Instantly following Hiram’s words a hub-bub burst out in the gymnasium. Everyone seemed to be talking at once, and the crowd of boys split up into two factions.
There were those who were with Joe and Tom in their contention, and who thought that they had not been given a fair opportunity. Among these were, of course, the lads who had not hitherto belonged to the athletic committee, and who had been induced by Tom to put in their applications.
On the other side were what might be called the “conservatives,” those who, while not exactly favoring Hiram and his high-handed methods, preferred to take the easiest way and let the old order of things prevail.
Then, too, was a smaller crowd of distinct “Shellites” as Peaches dubbed them—friends and close cronies of the manager who sided with him in all things and looked upon him as a sortof hero. Chief among them, of course, was Luke Fodick, and perhaps next in line stood Charlie Borden, who had replaced Peaches at first.
“It’s a rotten, mean shame!” burst out Teeter as he came over to where Tom, Joe and Peaches were standing. “I’m not going to stand for it, either!”
“Well, what can you do?” asked the practical Peaches. “They have it on us good and proper. There’s the rule.”
“Well, I don’t like it, but I’m going to stay here just the same,” snapped Tom.
“And so am I,” added Joe frankly. “There’s no use saying I don’t care, for I do. I’d like to get on the team. But if I can’t—why I’ll root for ’em, that’s all.”
“Maybe you’ll be picked as one of the subs,” was what Charlie Borden said. “We always have lots of them to make up the scrub nine. But frankly, Matson, I don’t think you’ll pitch. Frank Brown is going to make good, and if he doesn’t Larry Akers will.”
He turned to join some of his own particular crowd, and with them continued the discussion of the unexpected turn given to the athletic meeting. Hiram and Luke were surrounded by a throng of their cronies, and from time to time therecould be heard from them such remarks as:
“Serves ’em good and right for trying to butt in.”
“What right have new fellows to try to run our affairs for us, anyhow?”
“You sat on ’em proper, Hiram.”
“Yes, Luke and I fixed up that scheme,” answered the bully, with no little pride.
Joe heard, and the thought came to him that possibly there might be a split in the ranks of the lads—a school divided against itself, and on his account. He took a quick resolve.
Striding over to Hiram he held out his hand, saying with a frank smile:
“Hiram, don’t think for a minute I’m sore. It’s all right, and I haven’t a word to say. I did want to get on the nine, but I realize that I am a new lad here, and maybe next year things will be different. I’m for the team first, last and always. Will you shake on it—you and Luke?”
For a moment the bully eyed our hero. Luke, too, gazed at him with a sneer on his face. Then as a little murmur of admiration for Joe’s conduct arose—a murmur in which some of Hiram’s own friends joined—the latter knew that it was the wisest policy to be at least outwardly friendly with Joe.
“All right, Matson,” replied Hiram. “I guess you can come in. I’m sorry if you feel hurt about the way we run things here at Excelsior Hall, but——”
“Not at all—‘to the victors belong the spoils,’” quoted Joe. “Maybe you’ll let me play on the scrub.”
“Sure, if there’s a chance,” put in Luke eagerly. He, too, saw which way the wind was likely to blow, and noting that Hiram had changed his conduct toward Joe it was up to the bully’s toady to do the same. “You can play on the scrub all you want to,” Luke added.
Hiram held out his hand and, though the clasp he gave Joe might have been more friendly, our hero took the will for the deed. Luke, also, shook hands, and thus, for the time being, the threatened breach was closed. But Joe knew, and Hiram knew, that never could there be real friendship between them.
Some of the lads began leaving the gymnasium now. There was more talk about the coming ball season, and some still persisted in denouncing the high-handed methods of the manager and his crowd. But in the main the feeling was smothered, due chiefly to Joe’s manly act. Theyoung pitcher even remained for a while chatting with Hiram, Luke and some of their cronies.
“Say, you sure did have your nerve with you, when you shook hands with those two sneaks,” remarked Tom, when he and Joe reached their room, a little later.
“Yes, it did take nerve, but it was the only thing to do. I’m a thousand times obliged to you, Tom, for what you did for me, and——”
“For what I didn’t do for you, I guess you mean,” interrupted his chum with a smile. “Well, I meant all right, but they beat us out. But I’m not done trying. Joe, you’re going to pitch on the first nine of Excelsior Hall before this season is over, or I’ll eat my hat.”
“I wish I could believe so,” replied Joe with a little sigh of longing.
Baseball practice formally opened the next day, which proved unexpectedly warm and springlike. The diamond was in good shape, and a crowd of lads turned out. A host of candidates did their “stunts” and Luke and Hiram “sized them up.” Joe wanted to pitch on the tentative scrub nine that was picked to play against the first team, but Luke, who seemed to manage the second squad as well as the first, sent our hero out in the field, as he also did Tom.
“Never mind,” consoled Peaches, who was on the first team. “Luke doesn’t captain the scrub when it’s formed regularly, and when the fellow is picked out who is to have charge I’ll speak for you, Joe.”
“Thanks. I would like a chance to get in the box.”
That the first nine had many weak spots was soon made plain to captain and manager, and, to give them credit, they at once set at work correcting them.
