Pursuing those who had given them the shampoo, Joe and his chums found themselves trailing down a side street in the darkness.
“I wonder what they’re up to,” ventured Spike.
“Oh, some more monkey business,” declared Ricky. “If they try it on any more Freshmen though, we’ll take a hand ourselves; eh?”
“Sure,” assented the others.
“There they go—around the corner—and on the run!” suddenly exclaimed Slim Jones. “Get a move on!”
Our friends broke into a trot—that is, all but Joe. He tried to, but stepping on a stone it rolled over with him, and he felt a severe pain shoot through his ankle.
“Sprained, by Jove!” he exclaimed. “I’m glad it isn’t the baseball season, for I’m going to be laid up.”
He halted, and in those few seconds his companions, eager in the chase, drew ahead of himin the darkness, and disappeared around another corner.
“I can’t catch up to ’em,” decided Joe. “Wonder if I can step on the foot?”
He tried his weight on it, and to his delight found that it was not a bad sprain, rather a severe wrench that, while it lamed him, still allowed him to walk.
“Guess I’ll go back,” he murmured. “If there’s a row I can’t hold up my end, and there’s no use being a handicap. I’ll go back and turn in. I can explain later.”
He turned about, walking slowly, the pain seeming to increase rather than diminish, and he realized that he was in for a bad time.
“If I could see a hack I’d hail it,” he thought, but the streets seemed deserted, no public vehicles being in sight. “I’ve got to tramp it out,” Joe went on. “Well, I can take it slow.”
His progress brought him to Wall street, and he decided to continue along that to Temple, and thence to the modest side-thoroughfare on which the Red Shack was located. But he was not destined to reach it without further adventures.
As he came around a corner he heard the murmur of low voices, and, being cautious by nature, he halted to take an observation.
“If it’s my own crowd—all right,” he said.“But if it’s a lot of Sophs., I don’t want to run into ’em.”
He listened, and from among those whom he could not see he heard the murmur of voices.
“That’s the house over there,” said someone.
“Right! Now we’ll see if he’ll double on me just because I wasn’t prepared. I’ll make him walk Spanish!”
“Got plenty of the magoozilum?”
“Sure. We’ll daub it on thick.”
“They can’t be after Freshmen,” mused Joe. “I wonder what’s up?”
He looked across the street in the direction where, evidently, the unseen ones were directing their attention.
“A lot of the profs. live there,” mused Joe. “I have it! Some one’s going to play a trick on ’em to get even. I’ll just pipe it off!”
He had not long to wait. Out of the shadows stole two figures, and, even in the dimness he recognized one of them as Ford Weston. The other he did not know.
“Come on!” hoarsely whispered the ’varsity pitcher to his chum. “I’ll spread it on thick and then we’ll cut for it. Separate streets. I’ll see you in the morning, but keep mum, whatever happens.”
The two figures ran silently across the street, and paused in front of a detached house. Oneseemed to be actively engaged at the steps for a few minutes, and then both quickly ran off again, the two separating and diving down side streets.
“Huh! Whatever it was didn’t take them long,” thought Joe. “I wonder what it was? Guess I’ll——”
But his half-formed resolution to make an investigation was not carried out. He heard shouting down the street, and thinking it might be a crowd of Sophomores, he decided to continue on to his room.
“They might start a rough-house with me,” mused Joe, “and then my ankle would be more on the blink than ever. I’ll go home.”
He started off, rather excited over the events of the night, and found that even his brief spell of standing still had stiffened him so that he could hardly proceed.
“Wow!” he exclaimed, as a particularly sharp twinge shot through him. He had gone about two blocks when he heard someone coming behind him. He turned in apprehension, but saw only a single figure.
“Hello! What’s the matter?” asked a young man as he caught up to Joe.
“Twisted my ankle.”
“So? What’s your name?”
“Matson—I’m a Freshman.”
“Oh, yes. I think I saw you at Chapel. Kendall’smy name.” Joe recognized it as that of one of the Juniors and a member of the ’varsity nine. “How’d it happen?”
“Oh, skylarking. The Sophs. were after us to-night.”
“So I heard. You’d better do something for that foot,” he went on, as he noticed Joe’s limp.
“I'm going to as soon as I get to my room.”
“Say, I tell you what,” went on Kendall. “My joint’s just around the corner, and I’ve got a prime liniment to rub on. Suppose you come in and I’ll give you some.”
“Glad to,” agreed Joe. “I don’t believe I’ve got a bit at my shack, and the drug stores are all closed.”
“Come along then—here, lean on me,” and Kendall proffered his arm, for which Joe was grateful.
“Here we are,” announced Kendall a little later, as they turned into a building where some of the wealthier students had their rooms. “Sorry it’s up a flight.”
“Oh, I can make it,” said Joe, keeping back an exclamation of pain that was on his lips.
“We’ll just have a look at it,” continued his new friend. “I’ve known a strain like that to last a long while if not treated properly. A little rubbing at the right time does a lot of good.”
Joe looked in delight at the room of his newlyfound friend. It was tastefully, and even richly, furnished, but with a quiet atmosphere differing from the usual college apartment.
“You’ve got a nice place here,” he remarked, thinking that, after all, there might be more to Yale life than he had supposed.
“Oh, it’ll do. Here’s the stuff. Now off with your shoe and we’ll have a look at that ankle. I’m a sort of doctor—look after the football lads sometimes. Are you trying for the eleven?”
“No, baseball is my stunt.”
“Yes? So’s mine.”
“You catch, don’t you?” asked Joe. “I’ve heard of ‘Shorty’ Kendall.”
“That’s me,” came with a laugh. “Oh, that’s not so bad,” he went on as he looked at Joe’s foot. “A little swelled. Here, I’ll give it a rub,” and in spite of Joe’s half-hearted protests he proceeded to massage the ankle until it felt much better.
“Try to step on it,” directed Shorty Kendall.
Joe did so, and found that he could bear his weight on it with less pain.
“I guess you’ll do,” announced the Junior. “Cut along to your room now—or say—hold on, I can fix you up here for the night. I’ve got a couch——”
“No, thank you,” expostulated Joe. “The boys would worry if I didn’t come back.”
“You could send word——”
“No, I’ll trot along. Much obliged.”
