the occasion as one greatly out
of the ordinary, no one would have suspected anything unusual from the
first few innings of the contest. Both teams played hard but ragged
ball, and the rival scorers had to jot down many errors. And yet, since
every spectator was thoroughly partisan, those scoreless innings were
not without their interest. There were some brilliant plays by both
sides: a running, one-hand catch by Left-Fielder Porter of the visitors
that deprived Guy Murtha of a two-bagger, a superb throw to second by
Gordon of the home talent that cut down a green-legged runner, a double
by Blake and Ayer that brought the fourth inning to an inglorious――or
glorious, according to whether you sported green or scarlet――ending.
And the two pitchers, neither seriously threatened, also deserved
laurels. To offset such commendable incidents, however, there was a
sickening muff of an easy toss by Murtha at second, the dropping of a
foul by Ayer after he had it nicely in his hands, the booting of a
hit by Winslow and a “solid ivory” play by Gordon in the third when he
called for a pitch-out and then pegged the ball over first-baseman’s
head when the runner was half-way to second. And the visitors made
quite as many slip-ups and, I think, more displays of bad judgment of
the kind that count in results but do not show in the error column.

Leddy met his first batch of trouble in the fifth――the “crucial fifth,”
as Ben Myatt had called it two days before――when he passed the first
man up and allowed the next to hit safely past Winslow. After that he
struck out the next two batsmen but couldn’t prevent a run coming over
when the following green-leg popped a Texas Leaguer behind Winslow.
Nick Blake made a valiant effort to get that hit, but the best he could
do was to scoop it up and get the man at third. Grafton got men to
third and second in her half, but they died there.

That ended the scoring until the seventh, and it was in the seventh
that Leddy gave way to Weston in the first half, and that the home
team put the game away in the second period. Mount Morris began by
getting a scratch hit that put a runner on first. The next man tried
to sacrifice, but Leddy threw wild to Blake at second and both runners
were safe. A short fly to left field settled in Hobo Ordway’s hands and
he held the runners. Then Leddy let down and passed the next batter
on four consecutive balls and the bases were all occupied with but one
out. Leddy showed nervousness and risked a tally by trying to catch
the runner at second. Only quick work by Blake sent the man at third
doubling back to that base. With a strike and two balls on the batter,
Nate let go of a wild one and, although Gordon managed to partly block
it, the enemy scored her second run. Leddy pitched another ball, worked
a strike across and finally passed the batter. It was then that Gus
Weston, who had been warming up to Brooks for two innings, was hurried
to the rescue.

Gus started erratically by pitching three wild ones in a row and then
settled down and struck out the green-leg and got a fine salvo of
applause from some three hundred anxious Grafton sympathizers. Another
five minutes of suspense followed, during which Dud and Jimmy and the
other non-combatants sat on the final two inches of the bench and
clenched their hands and yelled their heads nearly off. In the end,
after the batsman, who happened also to be Mount Morris’s captain, had
three balls to his credit and two strikes against him and had fouled
off exactly five offerings, a screaming fly to center field that Star
Meyer caught ended the trouble.

But if it ended Grafton’s trouble it only began Mount Morris’s, for it
was that last of the seventh that saw the downfall of Moulton, the
Green-and-White’s second-best twirler. Gordon led off with a sizzling
shot to right that the fielder had to take on the bound and was secure
on first. Weston went out, second to first. Nick Blake tried the first
thing that came his way and bounced it off Moulton’s shins, advancing
Gordon and arriving at first without question. Winslow came across with
a two-base hit to left that sent Gordon home with Grafton’s first tally
and a minute later Hugh Ordway slammed one down the third-base line,
scoring Winslow and putting himself on second.

That was enough for Moulton and he disappeared, a tow-headed youth by
the name of Whitten taking his place. Whitten, though, was easy from
the first moment and hit followed hit, interspersed by a couple of
infield errors, until Grafton had crossed the platter with six runs.

In the eighth Gus Weston almost produced heart disease among the home
team supporters by passing the first batsman, hitting the next on the
leg and then committing a most apparent balk and moving the runners to
third and second. Ben Myatt drew on his glove about that time and moved
down the field with Brooks, but Ben’s services were not needed, after
all, for a weak grounder was pegged home for the first out and Gordon
shot the ball to first for the second. A fly to Boynton, which he
juggled for one awful instant and then captured, brought the suspense
to an end.

In the Grafton half of the eighth both Winslow and Ordway hit safely,
Murtha flied out to center, Ayer got his base on a fielder’s choice
that failed to catch Winslow at third, and the sacks were again filled
and the stage set for a tragedy. But the best Boynton could do was to
pop up an infield fly, and it was left to Coach Sargent, assisted――very
capably assisted――by one James Townsend Logan, to produce the
appropriate climax.

It was Star Meyer’s turn at bat, but Star had failed all the afternoon
to do more than reach first on one occasion by virtue of a fielder’s
choice. So Mr. Sargent looked about him for a pinch-hitter. There
was, to be sure, Ben Myatt, but Ben was down the field gently tossing
the ball to Brooks. Perhaps it was a gleam of eagerness in Jimmy’s
eyes that decided the coach. At all events, Star Meyer, armed for the
struggle, was called back half-way to the plate and it was Jimmy who
jumped to his feet, seized a bat at haphazard, possibly afraid that the
coach would change his mind if he gave him a chance, and fairly leaped
to the plate.