“I’ll get Dr. Rudden out to give you fellows some pointers as soon as we’re in a little better shape,” said Hiram, referring to the instructor who usually acted as coach.
“Yes, and you fellows need it all right,” said Tom in a low voice.
“Everybody in the gym right after the game,” ordered Hiram, during a lull in the play. “We’re going to arrange about the Blue Banner parade.”
“What’s that,” asked Joe of Teeter.
“Oh, every year all the teams in the Interscholastic League meet and have a parade to sort of open the season. The nine that holds the banner marches at the head, we have a band, and after that a little feed and it’s jolly fun. You’ll like it.”
“Morningside holds the banner now, doesn’t she?”
“Yes, worse luck. It ought to come here, and would have if Hiram and Luke had run things differently last year. But they wouldn’t listen to reason. Well, I’ve got to play ball. See you at the meeting.”
The regulars won the ball game by a small margin, and then the lads trooped off to the gymnasium to the meeting. It was much more friendly and enthusiastic than the organization session had been, and arrangements were quickly made for taking part in the annual parade.
“As is the custom,” said Hiram, “we will all meet on the grounds of the school that holds the Blue Banner—that’s Morningside, I’m sorry to say, but next season will be different. We are going to win the Blue Banner this time.”
“That’s what he always says,” murmured Peaches in Tom’s ear.
“So we will meet on the Morningside diamond, do the regular marching stunt and have a feed there. It will be necessary for you fellows to chip in for part of the expenses as our treasury is low just now. It won’t be much. Now the parade committee will meet to talk over details, and so will the rooting crowd. Get busy now,fellows; we want to make a good showing in the parade.”
The Interscholastic League, of which the Blue Banner was the trophy, consisted of these schools beside Morningside Academy and Excelsior Hall: Trinity School, Woodside Hall and the Lakeview Preparatory Institute—or, more briefly the Lakeview Prep., which I shall call it.
In the parade of the nines of these institutions, and the followers of them, there were always some novel features, and the lads tried to outdo each other in singing, cheering or giving their school yells. A committee generally had charge of the cheering and yelling contingents, and this body of students for Excelsior now got busy making up new war-cries.
The day of the parade was a glorious one. It was Saturday, naturally, as that was the only time the students could be free. Early in the afternoon a big crowd left Excelsior Hall, the nine and the substitutes, including Joe and Tom, in their uniforms, each carrying a bat as an insignia of office. Morningside Academy was about five miles from Excelsior, and could be reached by trolley. Several special cars carried our hero and his companions.
All the other marching contingents save Trinitywere on hand when the Excelsior lads arrived at Morningside, and they were noisily greeted. A few minutes later the Trinity lads arrived and then pandemonium broke loose.
“Say, this is great!” cried Joe, as cheer after cheer, and school-yell after school-yell, rent the air. “I guess we’ll have some fun after all, Tom.”
“Oh, sure. It’s jolly.”
The managers of the parade were rushing wildly to and fro, trying to get things in shape for the start. Lads who had not seen each other for some time were exchanging greetings, and the members of the various nines were talking “shop” to their hearts’ content.
“Get in line! Get in line!” cried the marshals. “We’re going to start.”
The lads were to parade around the Morningside diamond, as a sort of tribute to the winning team of the league, and then go down through the town to the public square, where the yelling, cheering and singing would take place. Then they were to come back to Morningside for the feast.
The band struck up a lively air and a silence fell over the crowd. Then, out from the midst of the throng came the lads of Morningside.They were to lead the line, as was their right, by virtue of being champions, and as they swung into formation Joe looked at them with critical eyes. Here was the doughty foe of his school.
His gaze fell upon one sturdy lad who carried a staff—carried it proudly—and no wonder, for, floating from it was the Blue Banner, glorious in gold embroidery and silver lace—the Blue Banner of the Interscholastic League—the trophy which meant so much.
“’Rah! ’Rah! ’Rah!” yelled the lads. “Three cheers for the Blue Banner!”
And how those cheers welled out! The lad carrying the banner dipped it in response to the salute.
Joe felt his heart strangely beating. A mist of tears came into his eyes—not tears of regret, but rather tears of joy and pride, that he belonged to the school which had a right to fight for that banner. Ah, if he could but enter that struggle himself!
Slowly the Morningside lads filed to their places. Louder played the band. There were more cheers, more salutes to the blue trophy, and then the banner parade was under way.
Around the Morningside diamond marched the singing, cheering and yelling lads.The Blue Banner fluttered in the Spring breeze, and not a student in the crowd but either hoped it would stay in the possession of the present owners, or would come to his school, the desires varying according to the allegiance of the wisher.
AROUND THE MORNINGSIDE DIAMOND MARCHED THE SINGING, CHEERING AND YELLING LADS.AROUND THE MORNINGSIDE DIAMOND MARCHED THE SINGING, CHEERING AND YELLING LADS.
It was a gala occasion for the town of Morningside, this Blue Banner parade, and the people turned out in great numbers to watch the lads. Throngs came from neighboring towns and villages, and some even from a distant city, for the boys could always be depended on to make the occasion enjoyable.