“Take that liniment with you,” directed Kendall.
“Won’t you need it?”
“Not until the diamond season opens, and that’s some time off yet. Good night—can you make the stairs?”
“Yes—don’t bother to come down,” and Joe limped out.
As he reached the first hall he was made aware that someone was coming in the front door. Before he could reach it the portal opened and a student hurried in, making for a room near the main entrance. In the glare of the hall light Joe saw that the youth was Ford Weston.
He also saw something else. On Weston’s hand was a red smear—brilliant—scarlet. At first Joe thought it was blood, but a slight odor in the air told him it was paint.
An instant later his eyes met those of the rival pitcher—at least Joe hoped to make him a rival—and Weston started. Then he thrust his smeared hand into his pocket, and, without a word, hurried into his room and slammed the door.
“Rather queer,” mused Joe, after a moment’s silence. “I wonder he didn’t say something to me after what happened. So he rooms here? It’s a great shack. I suppose if I stay here the full course I’ll be in one of these joints. But I don’t believe I’m going to stay. If I get a chance on the ’varsity nine next year and make good—then a professional league for mine.”
He limped out of the dormitory, and the pain in his ankle made him keenly aware of the fact that if he did not attend to it he might be lame for some time.
“Red paint,” he murmured as he let himself out. “I wonder what Weston was doing with it? Could he—— Oh, I guess it’s best not to think too much in cases like this.”
He reached his rooming place and trod along the hall, his injured foot making an uneven staccato tattoo on the floor.
“Well, what happened to you?”
“Where did you hike to?”
“Were you down to Glory’s all by your lonesome?”
“What’d you give us the slip for?”
“Come on; give an account of yourself.”
These were only a few of the greetings that welcomed him as he entered his apartment to find there, snugly ensconced on the beds, chair, sofa and table, his own room-mate and the other friends who had gone out that wild night.
“What’s the matter?” demanded Spike, in some alarm, as he saw his friend limping.
“Oh, nothing much. Twisted ankle. I’ll be all right in the morning. How did you fellows make out?”
“Nothing doing,” said Ricky. “The boobs that shampooed us split after we got on their trail, and we lost ’em. Did you see anything of ’em?”
“Not much,” said Joe, truthfully enough.
“Then where did you go?”
He explained how he had twisted on his ankle, and turned back, and how, in coming home, he had met Kendall. He said nothing of watching Weston and another chap do something to the stoop of the unknown professor’s house.
“Mighty white of Kendall,” was Spike’s opinion, and it was voiced by all.
“Oh, what a night!” exclaimed Slim Jones. “Home was never like this!”
“Well, you fellows can sit up the rest of the night if you want to,” said Joe, after a pause; “but I’m going to put my foot to bed.”
“I guess that’s the best place for all of us,” agreed Ricky. “Come on, fellows; I have got some hard practice to-morrow. I may be called to the ’varsity.”
“Like pie!” jeered Slim Jones.
“Oh, ho! Don’t you worry,” taunted Ricky. “I’ll make it.”
There was a sensation the next morning. It seemed that a well-known and very literary professor, returning from a lecture from out of town, before a very learned society, had slipped and fallen on his own front porch, going down in some greasy red paint that had been smeared over the steps.
The professor had sprained a wrist, and his clothing had been soiled, but this was not the worst of it. He had taken with him, on his lecture, some exceedingly rare and valuable Babylonian manuscripts to enhance his talk, and, in his fall these parchments had scattered from his portfolio, and several of them had been projected into the red paint, being ruined thereby. And, as the manuscripts had been taken from the Yale library, the loss was all the more keen.
“I say, Joe, did you hear the news?” gaspedRicky, as he rushed into his friend’s room, just before the chapel call.
“No. Is there a row over the shampooing?”
“Shampooing nothing! It’s red paint, and some of those musty manuscripts that a prof. had,” and he poured out the tale.
“Red paint?” murmured Joe.
“Yes. There’s a fierce row over it, and the Dean has taken it up. If the fellows are found out they’ll be expelled sure. Oh, but it was a night! But the red paint was the limit.”
Joe did not answer, but in a flash there came to him the scene where Weston had entered his room, thrusting his hand into his pocket—a hand smeared with red.
“Fierce row,” went on Ricky, who was a natural reporter, always hearing sensations almost as soon as they happened. “The prof. went sprawling on his steps, not knowing the goo was there and the papers—— Oh me! Oh my! I wonder who did it?”
“Hard to tell I guess,” answered Joe, “with the bunch that was out last night.”
“That’s so. I’m glad it wasn’t any of our fellows. We all stuck together—that is all but you——” and, as if struck by a sudden thought, he gazed anxiously at Joe.
“Oh, I can prove analibiall right,” laughed the pitcher. “Don’t worry.”
“Glad of it. Well, let’s hike. There goes the bell.”
There was indeed a “fierce row,” over the spoiling of the rare manuscripts, and the Dean himself appealed to the honor of the students to tell, if they knew, who the guilty one was.
But Joe Matson kept silent.
There was an investigation, of course, but it was futile, for nothing of moment was disclosed.
It was several days later when Joe, strolling across the college campus after a lecture, came face to face with Weston. For a moment they stood staring at one another.
The hot blood welled up into the cheeks of the ’varsity pitcher, and he seemed to be trying to hide his hand—the hand that had held the red smear. Then, without a word, he passed on.
And Joe Matson still maintained his silence.
The Fall passed. The Yale eleven swept on to a glorious championship. The Christmas vacation came and went and Joe spent happy days at home. He was beginning to be more and more a Yale man and yet—there was something constrained in him. His parents noticed it.
“I—I don’t think Joe is very happy,” ventured Clara, after he had gone back to college.
“Happy—why not?” challenged her mother.
“Oh, I don’t know. He hasn’t said much about baseball.”
“Baseball!” chuckled Mr. Matson, as he looked out of the window at the wintry New England landscape. “This is sleigh-riding weather—not baseball.”
“Oh, I do wish Joe would give up his foolish idea,” sighed Mrs. Matson. “He can never make anything of himself at baseball. A minister now, preaching to a large congregation——”
“I guess, mother, if you’d ever been to a big ball game, and seen thousands of fans leaning over their seats while the pitcher got ready to deliver a ball at a critical point in the contest, you’d think he had some congregation himself,” said Mr. Matson, with another chuckle.