Jimmy got a fine round of applause and a lot of advice as to what to
do. It was evident that many of the audience would be satisfied with
nothing less than a home-run, but, on the other hand, the advice he
got from the bench and the coachers was to “just tap it, Jimmy!” Jimmy
did not so well as the stand demanded and did better than his teammates
advised. He smote it. He didn’t smite at once, though. He let Whitten
put one straight over that looked too low to Jimmy and just right to
the umpire, and he let Whitten follow that strike with two deceitful
hooks that looked fine at first and then didn’t. And then, when Whitten
tried to sneak one over again opposite his knee-pads, Jimmy did his
smiting. Jimmy got that ball on the one square inch of his bat best
calculated to produce results, a square inch located about four inches
from the end, and he put all his contempt for Mount Morris and Whitten
and, incidentally, Star Meyer, into his swing, and the ball traveled
away with a _crack_ that was heartening indeed to the three impatient
runners, shot over second-baseman’s upthrust glove, still ascending,
went curving into center field at a place where neither the guardian of
that territory nor his left-hand neighbor had any chance of reaching
it, and finally dropped to earth to roll joyfully along the sward
pursued by two pairs of agitated green legs!

Need I narrate that all Grafton arose as one and shrieked hysterical
delight? Or that the bases, filled a scant moment before, were speedily
emptied? Or that Jimmy, finding them empty and having his choice of
any, decided to annex second and then, urged on by coachers more
capable of judging the demands of the moment, spurned second and set
his heart on third――and would have gone tearing home if Guy Murtha
himself hadn’t seized him forcibly and thrust him back to the bag?
Well, perhaps you wouldn’t have guessed the latter details, but I
fancy you’d have surmised the others. That hit of Jimmy’s went down
in local history as one of the famous hits of the national pastime.
It wasn’t that it won the game, for the game was already captured.
Had he struck out Grafton would still have been returned the victor
that afternoon. But there was something beautifully satisfying about
it, one might almost say artistic. The audience was on the _qui vive_
for it, the setting was right to the most minute detail and it was
made when and where it would do the most good. To be sure, it might
have been a home-run and so scored four tallies instead of three, but
I maintain――and I am supported by Dud and Nick and Hugh and half the
school――that there is nearly always the element of luck in a home-run,
whereas Jimmy’s three-bagger was a solid, meritorious, honestly-earned
hit as soul-satisfying as any homer ever lifted over a fence!

Perhaps you think I am dwelling over-long on the glory of that
performance and to the holding up of the game. But as a matter of fact
it ended the game there and then to all intents and purposes. To be
sure, Gordon did get to first on a pass, while the cheering was still
going on, but nobody cared, any more than they cared a minute later
when Gus Weston fanned. Anything that might happen now would be an
anti-climax. The audience was satisfied, surfeited. Mount Morris had no
fight left in her and went out in one, two, three order in the ninth.

Subsequently there was chaos and noise and the sight of numerous
scarlet-and-gray-hosed heroes bobbing about above a sea of joyful
faces and open mouths. And Mount Morris trotted subduedly off the
field, after returning Grafton’s cheer, and was next seen attired in
street clothes being borne in hacks to the station, a number of rather
tired-looking but still smiling young gentlemen whom Fate had used
unkindly. And yet, as they passed Lothrop Hall they tossed a final
cheer behind, and there was a grimness and determination in the tone
of it that seemed to say: “Make the most of your triumph, Grafton! Our
turn comes next!”




CHAPTER XXV

LEFT BEHIND


Grafton jubilated and made glad. Nate Leddy spent a sorrowful evening
and refused the comfort offered by his roommate. Gus Weston was
inclined to be talkative about his share in the victory, but no one
took Gus seriously. Of all those who had taken part in the contest,
it remained to Jimmy Logan alone to be triumphant. Jimmy triumphed
and made no bones about it. I don’t mean that he went around throwing
his chest out or figuratively crowning himself with laurel and with
bay. Oh, not at all. Jimmy was not self-assertive in the least. He
only smiled when laudation came his way, and strove to impress others
as being firmly of the idea that what he had done had been nothing to
speak of, absolutely nothing. Only, now that it had been mentioned,
wasn’t it a joke on Star Meyer? Star hadn’t made a hit in the game and
had fielded――well, anyone knew what Star’s fielding was like! And then,
just when he had a chance to really do something for himself and the
team, Pete had yanked him away from the plate. Not, however, that, in
Jimmy’s belief, Star _would_ have done anything. Probably quite the
contrary and otherwise. Star, he reflected compassionately, must be
feeling rather cheap, eh?

Jimmy fairly haunted Star’s waking hours for the next day or two. No
matter where Star went, there also was Jimmy, Jimmy with a sympathetic
mien and a sly twinkle in his eye. Star ran across him in corridors,
on the Green, on the Campus, on the field, everywhere. And, on Sunday
afternoon, trying to find sanctuary in the library, he hid himself
behind an atlas of the world in a secluded corner, only to hear a few
minutes later the sound of footsteps on the floor and to glance over
the top of his book into the sweetly condoling countenance of Jimmy.
Star dropped the atlas with a mutter of despair and sought his room.

There were plenty who predicted that Jimmy had ousted Star from center
field, and Jimmy himself believed that he had, and yet when Wednesday
came around, bringing final examinations to an end and Yarrow High
School to the scene, Jimmy again decorated the bench and it was Star
who ambled out to center field! And, oh, the chagrin of Jimmy!

There isn’t much to tell of that game. Yarrow had been selected because
she was not calculated to make hard work for Grafton, and she proved
the wisdom of the selection. Brunswick started in the box for the
Scarlet-and-Gray and lasted three innings and a third of the next. Then
Dud went to the rescue and stopped the onslaught of the enemy. He was
instructed not to exert himself and didn’t need to, but, possibly for
fear that he might, Gus Weston relieved him in the eighth. Meanwhile
Grafton kept her plate clean and scored eight runs on her own account.
Except that it kept the players in form and took the place of a game
with the second――which team, by the way, was at Greenbank receiving
a rather conclusive drubbing from the Mount Morris second nine――that
contest might just as well have not been played. Yarrow High was not
enough of an opponent to test Grafton’s ability in any line. But it
served to keep the enthusiasm up, if anything was needed for such a
purpose, and gave the Scarlet-and-Gray something to while away the
time with. The next day was to be Graduation Day and many fathers and
mothers and assorted relatives and friends were already on hand. The
Glee and Mandolin and Banjo Clubs discoursed in the Gymnasium that
evening and there was a dance afterwards. The dance, however, was not
for the baseball players, or, at least, only a few numbers of it, for
they were supposed to be tucked in bed at ten o’clock. Let’s hope that
most of them were. I know, though, that Jimmy wasn’t. Jimmy at that
particular hour was perched rather precariously on the footboard of
Dud’s bed explaining at great length and with a fine flow of language
his opinion of Star Meyer and Coach Sargent and Guy Murtha and all
others who in any way represented authority in baseball affairs. Jimmy
wasn’t nearly through when Dud fell asleep.