The Excelsior Hall crowd did some new “stunts.” Under the leadership of Luke and Hiram they rendered some odd songs and yells, and then, as they passed around the public square, Hiram executed his main surprise. The leaderof Excelsior, none other than Luke Fodick, had been carrying a pole, on the top of which was a canvas bundle. It was tied about with strings in such a manner that, by pulling on one cord the wrapping would fall off, as when a statue is unveiled. To all questions as to what was on the pole under the canvas Luke and Hiram returned only evasive replies.
But on reaching the public square, when the cheering was at its height, Luke pulled the string. At once there floated from the staff an “effigy” of the Blue Banner. It was made of blue calico and worked on it in strands of yellow rope were the words:
We’ll have the real banner this year!
We’ll have the real banner this year!
Surmounting the odd trophy was a stuffed eagle, rather the worse for being moth-eaten, and worn “to a frazzle,” as Tom said. But it made a hit, and the yells of laughter bore evidence of how the crowd appreciated it.
“Guess we’ve made good all right,” said Hiram to his crony. “There’s nothing else like it in the parade.”
“That’s right,” answered Luke. “Oh, it takes us to do things.”
“And sometimesnotdo them,” murmured Teeter. “We ought to have the real banner.”
“Maybe we will,” spoke Joe.
The other schools had their own specialties in singing, cutting queer capers, or in cheers, and made hits in their own way. Around the square marched the lads, and then, with a final chorus, rendered by all the students, the parade was over. Back to Morningside Academy they went, and sat down to what the papers described later as a “sumptuous repast; a feast of reason and a flow of soul.”
Jolly good fellowship prevailed at the board. Speeches were made, toasts responded to, and baseball talk flowed on all sides. Hiram and Luke made remarks, as did the managers and captains of the other nines. Predictions were freely expressed as to who would have the banner the next year, and then came more singing, more cheering and more yelling.
The dinner broke up finally, and then the various managers and captains got together to arrange the Interscholastic League schedule of games.
“Well, it was all right; wasn’t it?” asked Tom of Joe, when they were on their way back to Excelsior Hall.
“Fine and dandy,” was the answer. “They’re a nice lot of fellows—all of ’em.”
“Quite some class to those Trinity School lads,” remarked Tom. “It’s a swell place—a lot of millionaires’ sons go there I understand.”
“Yes, but I hobnobbed with some of ’em, and they weren’t a bit uppish. Right good fellows, I thought.”
“Oh, yes, all millionaire lads aren’t cads though money sometimes makes a chap that way. Trinity must be quite a school.”
“I guess it is, but Excelsior is good enough for me. We’re in with a dandy crowd of fellows, though, and that makes it nice if you’ve got to play a lot of games with ’em. Nothing like class when it comes to sport. We ought to have some corking good games this Summer.”
“I only wish you and I were more in it,” went on Tom.
“Wait until we see about the scrub,” suggested him chum. “I’m not worrying as much as I was at first.”
But, though Joe thus lightly passed over the matter, deep down in his heart there was a great longing. To him baseball meant more than to the average player. From the time when he had seen his first game, as a little chap, our hero had fairly lived, eaten and slept in an atmosphere of the diamond. He had organized a team of ladswhen he was scarcely nine years old, and played those little chaps in a sort of improvised circuit.
Then, as he grew, and developed, and found that he could pitch, the world seemed to hold something worth while for Joe Matson. “Baseball Joe,” he had been dubbed, when as a small chap he shouldered his bat and started off across the lots to a game, and “Baseball Joe” he was yet.
How he longed to be on the regular nine, even in the outfield, none but himself knew. And when he dreamed of the possibility that he might some time occupy the pitching mound—well, he had to stop short, for he found himself indulging in a too high flight of fancy.
“Get back to earth, Joe,” he told himself. “If you want to pitch for Excelsior you’ve got to do a heap of waiting, and you are pretty good at that game.”
And so Joe had hopes and fears—hopes that his dream might come true, and fears lest the enmity of Hiram and Luke would keep him one of the “scrubbiest of the scrubs.”
He was tired after the excitement of the parade, and so was Tom, but they were not too weary to accept an invitation to gather in the room of Teeter and Peaches that night for a surreptitiouslunch of ginger snaps, cheese and bottled soda water, which had been smuggled in. And, as before, the lads took the same precautions with the fake books and the tubes, hose and bottles. But they were not disturbed.
“Well, we’ll have to get busy next week,” remarked Teeter as he slowly sipped his glass.
“How so?” asked Joe.
“Hard practice against the scrub starts Monday.”
“Who’s captain of the scrub; did you hear?” asked Peaches eagerly.
“Yes, Ward Gerard—a nice fellow, too.”
“That’s the stuff!” cried Peaches. “Now there’s a chance for you, Joe. Ward’s room is on this corridor. I’m going to see him.”
“You’ll be caught,” warned Teeter.
“Caught nothing!” retorted his chum. “It’s so late none of the profs. or monitors will think a fellow will dare go out. Ward isn’t an early sleeper, and I’m going to see him and ask him to let Joe pitch on the scrub before some one else gets the place. I’ll be back in a few minutes, fellows. Don’t eat up all the grub,” and with that Peaches slipped noiselessly from the room.
“It doesn’t take Peaches long to make up his mind,” remarked Tom.
“No, he’s always right on the job,” agreed Teeter.