“Oh, well, what’s the use talking to you?” demanded his wife; and there the subject was dropped.
Joe went back to Yale. He was doing fairly well in his lessons, but not at all brilliantly. Study came hard to him. He was longing for the Spring days and the green grass of the diamond.
Gradually the talk turned from debating clubs, from glees and concerts, to baseball. The weather raged and stormed, but there began to be the hint of mildness in the wintry winds.
In various rooms lads began rummaging through trunks and valises, getting out old gloves that needed mending. The cage in the gymnasium was wheeled out and some repairs made to it.
“By Jove!” cried Joe one day, “I—I begin to feel as if I had the spring fever.”
“Baseball fever you mean,” corrected Spike.
“It’s the same thing, old man.”
Jimmie Lee, a little Freshman who roomed not far from Joe’s shack, came bursting in a little later.
“Hurray!” he yelled, slapping our hero on the back. “Heard the news?”
“What news?” asked Spike. “Have you been tapped for Skull and Bones, or Wolf’s Head?”
“Neither, you old iconoclast. But the notice is up.”
“What notice?”
“Baseball candidates are to report in the gym. to-morrow afternoon. Hurray!” and he dealt Spike a resounding blow.
Joe Matson’s eyes sparkled.
“What are you going to try for?”
“Have you played much before you came here?”
“Oh, rats! I don’t believe I’ll have any show with all this bunch!”
“Hey, quit shoving; will you?”
“Oh, Rinky-Dink! Over here!”
“Hi, Weston, we’re looking for you.”
“There goes Shorty Kendall. He’ll sure catch this year.”
“Hello, Mac! Think you’ll beat Weston to it this year?”
“I might,” was the cool reply.
The above were only a few of the many challenges, shouts, calls and greetings that were bandied from side to side as the students, who had been waiting long for this opportunity, crowded into the gymnasium.
It was the preliminary sifting and weeding out of the mass of material offered on the altar ofbaseball. At best but a small proportion of the candidates could hope to make the ’varsity, or even a class team, but this did not lessen the throng that crowded about the captain, manager and coaches, eagerly waiting for favorable comment.
“Well, we’re here!” exulted Jimmie Lee, who had, the night before, brought to Joe the good news that the ball season had at least started to open.
“Yes, we’re here,” agreed Joe.
“And what will happen to us?” asked Spike Poole. “It doesn’t look to me as if much would.”
“Oh, don’t fool yourself,” declared Jimmie, who, being very lively, had learned many of the ropes, and who, by reason of ferreting about, had secured much information. “The coaches aren’t going to let anything good get by ’em. Did you see Benson looking at me! Ahem! And I think I have Whitfield’s eye! Nothing like having nerve, is there? Joe, hold up your hand and wriggle it—they’re trying to see where you’re located,” and, with a laugh at his conceit, Jimmie shoved into the crowd trying to get nearer the centre of interest—to wit, where the old players who served as coaches were conferring with the captain.
The latter was Tom Hatfield, a Junior whose remarkable playing at short had won him muchfame. Mr. William Benson and Mr. James Whitfield were two of the coaches. George Farley was the manager, and a short stocky man, with a genial Irish face, who answered to the name of Dick McLeary, was the well-liked trainer.
“Well, if I can make the outfield I suppose I ought to be satisfied,” spoke Jimmie Lee. “But I did want to get on a bag, or somewhere inside the diamond.”
“I’ll take to the daisies and be thankful,” remarked Spike; “though I would like to be behind the bat.”
“Carrying bats would do me for a starter,” spoke a tall lad near Joe. “But I suppose I’ll be lucky if they let me play on the Freshman team. Anyhow as long as I don’t get left out of it altogether I don’t mind. What are you going to try for?” he asked of our hero.
“I would like to pitch. I twirled at Excelsior Hall, and I think I can play on the mound better than anywhere else, though that’s not saying I’m such a muchness as a pitcher,” added Joe, modestly. “I did hope to get on the ’varsity, but——”
“Pitch!” exclaimed the other frankly. “Say, you’ve got as much chance to pitch on the ’varsity as I have of taking the Dean’s place to-morrow. Pitch on the ’varsity! Say, I’m not saying anything against you, Matson, for maybe you canpitch, but Weston has the place cinched, and if he falls down there’s Harry McAnish, a southpaw. He stands about second choice.”
“Oh, I’ve been disillusioned,” said Joe frankly. “I know I can’t get on the ’varsity this year. But don’t they have more than one pitcher in reserve?”
“Oh, yes, sure. But Bert Avondale comes next, and I have heard that he’s even better than Weston, but Weston is steadier—in most games. I don’t want to discourage you, but you’d better try for some other place than pitcher.”
“No, I’m going to try for there,” said Joe in a low voice. “I may not make it, but if I get a chance to show what I can do, and then fall down, I won’t kick. I mean next year, of course,” he added.
“Oh, you may get a chance all right. Every fellow does at Yale. But you’re up against some of the best college baseball material that ever came over the pike. Sometimes I think I’ve got nerve even to dream of a class team. But listen—they’re going to start the fun now.”
The manager was speaking, announcing more or less formally, that which everyone knew already—that they had reported to allow a sort of preliminary looking over of the candidates. There were several of the former ball team who would play, it was said, but there was always needand a chance, for new material. All save Freshmen would be given an opportunity, the manager said, and then he emphasized the need of hard work and training for those who were given the responsibility of carrying the blue of Yale to victory on the diamond.
“And, no less does this responsibility rest on the scrub, or second team,” went on Farley. “For on the efficiency of the scrub depends the efficiency of the ’varsity, since good opposition is needed in bringing out the best points of the first team.”
Farley, who was one of the old players, acting as a coach, went on to add:
“I have used the word ‘scrub’ and ‘second team,’ though, as you well know, there is nothing like that here at Yale, that is as compared to football. When I say ‘scrub’ I mean one of the class teams, the Freshman, Sophomore or Junior, for, in a measure, while separate and distinct teams themselves, they will serve us the same purpose as a scrub or substitute team would in football. They will give us something to practice with—some opposition—for you’ve got to have two nines to make a ball game,” and he smiled at the anxious ones looking at him.