Graduation Day dawned fair and only mildly hot and went, as many
had gone before at Grafton and as many would later. There were the
exercises in the hall at eleven, at which some thirty seniors received
diplomas and some one hundred and eighty others applauded deafeningly.
Several that we know were among the fortunate young gentlemen: Ted
Trafford, captain of last fall’s football team; Roy Dresser, Guy
Murtha, of present fame; Joe Leslie, class president; Gordon Parker,
Nate Leddy, Ben Myatt, Neil Ayer, Jack Zanetti, of track and football
renown, and some others doubtless. And――I had almost forgotten――Pop
Driver! Yes, Pop actually received his diploma at last and bore up very
modestly under the acclaim that almost swept the roof from the building!

And there was a royal luncheon in dining-hall at one-thirty, and after
that “spreads,” as the fellows liked to call them, in various dormitory
rooms, and still later, lemonade and sandwiches and cakes set out on
a long table in front of Manning. In the evening Forum and Lit held
their big debate of the year, and Lit won hands down, and the admiring
fathers and mothers and sisters and aunts and――oh, all the rest of
them, clapped and beamed and were extraordinarily proud. And then there
were more refreshments and, at last, everyone went home――somewhere.

The exodus began the next morning, but less than half the students
deserted. Most of them, accompanied by compliant parents, entrained for
Greenbank at eleven-ten or twelve-twenty-five to see the ball game. At
a few minutes after twelve Grafton was pretty well deserted. Mr. Crump,
the worthy head janitor, remained, I think, and possibly a stray member
of the faculty, but Doctor Duncan went and “J. P.” went and “Jimmy”
Rumford and, oh, just about everyone! And so we might as well go too!

The team, fifteen strong exclusive of manager and assistant manager
and Mr. Sargent and “Dinny” Crowley and “Davy” Richards, left on the
later train. A five-minute wait at the junction, spent in working off a
little extra enthusiasm, and then they boarded the main line train and
were hustled away toward Greenbank and whatever fate awaited them.

Of course most everyone hoped for a second victory since it would
leave them free to go home for the summer, but there were one or two
enthusiasts who were willing to see the series go to three games. Among
the latter was Dud, for Dud wanted very much indeed to pitch in one
Mount Morris contest, and he saw no likelihood of doing it unless that
third game was played. Most of the fellows proclaimed their belief that
Grafton would again take the measure of her opponent this afternoon,
but secretly they doubted it. Mount Morris had nearly always taken one
game, and today, playing on her own field, surrounded by her graduation
crowd, and smarting under the defeat of last week, she was certain to
make a fine fight for victory.

Mr. Sargent, Murtha, Barnes and Mr. Crowley occupied seats together
and spent most of the time between Needham Junction and Greenbank
laying plans for the contest. Dud and Jimmy sat together further back
in the coach, Jimmy doing his best to make Star Meyer uncomfortable
by staring at the back of his head. There was a good deal of talk and
laughter and some horse-play, for the fellows had the coach pretty much
to themselves until Webster was reached. There was a delay at Webster,
for a branch line train with which the express made connection had not
arrived. Most of the fellows disembarked to stretch their legs and
harry the station agent, and Jimmy and Dud were of the number. Jimmy
insisted on taking his stand on the platform opposite the window at
which Star sat and staring him out of countenance until Dud dragged him
away by main force.

“I’ll bet,” chuckled Jimmy as, having promised to behave, he obtained
his release from his chum’s grasp, “I’ll bet that Star will be glad
when he hikes out for home! I never knew a fellow who disliked to be
looked at as much as he does!”

“Looked at!” said Dud. “You’re enough to drive the fellow crazy!
I wouldn’t be surprised if he dreams of you at night, you and
your――er――bacillus stare!”

“I think the word is _basilisk_,” replied Jimmy sweetly. “Not that it
matters, however. Not that anything matters except whether I beat that
chump out for the position of center fielder today. Say, where are you
taking me? Suppose the train starts up?”

“It won’t. You heard the trainman say we were waiting for the local,
and that comes in over there on the other side of the station. Let’s
see if there are any fish in this stream.”

“Who cares whether there are or not?” But Jimmy followed along the
embankment to lean beside Dud over the railing of the culvert and stare
into the little brook that flowed beneath. “I see a frog down there,
if that will do you any good. I’d like to catch him and put him down
Star’s neck!”

They had wandered some forty or fifty yards back from the rear car,
which the team had taken possession of, and consequently when a bell
clanged far down the track and the command “All abo-o-oard!” reached
them, as it did at that moment, they didn’t waste time in expressing
surprise or consternation but set off as fast as their feet would carry
them.

“That trainman,” panted Jimmy, “will come to a bad end!”

Whether the conductor failed to see them or whether he gave them credit
for an astonishing celerity they never knew, but the train began to
move before they had covered half the distance between the culvert and
the last platform of the rear car. Running over ties is not conducive
to speed and for a moment or two they despaired of reaching their
goal. But they did reach it, just when the end of the station platform
threatened to defeat their efforts, and Jimmy, leading, grasped a
handful of iron railing and gave a spring.

What happened next was always very confused in their minds. They had
noticed that the rear platform was occupied by someone, but had not
recognized who that someone was. As Jimmy’s fingers closed about the
railing at the steps a rubber-soled shoe was placed against his chest
and the very next thing Jimmy knew he was rolling over on the platform
and Dud was rolling over with him, and the train was rods away!