“It’s mighty good of him—and all of you—to go to all this trouble and fuss on my account,” added Joe. “I appreciate it, too.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Teeter, as he balanced himself on his toes to see if it was safe to indulge in any more cheese and ginger snaps. “We’re glad to do it. I only hope you do make the team, and pitch, at that.”
“If I can pitch on the scrub, I’ll be satisfied for a while.”
“We want to make Excelsior the best nine in the league this year,” went on Teeter. “We’ve got to have the Blue Banner, and one way we can cinch it is to have a good pitcher.”
“Thanks!” laughed Joe.
“Well, I mean it,” resumed Teeter, helping himself to a handful of the crisp snaps. “That’s where our weak point was last season. Many a game we gave away after we had it practically won, just because our pitchers went up in the air. And I’m afraid it’ll be the same now. Frank Brown isn’t much, unless he’s improved a whole lot over season, and I don’t believe he has. And as for Larry Akers—well, he’s only a makeshift. Now, I’d like to see——”
But Teeter’s little talk was interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the corridor outside. For a moment the lads gazed anxiously at each other, and Tom made a grab for one of the fake books, but a look of relief came over their faces when the door opened and Peaches entered, followed by some one.
“I brought Ward with me,” explained the lad with the fair complexion. “Thought it was the safest way. Come on in, Ward; I guess these Indians haven’t scalped all the grub.”
“Yes, fall to,” invited Teeter. “There’s plenty.”
“Charmed, I’m sure,” murmured Ward with an assumed society air.
“You know Joe Matson, of course,” went on Peaches.
“Oh, sure. He beat me in physics class the other week and I haven’t forgotten it.”
“He wants to pitch on the scrub,” went on the originator of the scheme. “He’s all to the mustard, too, and——”
“Say, let me say a word for myself,” put in Joe. “I’m not a political candidate in the hands of my friends. Is there a show for me on the scrub, Ward?”
“Well, I haven’t made up the team yet, and you’re the first applicant for pitcher, so you’ll have first choice.”
“Then it’s as good as settled!” declared Peaches. “When do you make up the team, Ward?”
“To-morrow, I guess. I’ll put you down as first pitcher, Joe, and I hope you can throw a scare into the school team—not because I’m not on it myself, but the better opposition they have, the better they’ll play for the banner.”
“What about Hiram?” asked Tom. “Won’t he kick up a fuss if he knows you’ve got Joe? And what about Luke?”
“Say, I’m running the scrub!” exclaimed Ward. “They haven’t anything to say after I take charge. What I say goes!”
“That’s right,” agreed Teeter. “I’ll doHiram that much justice. He never interferes with the scrub after the season starts. Neither does Luke. They have their hands full managing their own players.”
“Then I guess I’ll get a chance to pitch,” murmured Joe, and he was happier than he had been in some time. It was only a small beginning, but it was a start, and that meant a good deal.
Ward Gerard, whom Joe and Tom did not know very well, turned out to be a good-natured and pleasant companion. He was one of the new arrivals at the school, but already stood well in his classes and on the athletic field. Football was his specialty, but he was none the less a good baseball player and might have made the first team had he tried harder.
The boys talked of the diamond until the booming of the big school clock warned them that they had better get to bed; so with good-nights and a renewed promise on the part of Ward to place Joe in the box, the conference broke up.
“Oh, things are coming your way slowly,” remarked Tom, as he and Joe reached their room, having successfully dodged a prying monitor on the look-out for rule violators.
“Yes, and now I’ve got to make good.”
“You can do that easily enough. You alwayshave. And when the three months are up I’m going to make my motion over again, and I’ll bet we’ll elect you as regular pitcher.”
“I guess you forget that when the three months are up the Summer vacation will be here and the nine will be out of business,” remarked Joe. “No, I’ve got to work my own way, I guess.”
There were some murmurs of surprise when it was announced the next day that Joe Matson was to be the scrub pitcher. Friends of rival candidates urged their claims on Ward, but he stuck to his promise and the place went to Joe.
“Did Hiram or Luke say anything when you told them?” asked Tom of the scrub captain.
“Oh, yes—a little.”
“What was it?”
“Nothing very pleasant, so don’t repeat it to Joe, but Hiram wanted to know why I didn’t pick out a decent fellow to pitch against the first team, and Luke remarked that Joe would be knocked out of the box in the first practice game, and that I’d have to get some one else.”
“Oh, Luke said that, did he?” asked Tom, and there was a look of smothered anger in his eyes.
“Yes, and then some more.”
“Just wait until the first game—that’s all,” requested Tom quietly. “If they knock Joe Matson out of the box it will be the first time it’s happened since he found that he was a real pitcher.”
“There are some pretty good batters on the first team,” warned Ward.
“That’s the kind Joe likes,” replied his chum. “Just you wait; that’s all.”
It was the day for the first regular practice between the scrub and first teams. For several afternoons Joe had been pitching to Bob Harrison, who often acted as the scrub catcher, and as there was so much other individual playing going on no one had paid much attention to the work of our hero.
“Say, I think we’ve got a ‘find’ all right,” announced Bob to Ward, just before the practice game was called.
“How so?” asked the scrub captain.