“So,” he went on, “when I use the word ‘scrub’ after this, or when any of the other coaches do, I want you to understand that it will mean one of the class teams which, for the purposeof strengthening the ’varsity, and enabling it to practice, acts as opposition.
“Sometimes the ’varsity will play one team, and sometimes another, for the class teams will have their own contests to look after, to win, we hope; to lose, we hope not. I wish I could give you Freshmen encouragement that you could make the ’varsity, but, under the rules, none of you can. Now we’ll get down to business.”
He gave encouragement to many, and consoled those who might fail, or, at best, make only a class team. Then he introduced the captain—Tom Hatfield—who was received with a rousing cheer.
“Well, fellows,” said Hatfield, “I haven’t much to say. This is my first experience at the head of a big college nine, though you know I’ve played with you in many games.”
“That’s right—and played well, too!” yelled someone. “Three cheers for Hatfield!”
They were given with a will, and the captain resumed.
“Of course we’re going to win this year, even if we didn’t last.” This was received in silence, for the losing of the championship to Princeton the previous season had been a sore blow to Yale. “We’re going to win,” went on Hatfield in a quiet voice; “but, just because we are, don’t let that fool you into getting careless. We’ve all got towork hard—to train hard—and we’ve got to practice. I expect every man to report regularly whether he thinks he has a chance to make the ’varsity or not. It’s part of the game, and we’ve all got to play it—scrub and ’varsity alike.
“I guess that’s all I’ve got to say, though I may have more later, after we get started. The coaches will take charge now and you’ll have to do as they say. We won’t do much to-day, just some catching and a bit of running to see how each fellow’s wind is.” He nodded to the coaches and trainer, and as he stepped back once more came the cry:
“Three cheers for Hatfield. Good old Yale cheers!”
The gymnasium rang with them, and then came the Boola song, after which the crowd formed in close line and did the serpentine dance.
“Now then, get busy!” commanded Mr. Benson. “Old players over that side, and the new ones here. Give in your names, and say where you’ve played. Lively now!”
He and Mr. Whitfield began circulating among the candidates, and, as they approached him, Joe felt his heart beginning to beat faster. Would he have a chance? And, if he got it, could he make good?
These were the questions he asked him.
“Name?”
“Matson—Joe.”
“Hum. Yes. Ever played before?”
“Yes, on a school nine.”
“Where?”
“Excelsior Hall.”
“Hum! Yes. Never heard of it. Where did you play?”
“I pitched.”
“Pitched. Hum! Yes. I never saw so many pitchers as we have this season. Well, I’ll put you down for your Freshman class team, though I can’t give you much encouragement,” and Mr. Benson turned to the next lad. “Go over there and do some throwing, I’ll watch you later,” he concluded, and Joe’s heart began to sink as he saw Spike motioning to him to come to one side and indulge in some practice balls.
“How’d you make out?” asked his room-mate.
“Oh, I’m engaged right off the bat,” laughed Joe, but he could not conceal the anxiety in the voice that he strove to make indifferent.
“So? Then you had better luck than I. Whitfield told me he didn’t think I had the right build for a catcher.”
“Well, maybe we can both make our scrub class team,” spoke Joe.
“Say, it hasn’t half begun yet,” declared Jimmie Lee, who had a hankering to play first base. “Wait until the main coach gets here, and we’llhave a shake-up that’ll set some people on their ears.”
“What do you mean?” asked Joe wonderingly.
“I mean that the main gazaboo isn’t here yet: Mr. Forsythe Hasbrook—old Horsehide they call him. He’s the main coach. These are only his assistants.”
“Is that so?” inquired Spike.
“It sure is. He’s the real thing in baseball—Horsehide is. An old Yale man, but up-to-date. Played ever since he was a baby, and knows the game from A to Z. He never gets here until the preliminary practice has begun on the field, and then it doesn’t take him long to size a fellow up. Of course I only know what I’ve been told,” he added, “but that goes all right.”
“Well, if we didn’t get picked for the team now, I don’t believe we’ll have any chance after the main coach gets here,” said Joe.
“Guess not,” assented Spike. “Here we go.” And they started to practice.
“Oh, get a little more speed on! Don’t run so much like an ice wagon. Remember that the object is to get to the base before the ball does!”
“Lively now! Throw that in as if you meant it! We’re not playing bean bag, remember!”
“Oh, swing to it! Swing to it! Make your body do some of the work as well as your arms!”
“Don’t be afraid of the ball! It’s hard, of course, that’s the way it’s made. But if you’re going to flinch every time it comes your way you might as well play ping-pong!”
“Stand up to the plate! What if you do get hit?”
Thus the coaches were trying to instill into the new candidates for the ’varsity nine some rudiments of how they thought the game should be played. Sharp and bitter the words were sometimes, bitten off with a snap and exploded with cutting sarcasm, but it was their notion of how to get the best out of a man, and perhaps it was.
“Remember we want to win games,” declared Mr. Benson. “We’re not on the diamond to give a ladies’ exhibition. You’ve got to play, and play hard if you want to represent Yale.”
“That’s right,” chimed in Mr. Whitfield. “We’ve got to have the college championship this year. We’veGOTto have it. Now try that over,” he commanded of Ford Weston, who had struck one man out in practice. “Do it again. That’s the kind of playing we want.”
Joe, who had been catching with Spike, looked enviously at his rival, who was on the coveted mound, taking in succession many batters as they came up. Shorty Kendall was catching for the ’varsity pitcher, and the balls came into his big mitt with a resounding whack that told of speed.
“I wonder if I’ll ever get there,” mused Joe, and, somehow he regretted, for the first time since coming to Yale, that he had consented to the college arrangement. It seemed so impossible for him to make way against the handicap of other players ahead of him.
“If I’d finished at Excelsior,” he told himself, “I think I’d have gotten into some minor league where good playing tells, and not class. Hang it all!”
The practice went on. It was the first of the outdoor playing, and while the gymnasium work had seemed to develop some new and unexpectedlygood material, the real test of the diamond sent some of the more hopeful candidates back on the waiting list. As yet Joe had been given scant notice. He had been told to bat, pitch, catch and run, but that was all. He had done it, but it had all seemed useless.