[Illustration: “Jimmy ... was rolling over on the platform and Dud ...
with him”]

Struggling somehow to his feet, Jimmy gave chase, shouting like a wild
Indian and causing a stupendous commotion amongst the few occupants of
the platform. But all he got for his pains was an ironic farewell wave
from the figure in the doorway of the last car!

Dud, rather pale of face, joined him, dusting his clothes and staring
dazedly after the disappearing express. Jimmy, wild-eyed, turned
sputteringly.

“D-did you see who that was?” he demanded. “It was Star Meyer! He
pushed me off the step! He――he kicked me off! I might have been killed!
You wait! You wait till I――――”

But Jimmy was fairly gibbering now. Dud handed his straw hat to him.
“Never mind about that now,” he said impatiently. “The question is how
we’re to get to Greenbank. How far is it?”

“I don’t know. You wait till I get my hands on that――that――――”

“Let’s find out,” interrupted Dud anxiously. “The game’s at two-thirty
and it must be half-past one now. Maybe there’s another train that will
get us there in time, Jimmy.”

Jimmy stopped his mouthings and hurried after Dud to the waiting-room,
unconscious of the curious regard of the small audience. The agent
was most unsympathetic. He had been chivied by the fellows and made
sport of and he seemed to think that it served these two young rascals
just about right. His replies to their anxious questions were short
and discouraging. No, there wasn’t another train to Greenbank before
two-forty-eight. No, he didn’t know how they were to get there by
half-past two. (His tone implied that he hoped they wouldn’t!) Yes,
they might be able to get a carriage to drive them over. There was a
livery stable about a mile down the road there. And the distance to
Greenbank by rail was nine miles.

They retired to consider. A mile walk to the livery stable didn’t
appeal to them and Dud suggested telephoning. Fortunately, there
was a booth in the corner of the waiting-room and Jimmy possessed a
nickel. They crowded in and at last, after much delay, got the stable.
But the voice at the other end was not at all reassuring. They had
carriages enough and horses enough, but just now there wasn’t anyone to
drive ’em. If they could wait until two o’clock maybe Billy would be
back from Chester. Jimmy impatiently suggested that they could drive
themselves and the stable could send a man over to Greenbank on the
train to bring the team back. But that didn’t appear feasible to the
man on the telephone. Mr. Libby, it appeared, had gone to the city.
(Mr. Libby, they gathered, was the proprietor.) If Mr. Libby was there
maybe he’d let ’em have a rig, but the speaker declined to shoulder the
responsibility. In short, the only course was to await the return of
Billy at two――or maybe half-past――or three, at the latest!

Jimmy hung up the receiver impatiently.

“I suppose there isn’t a trolley?” murmured Dud. They consulted the
agent once more. He showed peevishness at being required to awake
from his nap and open the window again and took evident pleasure in
informing them that the nearest trolley line was four miles distant and
that it didn’t go to Greenbank, anyway; leastways, not direct; it went
to West Shoreham first. The window descended with a venomous bang.

Dud and Jimmy, hands in pockets, wandered disconsolately back to the
platform. There was an unoccupied baggage truck there and they seated
themselves on it and swung their legs and stared forlornly at a field
of potatoes.

“I dunno,” murmured Jimmy hopelessly.

Dud consulted his watch. It was now one-forty-six. In three-quarters
of an hour the game would start. And they wouldn’t be there! Of course
it wasn’t very likely that he would have had a chance to pitch today,
anyhow, but there was always the possibility. Dud sighed deeply and
Jimmy echoed the sigh. It had just occurred to him that there was now
no question as to who would play center field.

“If I ever lay my hands on that skunk,” broke forth Jimmy, “I’ll――I’ll
just about――――”

But Dud interrupted by sliding off the truck and walking away down the
platform.

“Where are you going?” called Jimmy.

“I’m going to Greenbank,” answered Dud.

“How?”

“Walk!”

“Walk! Walk nine miles? Why it’ll take hours!”

“All right,” replied Dud over his shoulder. “Let it. But I’m going to
get there, just the same, Jimmy.”

“But――here, hold on!” Jimmy followed at a trot. “What’s the use, Dud?
We won’t get there until the game’s ’most over, and――――”

“Can’t help it. I started out to see that game and I’m going to!
Besides, a fellow might as well be walking as sitting around on that
platform. I can do nine miles in two hours, I guess.”

“Two hours! Oh, jimminy!” Jimmy looked longingly back at the shaded
platform.

“What do you say?” demanded Dud. “Coming along?”

“I suppose so,” said Jimmy in a weak voice. “I don’t see what good it
is, but――all right, Dud, I’ll have a try at it. Nine miles! Gee!”

“Come on then,” said Dud. “Let’s hike.”




CHAPTER XXVI

THE BORROWED HAND-CAR


It was hot and the walking was hard. They took to the path between the
tracks, but even that was far from being an ideal surface. Now and then
a sleeper, longer than the rest, protruded to trip unwary feet and for
long stretches at a time they walked over ballast. When they had been
on their way only a few minutes a locomotive whistle sounded in the
distance behind them and Jimmy was for turning back. It might be, he
thought, a train to Greenbank. But Dud destroyed his hope.

“It’s that branch line train,” he said. “The one we didn’t wait for.”

“I’d like to push it off the track,” muttered Jimmy. “If it hadn’t been
for that we wouldn’t be in this fix.”

After another ten minutes conversation ceased altogether. They were
too hot and tired for talking. The track, with strange perversity,
ran for a long way through a cut and what breeze there was failed to
reach them. They watched eagerly for the mile-posts at first, but they
were unusually far apart, they concluded, and they soon got tired
of looking for them. A wooden trestle made the going easier while it
lasted, for there were planks to walk on, but it ended all too soon and
they were back on cinders and broken stone again. Near the end of the
third mile they retired to the ditch at one side to let a long freight
trundle past. Jimmy morosely observed that, of course, the pesky thing
had to be going in the wrong direction!