“Why, that Matson can sting ’em in for further orders, and he’s got some of the prettiest curves that ever came over the plate. The Hiram-Luke crowd is going to sit up and take notice, take it from yours truly.”
“I’m glad of it!” declared Ward. “We’ll do our best to beat ’em, and it will be for theirown good. They’re soft, naturally at the beginning of the season, and so are we, but if we can wallop ’em, so much the better. Have you and Joe got your signals down?”
“Yes, he’s better at that than I am. He must have played some pretty good games.”
“So Sister Davis says. Well, here they come. Now to see what we can do?”
There was a conference between Luke and Ward, and in order to give his team the most severe kind of a try-out, Luke arranged to let the scrub bat last.
The first practice game was important in more ways than one. Not only did it open the season for Excelsior Hall, but it would show up the weak players, and, while the first team was practically picked, there might be a change in it. At least so every lad who was not on it, but wanted to be, thought, and he hoped against hope that his playing might attract the attention of the manager.
Another thing was that Dr. Rudden, the coach, sometimes took a hand in the baseball affairs and occasionally he had been known to over-ride the judgment of Hiram and Luke, insisting that some player whom they had not picked be allowed to show what he could do on the first team. So there were many hearts that beat high with hope,and among them was Joe’s. And there were hearts that were a bit anxious—to wit, members of the first team who were not quite sure of themselves.
There was a large crowd in the grandstand and on the bleachers when the gong rang to start the game—a throng of students mostly, for the general public was not admitted so early in the season.
It was a good day for the game, albeit the ground was a trifle soft, and the Spring wind not as warm as might be. The boys in their spick and span new uniforms made a natty appearance as they trotted out on the diamond.
According to custom, Dr. Fillmore, the venerable head of the school, pitched the first ball formally to open the season. It was a sort of complimentary ball, and was not expected to be struck at.
“Play ball!” yelled the umpire as he took the new horsehide sphere from its tinfoil wrapping and handed it to Dr. Fillmore. The president bowed as though about to make a speech, and Joe, who was in the box, stepped back. Our hero’s heart was thumping under his blouse, for at last he was about to pitch his first game at Excelsior Hall, even if it was but on the scrub.
“Let her go, Doctor!”
“Make him hit it, Professor!”
“Strike him out!”
“Give him an old Greek curve!”
These were some of the cries that reached Dr. Fillmore as he stood in Joe’s place in the pitching box. The president of the faculty smiled pleasantly. He was used to this mild “joshing,” which was always indulged in by the lads of Excelsior on the occasion of the opening of the season. Not that it was at all offensive; in fact, it rather showed the good feeling existing between the instructors and their pupils.
“Are you all ready?” asked Dr. Fillmore, as though he was inquiring whether a student was prepared to recite, and as if he really expected to pitch a ball that was to be hit.
“Play ball!” called Harvey Hallock, who was umpiring.
“Not too swift now, if you please, Doctor,” stipulated Nat Pierson, who was first up.
Then the venerable president delivered the new, white horsehide sphere. He threw rather awkwardly, but with more accuracy than might have been expected from a man who had a ball in his hands but once a year. Right over the plate it went, and though usually the initial ball was never struck at, Nat could not resist the opportunity.
He “bunted,” and the ball popped up in the air and sailed back toward the pitcher’s box. To the surprise of all, Dr. Fillmore stepped forward and neatly caught it.
“Hurray!”
“That’s the stuff!”
“Put him on the team!”
“Why didn’t you say you were a ball-player, Doctor?”
“Let him play the game!”
These and many other cries greeted the president’s performance. He bowed again, gravely, and smiled genially as he tossed the ball to Joe, who was waiting for it. A little round of applause came from some members of the faculty who had accompanied the doctor to the grounds, and then the head of the school walked off the diamond amid a riot of cheers. The baseball season at ExcelsiorHall had opened under auspicious occasions everyone thought, and more than one lad had great hopes that the Blue Banner would come back there to stay for a while.
“Play ball!” called the umpire again, and this time the game was on in earnest.
Joe dug a little hole for the toe of his shoe, revolved the ball in his hands a few times, and looked to get the signal from Bob Harrison, the scrub catcher.
Bob, who knew the individual characteristics of each batter better than did Joe (though the latter was rapidly learning them) signalled for a high out, and our hero nodded his head in confirmation. The next instant he delivered the ball.
There was a vicious swing of the bat, and there could almost be heard the swish as it cut the air. And that is all it did do, for the horsehide landed squarely in Bob’s glove with a resounding ping! and there was one strike against Nat.
“That’s the way to do it!” cried Bob.
“Say, what’s the matter with you?” angrily demanded Luke Fodick of one of his best batters. “What do you want to fan for?”
“Couldn’t help it, I guess,” answered Bob rather sheepishly. “It was a curve.”
“Well, don’t you know how to handle them bythis time?” fairly snarled Hiram, who was closely watching every player. “If you don’t know how to hit out a hot one you’d better go back on the scrub. Don’t do it again.”
“I’ll kill the next ball!” declared Nat, but he did not like the looks of it as Joe delivered it, and did not swing his bat.
“Strike!” called the umpire sharply.
“Wha—what?” cried Nat.
“I said strike. It was right over the plate.”
“Plate nothing!”