The day was a perfect Spring one, and the diamond was in excellent condition. It had been rather wet, but the wind had dried it, and, though there were still evidences of frost in the ground, they would soon disappear under the influence of the warm sun.
In various sorts of uniforms, scattered over the big field, the candidates went at their practice with devotion and zeal. Winning a baseball game may not be much in the eyes of the world, getting the college championship may seem a small matter to the man of affairs—to the student or the politician, intent on bigger matters. But to the college lads themselves it meant much—it was a large part of their life.
And, after all, isn’t life just one big game; and if we play it fairly and squarely and win—isn’t that all there is to it? And, in a measure, doesn’t playing at an athletic game fit one to play in life? It isn’t always the winning that counts, but the spirit of fair play, the love for the square deal, the respect for a worthy foe, and the determination not to give up until you are fairly beaten—allthese things count for much. So, after all, one can not blame the college lads for the intense interest they take in their games. It is the best kind of training for life, for it is clean and healthful.
For a week or more this preliminary practice was kept up. The weather remained fine, and every afternoon the diamond was the scene of much excitement. The candidates reported faithfully, and worked hard. There were many shifts from some of the Sophomore or Junior nines to the ’varsity, and back again. Some who had been called to the “scrub,” as I shall call the class nines when they practiced against the ’varsity, were sent back to the waiting list—at best to bunt balls to their fellows, to pitch or catch as suited the positions they hoped to fill.
Nor was it all easy work, it was really hard toil. It is one thing to play ball without much care as to the outcome, to toss the horsehide back and forth, and, if it is missed, only to laugh.
It is one thing to try to bat, to watch the ball coming toward you, wondering what sort of a curve will break, and whether you will hit it or miss it—or whether it will hit you—it is one thing to do that in a friendly little game, and laugh if you strike out.
But when making a nine depends on whether your stick connects with the sphere—when gettingthe college letter for your sweater can be made, or unmade, by this same catching of the ball, then there is a different story back of it. There is a nervous tension that tires one almost as much as severe physical labor.
And there is hard physical work, too. Of course it is a welcome change from the class-room work, or the lectures, to get out on the diamond, but it is work, none the less.
Then there are the coaches to put up with. I never was a coach, though I have played under them, and I suppose there is some virtue in the method they use—that of driving the men.
And when a lad has done his best, has stood up to the ball, and clouted at it for all he is worth, only to fan the yielding air, it is rather discouraging to hear the coach remark sarcastically:
“You’re not playing ping-pong, you know, Jones.”
Or to hear him say with vinegary sweetness:
“Did you hurt yourself that time, Smith? It was a beautiful wind blow, but—er—pardon me if I mention, just for your benefit you know, that the object in this game is tohit the ball. You hit it, and then you run—run, understand, not walk. And another thing, don’t be so afraid of it.
“Of course this isn’t a rubber ball, of the sort you probably used to play baby in the hole with—it’shard, and when it hits you it’s going to hurt. But—don’t let it hit you, and for cats’ sake stand up to the plate!”
It’s a way coaches have, I suppose, and always will. Joe felt so, at any rate, and he had rather one would fairly howl at him, in all sorts of strenuous language, than use that sarcastic tone. And I think I agree with him.
There is something you get at when a coach yells at you:
“Come on there you snail! Are you going to hold that base all day? Someone else wants to get past you know.
“Come on in! We need that run! Move as if you meant it! Don’t fall asleep! Oh, for cats’ sake, fanning the air again? Run now! That’s it. Slide! Don’t be afraid of soiling your clothes, we’ll buy you another suit!”
I hold this is preferable to the soft and sarcastic method, but they used both varieties at Yale, and Joe sometimes got so discouraged at times that he felt like resigning. It was harder than he had dreamed of, and he had not pictured a rosy time for himself.
“I don’t believe I’m ever going to make even the class scrub, Spike,” said Joe to his room-mate one day, following some long practice, when he had not even been called on to bat.
“Oh, yes you will,” declared his friend. “Youcan pitch—you know it, and I know it. I haven’t caught off you these two weeks for nothing. You can pitch, and they’ll find it out sooner or later. Don’t give up!”
“I’m not going to. And say, come to think of it, you’re no better off than I am. They haven’t noticed you either, and yet I’ve never seen anyone who held the balls any better than you do. And, as for throwing to second—say, you’ve got Kendall beaten.”
“I’m glad you think so,” murmured Spike.
“I know it!” insisted Joe. “I’ve played in a few games. But what’s the use of kicking? Maybe our chance will come.”
“I hope so,” replied Spike.
The practice went on, the elimination and weeding out process being carried on with firm hands, regardless of the heart-breaks caused.
“First game to-morrow,” announced Jimmie Lee, bursting into Joe’s room one evening. “It’s just been decided.”
“Who do we play?” asked Spike. Joe felt his heart sink down lower than ever, for he realized that if he had a chance he would have heard of it by this time.
“Oh, it isn’t a regular game,” went on Jimmie, who was jubilant from having heard that he would at least start at first base for the class team. “The scrub, as they call it, and ’varsity will playthe first regular contest. Horsehide is to be there for the first time. Then there’ll be something doing. I only hope he sees me.”
“The first regular practice game to-morrow,” mused Joe. “Well, it will be a good one—to watch.”
“Yes—to watch,” joined in Spike, grimly. “But the season is early yet, Joe.”
As they were talking the door opened and Ricky Hanover came in. He was grinning broadly.
“Let’s go out and have some sport,” he proposed. “It’s as dull as ditch water around here. Come on out and raise a riot. I’ll take you fellows down to Glory’s, and you can have a rabbit.”
“Get out!” cried Spike. “We’re in training, you heathen, and you’re not.”
“A precious lot of good it will do you,” commented the newcomer. “Why don’t you chuck it all? You’ll never make the team—I mean you and Joe, Spike. Jimmie here has had luck. Chuck it and come on out.”
“No,” spoke Joe slowly. “I’m going to stick.”
“So am I,” added his room-mate. “You never can tell when your chance will come. Besides, we owe it to Yale to stick.”
“All right—I suppose you’re right,” agreed Ricky, with a sigh. “I did the same thing at football. But I sure do want to start something.”
“Begin on that,” laughed Joe passing him overthe alarm clock. “It’s run down. Wind it and start it going!”