They reached a small station at about half-past two and made an assault
on the water tank in the little room. Perhaps fortunately, the water
had not seen any ice that day. They rested a few minutes and then went
on again. A hundred yards down the track Jimmy uttered an exclamation
and Dud turned to find him pointing dramatically at a hand-car reposing
on a couple of ties laid at right angles to the rails at one side of
the way.

“What do you know about that?” asked Jimmy in awed tones.

“What about it?” asked Dud.

“Why, you chump, all we’ve got to do is slide that on the track and get
to Greenbank in no time at all!”

“And get arrested for swiping railroad property!”

“We won’t swipe it; we’ll just borrow it,” said the other indignantly.

“I guess,” responded Dud dubiously, “it’s harder to work one of those
things than it is to walk. Besides, we couldn’t lift it onto the rails.”

“I’ll bet we could. And all you have to do is just work those handles
up and down like a pump, you on one side and I on the other. It may be
hard, but it’ll be a mighty pleasant change!”

“We’re certain to get in trouble if we try that, Jimmy. Come on. We’ve
done half the distance, I guess, already.”

“Oh, come on!” Jimmy was already struggling with the hand-car. “We can
lift it easy enough, Dud. It isn’t heavy. Here, we’ll toss this junk
off.” And Jimmy ruthlessly slid a box of spikes and some tools to the
ground. “Give us a lift, Dud!”

Dud hesitated an instant longer and then went to Jimmy’s assistance.
The car was lumbersome, but they had no great difficulty in trundling
it along the ties and then swinging it to the rails. Fortunately, a
bend in the tracks hid them from the little station.

“Climb aboard!” said Jimmy joyfully. “Bend your back, Dud! Let her
flicker!”

She didn’t “flicker” much at first, though, and it proved to be surely
a case of “bend your back”! They did a good deal of grunting and
perspiring before the hand-car found its gait. After that it wasn’t
hard to keep it going, except that the continual raising and lowering
of the bars soon began to tire arms and shoulders and backs. But
Jimmy, although the perspiration was soon trickling down his nose, was
full of encouragement.

“There’s another mile-post coming, Dud! Say, I’ll bet we’re making
fifteen miles an hour, eh?”

“More like ten,” panted Dud. “Wish we’d come to a grade so we could
quit a minute!”

“Bound to be one soon, I guess. Keep it up! We’re doing finely!”

And there was one soon. It began a few rods beyond, but, instead of
being a down-grade it was the other sort, and for the next ten minutes
they had their work cut out for them! Dud was all for abandoning the
hand-car and taking to their legs again, but Jimmy pointed out that
when they had once reached the top of the hill they’d be able to coast
down the other side of it. But Jimmy was wrong about that, for when the
grade did come to an end only a level track awaited them. Still, after
propelling that thing up a quarter-mile rise, even level track was a
vast relief, and they let the car run a minute while they dropped the
handles and mopped their streaming faces.

“What time is it now?” asked Jimmy, easing a wilted collar about his
neck. They had long since removed their jackets and hats and bundled
them at their feet.

“Two minutes to three,” answered Dud. “How much farther is it, do you
think?”

“Only about two miles, I guess. Say, suppose we come to a station?
We’ll have to beat it by in a hurry, eh?”

“Either that or let this thing go. But there isn’t likely to be another
station before Greenbank, I guess. Let’s hit her up again.”

They hit her up and overtook another mile-post and were arguing
breathlessly as to the distance they had covered when a sudden roar and
clatter down the track behind them put the question out of mind.

“_Train!_” yelled Dud, who was facing the rear. “Stop her, Jimmy!”

Jimmy threw his body across his ascending bar, after one glance behind
him. A short blast of warning came from the approaching locomotive, and
then another and another. The hand-car slowed and stopped and before it
had ceased its momentum two badly scared boys were on the ground beside
it.

“We’ve got――to get――her off!” cried Dud. “Quick, Jimmy!”

On came the train, still whistling, but now they could hear the grating
of brake-shoes as the engineer put on the air. Dud had his end of the
hand-car clear of the rails, but at Jimmy’s end the wheels were caught.

“Give me a lift――here!” panted Jimmy, and Dud sprang to his aid.

Neither dared look back up the track, but they could feel the rails
pulse as the locomotive bore down upon them, while the screech of
locked wheels was deafening. It seemed minutes before they managed to
wrench the hand-car from the track, although it was in reality but a
matter of seconds from the first warning blast to the instant that,
pushing the hand-car down the slope beside the railway, the two boys
literally threw themselves after it. There was a roar, a maelstrom of
dust, the sound of releasing brake-shoes and the freight, gathering
speed again, rushed by them.

_Clank-clank! Thump-thump!_ Car after car went past while Dud and
Jimmy, white-faced, breathless and trembling from their exertions,
crouched in a tangle of bushes beside the half-overturned hand-car,
deafened, choked and blinded with dust, shudderingly grateful for their
escape.

                   *       *       *       *       *

Meanwhile, some two miles distant, Grafton and Mount Morris were
battling valiantly on a sun-smitten diamond before the gaze of nearly
a thousand excited spectators. The fourth inning was drawing to its
close. It had been a slow contest, filled with anxious moments for both
contenders. Every inning so far had seen runners on the bases and yet
only one tally had been scored and that for the visitors. In the first
of the second a pass had been followed by a clean hit and a bad error
by Mount Morris’ second-baseman and Captain Murtha had dashed over the
plate. But since then Saylor, for the Green-and-White, and Nate Leddy,
pitching for the visitors, had managed to stave off runs, although more
than once a hit would have spelled disaster. Neither Saylor nor Leddy
had gone unpunished, for there had been hits aplenty for both teams,
but neither Grafton nor Mount Morris had been able to hit safely when a
hit would have meant a run. Errors had been frequent and each team had
been about equally guilty, although the Green-and-White’s slip-ups had
proved more costly. Now, with two down and Gordon on second, Nate Leddy
was trying his hardest to solve the mysteries of the sharply-breaking
deliveries of his rival. Here again a hit would send a tally across,
and here again the hit was not forthcoming, for Nate, after getting
Saylor in the hole, fouled off his second strike and then lifted a high
one to first-baseman.