“What’s he doing, calling strikes on you?” demanded Hiram.
“It looks that way,” spoke Nat.
“Well, say——” began the manager in his bullying manner, as he strode toward the umpire.
“Hold on now!” interposed Luke, who sometimes had better judgment than Hiram. “It’s all right. Don’t get excited. It may have been a strike. The fellows haven’t got on to all the points of the game yet this season. Go on.”
“All right,” growled Hiram. “But don’t you dare strike out, Nat.”
Joe’s next delivery was called a ball, though it was rightly a strike. Joe said nothing, realizing that the umpire was naturally a bit afraid of offending Hiram and Luke too much. Then Natknocked a little pop fly, which was easily taken care of by the second baseman, and the first man on the regular, or school team, as it was called, was out.
“All ready for the next one!” called Catcher Bob.
“Don’t you fan!” warned Hiram to Jake Weston, who was next up.
“Just watch me!” exulted Jake as he walked confidently to the plate.
Joe sent in a puzzling drop, with considerable swiftness, but to his chagrin Jake “killed” it, landing on it squarely and lining it out for two bags.
“That’s the way to do it!” yelled Luke, capering about.
“Now, where’s your star pitcher?” inquired Hiram, and he looked toward Tom Davis, who was playing first. “I guess he isn’t so much!”
Tom said nothing. He realized that perhaps his advocacy of Joe’s abilities had brought his friend and himself too much in the limelight. But he meant well.
“Oh, well, we just let you hit that one to see how it felt,” shouted Bob Harrison, and that brought back Joe’s nerve, which, for the moment, had deserted him as he saw his effort go fornaught. Jake was on second, but he only got one bag farther, stealing to third as Joe struck out the next man.
The school nine members were now whispering uneasily among themselves. Never before, at the opening of the season had they had a scrub pitcher who did such things to them. They realized that they had to play the game for all it was worth.
Luke and Hiram were whispering earnestly together and when Harry Lauter, whom Joe had struck out walked to the bench, Luke stepped up to the plate.
“Hold on!” cried Ward Gerard quickly. “You are out of your turn, Luke.”
“How’s that?” indignantly demanded the school captain.
“George Bland is up next, according to the batting order you gave me.”
“Well, we’ve changed the batting order,” put in Hiram quickly.
The truth of the matter was that George was not a very good hitter, while Luke was, and both the latter and the manager had seen the necessity of making at least one run the first inning in order to inspire confidence in the school team. They had hoped to change the batting order unobserved, and bring up a good hitter when he was mostneeded. But the scrub captain had been too sharp for them.
“Changed the batting order, eh?” asked Ward. “You can’t do it now under the rules.”
“Oh, well, we ain’t playing strictly according to rules yet,” said Luke weakly. “I’m going to bat, anyhow. You can change your batting order if you like.”
“We don’t have to,” responded Ward. “But go ahead, we’ll allow it.”
“Thanks—for nothing!” exclaimed Hiram sarcastically, and Luke held his place at home plate.
The situation was now rather tense. There were two men out, a man was on third and the captain of the school team himself was at bat. It was up to Luke to bring in his man and save his side from a goose egg in the first inning. Luke fairly glared at Joe, as if daring our hero to strike him out, and Joe was no less determined to do that feat if possible.
He looked at Bob for a signal, and got one that meant to deliver a swift in. Then Joe knew that Luke, for all his boasting was a bit afraid—afraid of being hit by the ball, and, being timid would involuntarily step back if the horsehide seemed to be coming too close to him.
“Here goes!” murmured Joe, and he sent in one with all his force.
As he had expected, the school captain did step back, and, an instant later, the umpire cried:
“Strike!”
“What?” fairly yelled Luke turning at him. There was a laugh from some of the scrubs, and it was joined in by a number of the other students—lads who were kept from the athletic committee by the snap ruling of Luke and Hiram. The captain realized that there was a feeling against him, and he quickly swallowed his wrath.
“Watch what you’re doing,” warned Hiram.
“Oh, that was only a fluke,” declared Luke. Joe smiled. He was going to send in another “fluke,” but not the same kind. He delivered a quick ball, with a peculiar upward twist to it, and, as Luke swung viciously at it, but too low, naturally his bat passed under the ball.
“Strike two!” yelled the umpire, as the ball landed safely in Bob’s big mitt.
There was a murmur of astonishment from the school nine and its particular sympathizers, and a breath of delight from the despised scrubs. Hiram flushed angrily, yet he dared say nothing, for there was no doubt about this strike. As forLuke, he was too surprised to make any comment.
“I’ll get the next one!” he declared, as he tapped his bat on the home plate. He did hit it, but it was only a foul, and, being on the last strike, did not count against him.
“That’s the way to do it. You’re finding his curves if he has any!” cried Hiram. “Swat it!”
“Sure!” assented Luke.
With all his might he hit at the next ball, only to fan the air.
“Strike three—batter’s out!” called the umpire amid a tense silence. Luke had done what he was seldom guilty of; he had struck out, and to a pitcher whom he not only hated but despised. Joe’s great work had enabled the scrub to retire the school team without a run—a thing that had not been done at Excelsior in many years.