Ricky joined in the laugh against him, and soon took his departure. Joe heard him come in at an early morning hour, and wondered what “sport” Ricky had been up to.
A large gathering turned out to see the first real baseball contest of the season. By it a line could be had on the sort of game the ’varsity would put up, and all the students were eager to see what sort of championship material they had.
There was a conference between coaches and captains, and the ’varsity list was announced Weston was to pitch, and Kendall to catch. Neither Joe’s name, nor those of any of his intimate chums were called off for a class team.
Joe did have some hope of the scrub, but when the name of the last man there had been called off, Joe’s was not mentioned. He moved off to the side, with bitterness in his heart.
The game started off rather tamely, though the class pitcher—Bert Avondale—managed to strike out two of the ’varsity men, to the disgust of the coaches, who raced about, imploring their charges to hit the ball. At the same time they called on the scrub to do their best to prevent the ’varsity men from getting to the bases.
It was playing one against the other, just asdiamond dust is used to cut the precious stones of which it once formed a part.
“Well, I haven’t seen anything wonderful,” remarked Joe to Spike, after the first inning.
“No, they’re a little slow warming up. But wait. Oh, I say, here he comes!”
“Who?”
“The head coach—Horsehide himself. I heard he was to be here to-day. It’s his first appearance. Now they’ll walk Spanish.”
Across the back-field a man was approaching—a man who was eagerly surrounded by many of the candidates, and he was cheered to the echo, while murmurs of his name reached Joe.
“Let’s go up and have a look at him,” proposed Spike.
“Go ahead,” agreed Joe, for the game had momentarily stopped at the advent of the head coach.
He was shaking hands all around, and, as Joe approached, Mr. Forsythe Hasbrook turned to greet someone behind him. Joe had a good look at his face, and to his great surprise he recognized it as that of the man whom he had driven to the depot in such a rush to catch a train.
“And he’s Yale’s head coach!” murmured Joe. “I—I wonder if he’ll remember me?”
Joe Matson’s hope of a quick recognition from the man he had helped that day, and who had turned out to be Yale’s head coach, was doomed to disappointment, for Mr. Hasbrook—or, to give him the title lovingly bestowed on him by the players, “Horsehide”—had something else to do just then besides recognizing casual acquaintances. He wanted to watch the playing.
After a brief conference between himself and the other two coaches, in which the ’varsity captain had a part, Horsehide motioned for the playing to be resumed. He said little at first, and then when Weston, who was pitching, made a partial motion to throw the ball to first base, to catch a man there, but did not complete his evident intention, Mr. Hasbrook called out:
“Hold on there! Wait a minute, Weston. That was as near a balk as I’ve ever seen, and if this was a professional game you might lose it for us, just as one of the world series was, by a pitcher who did the same thing.”
“What do you mean?” asked Weston, slightly surprised.
“I mean that pretending to throw a ball to first, and not completing the action, is a balk, and your opponents could claim it if they had been sharp enough. Where were your eyes?” he asked, of the scrub captain.
“I—er—I didn’t think——”
“That’s what your brains are for,” snapped the head coach. “You can’t play ball without brains, any more than you can without bases or a bat. Watch every move. It’s the best general who wins battles—baseball or war. Now go on, and don’t do that again, Weston, and, if he does, you call a balk on him and advance each man a base,” ordered Horsehide.
The ’varsity pitcher and the scrub captain looked crestfallen, but it was a lesson they needed to learn.
“He’s sharp, isn’t he?” said Joe.
“That’s what makes him the coach he is,” spoke Spike. “What’s the use of soft-soap? That never made a ball nine.”
“No, I suppose not.” Joe was wondering whether he ought to mention to his chum the chance meeting with Mr. Hasbrook, but he concluded that a wrong impression might get out and so he kept quiet, as he had done in the matter of the red paint on the porch. Nothing more hadbeen heard about that act of vandalism, though the professor who had fallen and spoiled the valuable manuscripts was reported to be doing some quiet investigating.
“I believe Weston had a hand in it,” thought Joe, “but I’m not going to say anything. He had red paint on him, anyhow. I wonder what he has against me, and if he can do anything to keep me from getting a chance? If I thought so I’d—no, I can’t do anything. I’ve just got to take it as it comes. If I do get a chance, though, I think I can make good.”
The practice game went on, developing weak spots in both nines, and several shifts were made. But the ’varsity pitcher remained the same, and Joe watched Weston narrowly, trying to find out his good points.
For Weston had them. He was not a brilliant twirler, but he was a steady one, in the main, and he had considerable speed, but not much of a curve. Still he did manage to strike out a number of his opponents.
The game was almost over, and the ’varsity had it safely in hand. They had not obtained it without hard work, however, and they had made many glaring errors, but in this they were not alone.
“Though, for that matter,” declared Joe, “I think the scrub pitcher did better, and had bettersupport, than the ’varsity. I don’t see why the scrubs didn’t win.”
“It’s just because they know they’re playing against the ’varsity,” declared Spike. “There’s a sort of nervousness that makes ’em forget to do the things they could do if it was some other nine. Sort of over-awed I guess.”
“Maybe,” assented Joe. “Well, here’s the end,” and the game came to a close.
“Now for the post-mortem,” remarked his room-mate. “The coaches and captain will get together and talk it over.”
“Then we might as well vamoose,” said Joe. “They won’t need us.”
“I guess not. Come on.”
The boys strolled from the diamond. As they passed a group of the ’varsity players surrounding the coaches, Joe saw Mr. Hasbrook step forward. He had a bat and seemed to be illustrating some of the weak points of the plays just made, or to be about to demonstrate how properly to swing at a ball. As Joe came opposite him the head coach stepped out a little and saw our hero.
For a moment he stared unrecognizingly at him, and then a smile came over his rugged face. His eyes lighted up, and, stepping forward, he held out his hand.
“Why, how do you do!” he exclaimed. “I know you—I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere before,and under queer circumstances, too, but I can’t just recall—hold on, wait a moment!” he exclaimed, as he saw Joe about to speak. “I like to make my brain work.
“Ah! I have it! You’re the young fellow who drove me to the station, in time to catch the New York train, the day my carriage wheel broke. Well, but I’m glad to see you again! That was a great service you did me, and I haven’t forgotten it. Are you attending here?”