The fifth began with the tail-end of the Mount Morris batting list
coming up and Leddy beginning to show wear. Strike-outs had been few
and Nate had in nearly every case been obliged to serve at least seven
balls. Mount Morris had displayed a positive passion for knocking
fouls. Nate’s first two offerings were not good enough and the third
went bounding off the batsman’s cudgel into the stand. Then came a
third ball, and simultaneous with the umpire’s decision Ben Myatt left
the bench and began to warm up with Brooks. Nate had to let that batter
go. The next one flied out to Boynton. Then came another hit, the
seventh for the home team, and first and second were occupied. Nate was
slipping now and from the bench Coach Sargent was watching him as a cat
watches a mouse. One ball――two balls――a strike――another ball――

Mr. Sargent arose and Guy Murtha hustled in from second to the mound.
Back of first base Ben Myatt removed his coat and moved into the field.
Nate passed him the ball and Ben clapped the other on the shoulder as
he turned toward the bench.

“Myatt pitching for Grafton!” announced the umpire.

Weston had joined Brooks and was tossing the ball to him desultorily,
his gaze on the diamond. The cheers from the visiting contingent died
away and Ben took up the task. The batsman accepted the first ball and
slammed it across the diamond to Nick Blake. Nick dashed to second and
made the out, but the oncoming runner from first spoiled his throw
and the double. Two down and men on first and third. But Ben had the
situation in hand and the next batsman fouled out to Winslow.

Once more Grafton put runners on the bases, Winslow first, after Blake
had retired by the strike-out route, and then Ordway, the latter
beating out a bunt by a hair’s-breadth. But then Murtha, swinging like
a Hercules, only succeeded in driving a liner into shortstop’s glove
and Neil Ayer’s fly to right was an easy out.

Mount Morris’ first-batsman struck out amidst the joyful whoops of the
Grafton supporters, but the next man hit safely to short left and was
advanced by a bunt which Winslow, coming in for on the run, scrambled.
A double steal followed, Gordon pegging to Winslow too late. Myatt had
trouble finding the plate and the bags were filled again. But Fortune
had not yet turned her back on the Scarlet-and-Gray. The Mount Morris
left fielder, doing his utmost to bring off a sacrifice fly, only hit
a weak, bounding ball to the pitcher’s box and the runner was out at
the plate. But Gordon’s throw to first was too late to get the batter.
Myatt worked a strike over and followed it with a ball. Then a healthy
swing failed and the score was two-and-one. But a second ball followed
and then a third, and Grafton saw trouble ahead. The next was a strike,
not offered at, and Ben gathered himself together for a final effort.
When the ball left his hand it sped straight for the center of the
plate with nothing on it but speed. There was a _crack_ of wood against
leather and out in left field Hugh Ordway, shading his eyes for an
instant, turned and raced back. A swift turn, a change of direction to
the right and then a breathless, silent moment in the stand. Down came
the ball, Hugh stepped forward a pace and then a mighty shout of joy
and relief arose from the flaunters of the scarlet-and-gray pennants.
With his back almost at the wall of the red-brick dormitory, Hobo
Ordway had pulled down one of the longest flies in the history of the
dual contests!

The seventh began with Grafton still one lone tally to the good.
Boynton was an easy out, shortstop to first, Star Meyer fanned, Gordon
got a lucky hit that glanced from Saylor’s glove and rolled safely
past second-baseman. Myatt received a salvo of applause as he made his
first appearance at the plate and there were demands for a home-run.
But Ben was not the old Ben today. Those on the bench realized that he
was playing on his nerve and Mr. Sargent viewed him anxiously. Ben let
Saylor put a strike and two balls over before he offered. Then came
the hit-and-run signal and he swung at a fairly wide one while Gordon
streaked to second. Ben missed entirely, but the catcher’s hurried
throw was low and Gordon was safe. Ben spoiled the next one and Saylor
made it three balls and Grafton howled and whooped expectantly. But
Ben’s attempt to wallop failed, for the ball only glanced from his
stick and rolled slowly toward third. Pitcher and third-baseman both
scurried for it and Saylor fielded it. It was too late to get Gordon
and the pitcher pegged across to first. Ben, running hard, scented the
throw and dived feet-foremost to base with the result that he collided
with the baseman and that youth dropped the ball. Had Gordon started
for home at that moment he could have reached it safely, but he didn’t
and a golden opportunity was lost.

Nick Blake let two go by, one a strike and the other a pitch-out. Then,
on the next delivery Myatt sprinted to second unchallenged. Nick tried
to hit but failed and found himself in the hole. Saylor coaxed him with
a drop and then a wide and high one and Nick refused both. It had to be
good then and it was, and Nick let go at it and dashed for first, while
Gordon tore in from third and Myatt legged it to third. But Nick’s
effort was vain, for the Mount Morris third-baseman speared the ball a
yard in the air!

The Green-and-White was not yet acknowledging defeat, and proved it
by the way she went after the redoubtable Myatt in the last of the
seventh. Ben was slow and careful today, lacking his usual certainty
and dash, and after the first man at bat had smashed a drive down the
first base line for a single the home team batters lost their awe of
him and began to make trouble. Ben retired the second man after much
trouble by making him fly out to Meyer, and Meyer held the runner at
first by a quick return. But the next man found something to his liking
and sped it straight over second and the runner on first went on to
third. Ben’s trip around the bases had been his undoing and he knew
it, and after he had pitched two balls to the succeeding batsman he
turned and spoke to Murtha and a consultation followed. Mr. Sargent was
already on his feet beside the bench. A nod of his head and Guy Weston
tossed the ball to Brooks and walked toward the mound.