“Wow! That’s the stuff!” yelled Tom, as he raced in from first. “I knew you could do it, Joe.”
“Great work, old man!” complimented Ward. “Now we’ll see what we can do.”
There were gloomy and dubious looks on the faces of Hiram and Luke as the school team filed out on the field.
Interest, especially for Joe, centered in what Frank Brown, the school pitcher, might do. So, as a matter of fact, was the attention of nearly all the players and spectators on him. For, to a large extent, the victories of the Excelsior team would depend on what their battery could do. Of course it was up to the other players to lend them support, but it was pretty well established that if the pitcher and catcher did well, support would not be lacking.
At the catching end of it Luke Fodick could be depended on nearly every time. But Frank Brown had yet to show what he could do as a twirler. In practice he had made out fairly well, but now the real test was to come.
Naturally he was a bit nervous as he walked to the box, to face his first opponent, none other than Ward Gerard, the scrub captain; and Ward was a good hitter. He managed to hit a two bagger.
Luke and Hiram cast anxious looks at each other. Well they knew how much depended on the showing their pitcher would make.
“Watch yourself, Frank,” called Hiram—just the very advice to make poor Frank more nervous. But he braced up, struck out the next man, and managed to hold the succeeding one hitless.
The school nine was now about in the same position as the scrub had been. Their opponents had a man on third and two out. It was a time when Frank needed to brace up, and repeat Joe’s trick. But he could not do it. Joe himself came to the bat, and with watchful eyes picked out just the ball he wanted after two strikes had been called on him. He rapped out as pretty a single as had been seen on the diamond in many a long day, and brought in Ward with the first run.
“Wow! Wow!” yelled the scrubs, capering about. “That’s the way to do it!”
Luke and Hiram were almost in a panic. They saw the team they had so carefully built up in danger of disintegration; and holding a hasty conference, warning was sent to every school player to do his very best to get the scrub side out without another run.
Frank did it, for he struck out the next man, and Joe died at second. But the scrub had onerun and the school nine nothing. It was a poor beginning for Excelsior’s chances at the Blue Banner when the players realized what a strong team Morningside had, and how efficient were the other nines in the league.
I am not going to describe that first school-scrub game in detail. I shall have other more important contests to tell you about, as the story goes on. Sufficient to say that after the ending of the first inning Hiram and Luke went at their lads in such a fierce spirit that there was a big improvement.
Joe kept up his good work in the box, but he had not yet “found” himself that season. He was not hardened enough; he lacked practice, and his arm soon gave out. Then, too the fielding of the scrubs was ragged, after Joe once began to be hit. The result was that the school nine began to pile up runs, and Hiram and Luke were jubilant.
“Now, where’s your wonderful pitcher?” asked Luke of Ward.
“Oh, he’s coming on. No use to work him too hard at first,” replied the scrub captain good naturedly. “Look out for your own.”
This advice was needed, for, after helping his team to get a good lead, Frank Brown also ratherwent to pieces and when the game was over the school team led by only two runs.
“That’s too close for comfort,” observed Hiram to Luke, as they walked off the diamond. “Frank has got to do better than that.”
“Oh, he’ll be all right after a little more practice,” spoke the captain.
“If he isn’t Larry Akers will go in,” warned the manager.
“Sure. Well, we’ve got lots of time before the first Morningside game. We’ll win that.”
“I hope we do,” but Hiram’s tone was not confident. Somehow he was worried over the way Joe Matson pitched.
As for our hero, he was warmly congratulated by his friends. Tom Davis was particularly enthusiastic.
“We’ll have you in the box for the school nine before long,” he predicted.
“I don’t know,” answered Joe rather dubiously. “It’s a close combination between Hiram and Luke, and they may get Frank Brown into shape.”
“Don’t you believe it. He can’t pitch as good as you in a thousand years.”
“That’s right,” chimed in Teeter.
“Nothing like having good friends,” remarked Joe laughingly.
Now that the season was started the baseball practice went on with a vim. Luke and Hiram had some of their players out every day, batting or catching the ball. Others were sent around the track to improve their wind, and in the gymnasium others were set at work on the various machines, as Dr. Rudden found their weak spots.
The school nine battled against the scrub, too, and though Joe improved in his pitching so did the members of the first team in their batting, so that there were no other contests as close as the first one.
The time for the first Morningside game was approaching. It was the first regular contest of the season and as such was always quite an affair. This time it was to be played on the Morningside diamond, and Luke and Hiram were bending every effort to win the game.
The nine picked to play was practically the same as the one that played the first game against the scrub. There had been some shifts, and then shifts back again, and under the urging of the coach, the captain and the manager, the lads had improved very much.
The day of the first game came. In special cars or in stage coaches, for those who preferred that method of locomotion, while some of themore wealthy lads hired autos, the nine and its supporters made their way to Morningside. Hiram, Luke and a few of their cronies went in a big touring car that Spencer Trusdell, a millionaire’s son, owned.
“Some class to them,” remarked Joe, as he and Tom with a squad of the scrub and substitutes, got aboard a trolley car.
“They may have to walk back,” predicted Tommy Barton, one of the scrub.
“Why?” asked Joe.
“Spencer may not have money enough left to buy gasolene. He’s a sport, you know, and always betting.”