“Yes,” said Joe, glad that he had not been forgotten.
“Good! Are you playing ball?”
“Well—er—I—that is I haven’t——”
“Oh, I see. You’re trying for your team. Good! I’m glad to hear it. It’s a great game—the greatest there is. And so you are at Yale—Matson—you see I haven’t forgotten your name. I never expected to meet you here. Do you know the other coaches?”
“I’ve met them,” murmured Joe, and he half smiled in a grim fashion, for that was about as far as his acquaintanceship had progressed. He had met them but they did not know him apart from many others.
“Good!” exclaimed Mr. Hasbrook. “Well, I’ll see you again. And so you’re at Yale? Look me up when you get time,” and he turned back to his instruction, murmuring to the other coaches:“He did me quite a service some time ago. I’m glad to see him again. Seems like a nice lad.”
The others murmured an assent, and then gave their whole attention to the man who had, more than anyone else, perhaps, mastered the science of baseball as it ought to be played.
“Well, say, you’ve got a friend at court all right!” exclaimed Spike, as he and Joe strolled along. “If I had your chance I’d——”
“Chance!” exclaimed Joe. “What better chance have I than I had before?”
“Why, you know Horsehide! Why didn’t you say so?”
“I didn’t know I did until a little while ago. I had no idea that the man I picked up and took to the station would turn out to be the Yale coach. But if you think he’s going to put me in ahead of the others just on that account you’re mistaken.”
“Oh, I don’t say that.”
“It wouldn’t be square,” went on Joe.
“Of course not. But as long as he does know you he might at least prevail on the other coaches to give you a better chance than you’ve had so far.”
“Well, maybe,” laughed Joe. “But I’m not expecting anything like that.”
“Well, just remember me when your chance does come,” begged Spike. “And remember that I told you.”
“I will,” declared Joe, with a laugh, and then he added more earnestly: “If ever I do get on the mound, Spike, I’ll try to have you catch for me.”
“I wish you would!”
As they went off the field they saw the knot of players still gathered about the head, and other coaches, receiving instructions, and how Joe Matson wished he was there none but himself knew.
In their rooms that afternoon and evening the ball players talked of little save the result of the first real clash between ’varsity and scrub, and the effect of the return of the head coach. It was agreed that the ’varsity, after all, had made a very creditable showing, while the upholders of the class team players gave them much praise.
“But things will begin to hum now!” exclaimed Jimmie Lee, as he sat in Joe’s room, while the beds, sofa and table, to say nothing of the floor, were encumbered with many lads of the Red Shack, and some visitors from other places. “Yes, sir! Horsehide won’t stand for any nonsense. They’ll all have to toe the line now.”
“Jove, weren’t the other coaches stiff enough?” asked Clerkinwell De Vere, who aspired to right field. “They certainly laced into me for further orders when I muffed a ball.”
“And so they should,” declared Spike. “That’s what they’re for.”
“Oh, but wait until you do that when Horsehide sees you,” went on Jimmie. “That won’t be a marker, will it, Shorty?”
“I should say not. He’ll make your hair curl all right. He’s a terror.”
“Friend of Joe’s here,” put in Spike.
“No! is he?” demanded Ricky Hanover, who had drifted in. “How’s that?”
“Oh, I just met him by accident,” declared our hero. “It isn’t worth mentioning.” He told the incident after some urging.
“I wish I stood in your shoes,” said De Vere. “I’d be sure of my place then.”
“Nothing of the sort!” exclaimed Jimmie Lee. “If Horsehide played favorites that way, he wouldn’t be the coach he is. That’s one thing about him—he makes his friends work harder than anyone else. I know he did it other seasons—everyone says so.”
“Oh, he’s square,” chimed in another. “There’s not a better coach living, and none you can depend on more. All he wants is to see good, clean playing, and Yale to win.”
Joe could not help thinking of the coincidence of meeting the head coach but, though he did have slight hopes that it might lead to something, he resolutely put them out of his mind.
“I don’t want to get on even the ’varsity that way!” he said to himself that night, when thevisitors were gone, and he and Spike had turned in. “I want to win my way.”
Nevertheless, he could not help a feeling of slight nervousness the next day, when he reported for practice.
“Well, same old gag over again I suppose,” remarked Spike, as they went out to toss and catch.
“I suppose so,” agreed Joe.
He passed Mr. Hasbrook, who was giving some instructions to the fielders just before the ’varsity-class game, but the head coach did not even notice Joe.
After some batting and catching, and some warming-up work on the part of the pitchers, Mr. Benson called for a cessation of practice.
“Here is the batting order and positions of the nines for to-day,” he announced, producing a paper. He began to read off the names. For the ’varsity they were the same as the day before. Joe, who had permitted himself a faint hope, felt his heart sinking.
“For the opposition, or scrub,” announced the assistant coach, and he ran down the line, until there was but one place unfilled—that of pitcher.
“Joe Matson!” he called, sharply.
For a moment our hero could scarcely believe his good fortune. He had been called to pitch for the scrub! Once more as he stood there, scarcely comprehending, Mr. Benson called out sharply:
“Didn’t you hear, Matson? You’re to pitch against the ’varsity, and I want you to beat ’em!”
“Yes—yes, sir,” answered Joe, in a sort of daze.
“And, ’varsity, if you don’t pound him all over the field you’re no good! Eat ’em up!” snapped the assistant coach.
“Don’t let ’em win, scrub,” insisted Mr. Whitfield, and thus it went on—playing one against the other to get the ’varsity to do its best.
“Play ball!” called the umpire. “Get to work. Come in, you fellows,” and he motioned to those who were out on the field warming up.
“Congratulations, old man!” murmured Spike, as he shook Joe’s hand. “You deserve it.”
“And so do you. I wish you were going to catch.”
“I wish so, too, but maybe my chance will come later. Fool ’em now.”
“I’ll try.”
Joe had a vision of Bert Avondale, the regular scrub pitcher, moving to the bench, and for an instant his heart smote him, as he noted Bert’s despondent attitude.
“It’s tough to be displaced,” murmured Joe. “It’s a queer world where your success has to be made on someone else’s failure, and yet—well, it’s all in the game. I may not make good, but I’m going to try awfully hard!”