Ben came out with hanging head and staggered when he reached the bench,
and Davy Richards, a supporting arm around him, led him off to the
dressing-room.

Weston sped in his warming-up deliveries and then faced his task. A man
on first and one on third, one down and two balls on the batsman was
the situation, and Weston didn’t better it any by pitching two balls in
succession and adding a third runner to the bases! On the bench, Mr.
Sargent watched dismally. Brunswick, his last chance now, was warming
up, but it was a question whether Brunswick could do any better than
Weston. Mr. Sargent was thinking hard things of Dudley Baker at that
moment!

And consequently it was something of a surprise to him when Dud’s voice
came to him across his shoulder! “I’m terribly sorry, sir,” Dud was
saying breathlessly, “but we got left at that place where we stopped,
Logan and I, and we walked most of the way and stole a hand-car, sir,
and we just got here.”

Mr. Sargent’s surprise turned to cold disapproval. “Very nice, Baker,”
he replied scathingly. “It may comfort you to know that you’ve probably
lost the game for us. I had meant you to pitch today, but――――”

“Yes, sir, thanks, and I’m all ready to if you’ll let me!”

“All ready to!” Mr. Sargent surveyed the boy’s disheveled attire and
flushed, tired face sarcastically. “You look it! Why, you couldn’t find
the plate in the condition you are!”

“You try me, sir! I’ll be all right in three minutes, sir! Just let me
get into my togs, Mr. Sargent, and give me a chance! Will you, sir,
please?”

Weston had just served another ball to the new batsman. Mr. Sargent
hesitated only an instant. Then: “I’ll give you a chance, Baker,” he
said quickly. “Hurry into your togs. Churchill, show Baker where to
change. I’ll hold the game up as much as I can. But hurry!”

“Yes, sir, I won’t be three minutes! And Jimmy, sir? Logan, I mean. May
he――――”

“Yes, yes, only don’t stand here! Hurry, I say.”

Mr. Sargent sped Parker to where Brunswick was warming up and in a
moment Brunswick was listening to the coach’s instructions. In the
box, Gus Weston, ball in hand, waited uncomprehendingly. Then Murtha
took the sphere from him, slapped him on the shoulder and sent him
disgustedly to the bench.

“Brunswick pitching for Grafton!” called the umpire.

But Brunswick’s pitching was an extraordinary affair! If cold molasses
is slow, then Brunswick was molasses frozen to a state of solidity!
It took him the better part of sixty seconds to get from bench to
mound, and once there he had to talk long and earnestly with Murtha and
Winslow. And then he went at his warming up very, very slowly, with
a wait between each delivery. Mount Morris protested volubly and the
stand hooted, but Brunswick was not concerned. Before each delivery he
examined the ball rather as though he had never seen anything just like
it before, and then, having assured himself that it was all right, he
studied the plate and the catcher, and some time later he pitched. Just
how long it took him to send those five practice balls to Pete Gordon I
don’t know, but I’m certain that he established a record that afternoon
for dawdling! And, finally, just as he had pulled his cap down for the
twentieth time and the batsman was impatiently pawing the dirt and
waving his bat, an interruption occurred. A brand-new scarlet-legged
player appeared on the scene and walked toward the box. Brunswick
dropped the ball and turned away and Mount Morris found the mystery
explained. Gordon was yielding his mask and protector to Ed Brooks and
the umpire, removing his own mask, stepped again in front of the plate.

“For Grafton,” he announced, “Baker pitching, Brooks catching! _Play
ball!_”




CHAPTER XXVII

WINNING HIS GAME


Bases filled and only one out! Two balls and no strikes on the batsman!
A hit meant two runs across! All this Guy Murtha explained in quick,
troubled words to Dud. And Dud, tired of face but eager-eyed, nodded
quite as though Guy had explained that it was a fine day and that the
weather prediction was for a continuation of present conditions!

Then Guy went back to his place and the Grafton sympathizers stopped
cheering and Dud sped his five balls to Brooks, each one just where he
meant it to go.

Once more the batsman took his place and Dud pitched.

“Str-r-ike!” bawled the umpire, and waved an arm aloft. The batter
thumped the rubber with his bat. Again Dud launched the ball forward.
Again it sped straight and true across the platter and knee-high.

“Str-r-ike two!”

The batsman grew wary. He no longer fidgeted but put his whole mind on
the next delivery. Dud fumbled his cap, took his half wind-up and shot
his arm to the right and around in a swing. The ball flashed to the
plate and the umpire hurled his hand aloft with a mighty gesture.

“_He’s out!_”

Strident protest from the retreating batsman and from the Mount Morris
bench! Cheers wild and triumphant from the Grafton seats and from the
field! And another green-stockinged player faced his fate. A ball, a
strike, another ball. Then a drop that was swung at and never touched.
Two-and-two, and Mount Morris watching her opportunity slip from her
grasp. Then, while Dud swung his arm up, came a quick cry from behind
him:

“_He’s off!_”

The man at third was streaking to the plate! But so was the ball, and
although the batsman swung at it, it lodged safely in Brooks’ mitt and
Brooks, dropping to his knees, blocked the ambitious runner a foot from
the plate!

“Can you keep it up?” asked Mr. Sargent wonderingly as Dud sank to the
bench and Davy Richards flourished a towel in front of his face.

“I think so, sir. I’m going to try awfully hard,” answered Dud.

“Well, go easy on yourself this inning. Let them hit a little if you
like. There’s another inning coming and maybe several.”

“Yes, sir.” Dud’s gaze, straying along the bench, caught sight of
Jimmy, Jimmy dressed for play and with an anxious regard fixed on the
coach. “If you could, sir,” said Dud, “I wish you’d let Logan in. It
wasn’t our fault that we got left, sir; at least, not wholly; and
Jimmy’s crazy to play!”

“Logan? Maybe in the next inning. I’ll see. Here! What’s this?”

This was Star Meyer picking himself up from the water bucket, having
in some way tripped over one of Jimmy’s feet as he passed. Jimmy was
all sympathy and apologies, but Star only muttered. His haughtiness
was wholly lacking and the fellows viewed with real concern the almost
abject manner with which he righted the empty pail and retired into the
far end of the bench. But Jimmy, catching Dud’s eye, winked wickedly.

The eighth passed into history without witnessing a run for either
side. Grafton got Ordway to first on a pass and he went on a base when
Ayer lifted one to left for the second out. Then, while Boynton was
at bat, Hugh was caught napping at second and another chance to score
passed into oblivion.

Mount Morris’ first man got a hit and was thrown out at second on an
attempted steal, Brooks making as pretty a peg to Murtha as one could
hope to see. The next man struck out miserably. Then followed a
scratch hit that came near to being an error for Blake. The next man,
Saylor, flied out to Murtha and ended the eighth.

Boynton started for Grafton in the ninth by beating out a weak hit and
the scarlet pennants waved again. Meyer, bat on shoulder and stepping
to the plate, was recalled.

“Logan batting for Boynton!” called the umpire.

Jimmy swung at the first ball, disdained the next two, had a second
strike called on him, started for the next and changed his mind and
was glad of it and was finally passed when what Saylor had meant for
a strike over the inner corner went wrong. With two on bases, Brooks
was the man of the hour, but Brooks was no hitter and only stood there
while Saylor fooled him on two slow ones that went for strikes, wasted
a wide one on him and then made him bite at a drop that actually dusted
the plate. Although Brooks played the game to the last and sped for his
base the ball was recovered by the catcher and got there well ahead of
him.

Dud had as much hope of hitting safely as he had of knocking out a
home-run. And he knew very well that he would be doing only what was
expected of him if he struck out as badly as Brooks. But he wanted very
much to do something a little better than that. As he dug his toes and
faced Saylor, he recalled Ben Myatt’s remark that a pitcher who could
hit was pretty useful. And Dud wanted to make himself just that! And
so he tried as hard as he knew how to keep his eyes on the pitcher and
study him and then on the ball, and study that, and so see if――

“One ball!” said the umpire.

Dud took a breath. All right so far. It had been too high and he had
known it. He wondered if Saylor would try it again or――

“Str-r-r-ike!”

Well, that had certainly fooled him! He thought surely it was going
wide. Saylor had some curve on that one! Dud glued his eyes to the ball
once more, swung and missed.

“Str-r-rike two!”

That was awful! He was as good as gone now! Unless――

“Two balls!”

Perhaps Saylor would miss it this time. Then it would be three balls
and two strikes and Saylor would have to pitch! Just why Dud offered
at the next delivery he didn’t know then and couldn’t have explained
later. It had all the ear-marks of a fast one on the outside of the
plate, but for some reason Dud let go at it, and the ball, curving
inward, met his bat fairly and screeched off into short center,
low enough to have been speared by second-baseman had he been two
yards nearer its path and long enough to send Boynton and Jimmy
hustling home. Jimmy beat out that throw by inches only, but beat it
nevertheless, while Dud, seeing his chance, streaked to second. And
Grafton went fairly delirious with joy!

Nick hit safely and advanced Dud, Winslow fouled out to the catcher
and Hugh Ordway, putting all his strength into a terrific swing, sent
a screeching fly far into right field but not far enough to be out
of reach of the guardian of that territory. A long hard run and a
brilliant catch and the half-inning was over.

Mount Morris tried hard enough in that last period to catch up, but
she had little chance. Dud had no trouble in striking out the first
batsman. The next hit safely through second base territory. The third
went out, Winslow to Ayer, and the fourth, Mount Morris’ last hope,
swung at a high one, was fooled by a drop that he didn’t like and that
was labeled a strike, fouled off another and at last, just as the
shadow of the grandstand had reached the edge of the plate, slammed a
straight, fast one directly at the pitcher’s box. Dud couldn’t make the
catch; it was going too hard for that; but he knocked it down, found
it leisurely enough and tossed to Ayer. And as the big first-baseman
nestled the ball in his glove the stands flowed onto the field and the
game was over!

Half an hour later, tired and very, very happy, Grafton was returning
home. Dud, hero of the hour, but a very retiring, modest――even
uncomfortable――hero, was wedged between Jimmy and a car window. There
was much talk, much laughter, much noise, and James Townsend Logan
was accountable for fully his share of it. Jimmy had just finished
recounting the history of their hand-car adventure and the subsequent
heart-breaking hike to Greenbank to as many fellows as could cluster
within hearing. Blake, sitting on the arm of the seat, one hand
fondling Jimmy’s damp locks, put a question.

“Where,” he asked, “is Star now, Jimmy?”

Jimmy grinned, felt carefully of a large lump under his left eye and
made answer solemnly.

“He’s coming by the next train. He was――er――delayed.”

“I hope,” said Nick gently, “that you didn’t――didn’t damage him, Jimmy.”

Jimmy turned and smiled broadly up at the questioner.

“You wait till you see him!” he said in a deep, ecstatic whisper.

Mr. Crowley, pushing his way along the aisle, paused to thrust a hand
over Jimmy’s shoulder.

“Baker, that was playing ball, my boy,” he said happily. “Shake hands!
You pitched a fine three innings and, what’s more, you won your own
game, boy!”

Dud murmured his thanks, aware of the kindly smiling looks from the
clustered faces, and turned his own face to the window. It occurred
to him just then that Mr. Crowley’s expression was capable of two
meanings. Yes, he told himself contentedly, he had at last won his game!


                   *       *       *       *       *


 Transcriber’s Notes:

 ――Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).

 ――Except for the frontispiece, illustrations have been moved to
   follow the text that they illustrate.

 ――Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected.

 ――Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.

 ――Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 69206 ***