He wondered how his advancement had come about, and naturally he reasoned that his preferment had resulted from the words spoken in private by Mr. Hasbrook.
“I wonder if I’d better thank him?” mused Joe. “It would be the right thing to do, and yet it would look as if he gave me the place by favor instead of because I’ve got a right to have it, for the reason that I can pitch. And yet he doesn’t know that I can pitch worth a cent, unless some of the other coaches have told him. But they haven’t watched me enough to know. However, I think I’ll say nothing until I have made good.”
Had Joe only known it, he had been more closely watched since his advent on the diamond than he had suspected. It is not the coach who appears to be taking notes of a man’s style of play whoseems to find out most. Mr. Hasbrook, once he found that the lad who had rendered him such a service was at Yale, and had aspirations to the nine, made inquiries of the coaches who had done the preliminary work.
“Oh, Matson. Hum, yes. He does fairly well,” admitted Mr. Benson. “He has a nice, clean delivery. He isn’t much on batting, though.”
“Few pitchers are,” remarked the head coach. “I wonder if it would do to give him a trial?”
“I should say so—yes,” put in Mr. Whitfield. He was quick to see that his co-worker had a little prejudice in Joe’s favor, and, to do the assistant coaches justice, they both agreed that Joe had done very well. But there were so many ahead of him—men who had been at Yale longer—that in justice they must be tried out first.
“Then we’ll try him on the scrub,” decided Mr. Hasbrook; and so it had come about that Joe’s name was called.
In order to give the scrubs every opportunity to beat the ’varsity, and so that those players would work all the harder to clinch the victory, the scrubs were allowed to go to bat last, thus enhancing their chances.
“Play ball!” yelled the umpire again. “It’s getting late. Play ball!”
Joe, a little nervous, walked to the box, and caught the new white ball which was tossed to him.As he was rubbing some dirt on it, to take off the smoothness of the horsehide, Mr. Hasbrook advanced toward him and motioned him to wait.
“Matson,” said the head coach, smiling genially. “You wouldn’t let me reward you for the great favor you did me a while ago, though I wanted to. I hoped sometime to be able to reciprocate, but I never thought it would come in this way. I have decided to give you a chance to make good.”
“And I can’t thank you enough!” burst out the young pitcher. “I feel that——”
“Tut! Tut!” exclaimed Mr. Hasbrook, holding up his hand, “I wouldn’t have done this if I didn’t think you had pitching stuff in you. In a way this isn’t a favor at all, but you’re right though, it might not have come so quickly. I appreciate your feelings, but there are a few things I want to say.
“At Yale every man stands on his own feet. There is no favoritism. Wealth doesn’t count, as I guess you’ve found out. Membership in the Senior Societies—Skull and Bones, Scroll and Keys—Wolf’s Head—doesn’t count—though, as you will find, those exclusive organizations take their members because of what they have done—not of what they are.
“And so I’m giving you a chance to see what is in you. I’d like to see you make good, and I believeyou will. But—if you don’t—that ends it. Every tub must stand on its own bottom—you’ve got to stand on your feet. I’ve given you a chance. Maybe it would have come anyhow, but, out of friendship to you, and because of the service you did me, I was instrumental in having it come earlier. That is not favoritism. You can’t know how much you did for me that day when you enabled me to get the train that, otherwise, I would have missed.
“It was not exactly a matter of life and death, but it was of vital importance to me. I would be ungrateful, indeed, if I did not repay you in the only way I could—by giving you the chance to which you are entitled.
“But—this is important—you’ve got to show that you can pitch or you’ll lose your place. I’ve done what I can for you, and, if you prove worthy I’ll do more. I’ll give you the best coaching I can—but you’ve got to have backbone, a strong arm, a level head, and grit, and pluck, and a lot of other things to make the Yale nine. If you do I’ll feel justified in what I have done. Now, play ball!” and without giving him a chance to utter the thanks that were on his lips, Mr. Hasbrook left Joe and took a position where he could watch the playing.
It is no wonder that our hero felt nervous under the circumstances. Anyone would, I think, andwhen he pitched a wild ball, that the catcher had to leap for, there were some jeers.
“Oh, you’ve got a great find!” sneered Weston. “He’s a pitcher from Pitchville!”
Joe flushed at the words, but he knew he would have to stand more than that in a match game, and he did not reply.
Other derogatory remarks were hurled at him, and the coaches permitted it, for a pitcher who wilts under a cross-fire is of little service in a big game, where everything is done to “get his goat,” as the saying goes.
“Ball two!” yelled the umpire, at Joe’s second delivery, and the lad was aware of a cold feeling down his spine.
“I’ve got to make good! I’ve got to make good!” fiercely he told himself over again. There seemed to be a mist before his eyes, but by an effort he cleared it away. He stooped over pretending to tie his shoe lace—an old trick to gain time—and when he rose he was master of himself again.
Swiftly, cleanly, and with the curve breaking at just the right moment, his next delivery went over the plate. The batsman struck at it and missed by a foot.
“Good work, old man!” called the catcher to him. “Let’s have another.”
But the next was a foul, and Joe began to worry.
“You’re finding him,” called the ’varsity captain to his man. “Line one out.”
But Joe was determined that this should not be, and it was not, for though the batter did not make a move to strike at the second ball after the foul, the umpire called sharply:
“Strike—batter’s out.”
There was a moment of silence, and then a yell of delight from the scrubs and their friends.
“What’s the matter with you?” angrily demanded Mr. Hasbrook of the batter. “Can’t you hit anything?”
The batsman shook his head sadly.
“That’s the boy!”
“That’s the way to do it!”
“You’re all right, Matson!”
These were only a few cries that resounded. Joe felt a warm glow in his heart, but he knew the battle had only begun.
If he had hoped to pitch a no-hit, no-run game he was vastly disappointed, for the batters began to find him after that for scattering pokes down the field. Not badly, but enough to show to Joe and the others that he had much yet to learn.
I am not going to describe that practice game in detail, for there are more important contests to come. Sufficient to say that, to the utter surprise of the ’varsity, the scrub not only continued to hold them well down, but even forged ahead ofthem. In vain the coaches argued, stormed and pleaded. At the beginning of the ninth inning the scrubs were one run ahead.