“Well, he’ll bet on his own nine; won’t he?”
“Oh, yes—but——” and Tommy paused significantly.
“You don’t mean to say you think Morningside will win, do you?” asked Ward Gerard. “You old traitor, you!”
“I shouldn’t be surprised to see our side licked,” replied Tommy calmly. “They’re soft, and Morningside has already played one game with Trinity and trimmed them.”
And as Joe and Tom journeyed to the grounds they heard others say the same thing. Nevertheless,Luke, Hiram and their own particular crowd were very confident.
There was a big attendance at the game. The stands were filled with a rustling, yelling, cheering and vari-colored throng—the colors being supplied by scores of pretty girls, whose brothers, or whose friends, played on either nine.
“Jove! What wouldn’t I give to be booked to pitch to-day!” exclaimed Joe, as he and Tom found their seats, for neither was on the list of substitutes.
“I know how you feel, old man,” sympathized Tom. “But just hang on, and things may come your way.”
“Play ball!” cried the umpire, and the first big game of the season for Excelsior Hall was underway.
That contest is still talked about in the annals of the two schools. It started off well, and Excelsior, first to the bat, rapped out two runs before the side was retired. Then came the first real intimation that the opponents of Morningside were weak in several places, notably in the pitching box, and in fielding and stick-work.
Frank Brown, after striking out two men in succession, and giving the impression to his mates that he was going to make good, and to his rivalsthat they had a strong boxman to fight against—Frank, I say, literally went up in the air.
He was not used to being hooted at and jeered, and this is just what the Morningsideites did to him to get his “goat.” They got it, for before the first inning closed he had been unmercifully pounded, and four runs were chalked up to the credit of the foes of Excelsior Hall.
Still that score might not have been so bad had Hiram and Luke kept their heads. They changed their batting order, put in some substitutes, and Hiram used strong language to Frank.
“You’ve got to do better!” insisted the bullying manager. This had the further effect of getting on Frank’s nerves, and he did worse than ever.
“Say, why don’t you fellows get a real pitcher?” asked Halsted Hart, manager of the Morningsides.
“This is too easy,” added Ted Clay, the opposing pitcher with a laugh.
In desperation Luke finally sent in Larry Akers to pitch. At first he tightened up and stopped the winning streak of Morningside, and then, he, too, fell by the wayside, and the hooting, yelling crowd had his “Angora,” as Peaches dolefully remarked.
It might be said in passing that both Peachesand Teeter did well, and George Bland not quite so well. But the rest of the Excelsior team made many errors. Even Luke was not exempt, and this had the further effect of worrying his players.
It is no pleasure to write of that first game, and that is why I have not gone into details about it, for Excelsior Hall is a school dear to my heart, and I do not like to chronicle her defeats.
When the ninth inning came the score stood fourteen to six. In desperation, Luke had sent in Ned Turton to replace Larry. Several of his own friends asked him to give Joe a chance, but neither he nor Hiram would listen. In fact, there was a disagreement between Hiram and Luke. The manager wanted to shift Peaches back to first base but Luke would not hear of it until Hiram threatened to resign as manager, and that so alarmed the captain that he let him have his way.
That settled matters, not because Peaches went to first, though he did good service there, but it was too late to stem the losing tide. The Excelsior team could not get a run in their share of the ninth, and Morningside did not take the trouble to finish out, the final score being fourteen to six in their favor. The opponents of Excelsior had snowed them under.
“Three cheers for Excelsior Hall!” cried Captain Elmer Dalton of the Morningside team. “All ready boys, with a will!”
The cheers were deafening and perhaps they were all the more hearty because it was the winning nine and its supporters who were giving them.
The crowd swarmed over the diamond, players and spectators mingling. Everybody was talking at once, the losing side and their supporters trying to explain how the defeat had come about, and the victors exulting in their victory.
“I don’t see what’s the matter with you fellows, anyhow,” growled Hiram, as he strode over and joined the little group of disconsolate ones who were walking toward the dressing room. “You ought to have beaten ’em.”
“And so we would have if they’d given me decent support,” broke in Luke. “There were too many changes on the team.”
“And I suppose you think I’m responsible for that,” retorted Hiram quickly.
“I didn’t say so. One thing, though; there’s got to be another change.”
“That’s right,” added the manager scowling at the team, but neither he nor Luke intimated where the change ought to be made.
“They’re right on that one point,” said Peaches, “a big shift is needed, and I can tell ’em one place to make it, if not two.”
“Where?” asked Teeter.
“Pitcher for one,” replied Peaches quickly, “and catcher for the other. If we had two good men as a battery there would have been a different story to-day.”
“What’s that?” quickly demanded Hiram, turning around, for Peaches had unconsciously spoken louder than he intended.
“I said I agreed with you,” spoke the lad diplomatically, “that if we’d had some changes the result would have been different to-day,” but he did not mention the changes.
“Well, it’s all over,” remarked Joe to Tom, as they descended from the grandstand. “Let’s get back home. Jove! But it’s too bad to start the season with a defeat.”
“Somebody had to lose,” replied Tom philosophically.“We couldn’t both win, and I didn’t expect it would turn out much different when I heard the talk on the way to the game. But it will teach Luke and Hiram a lesson.”
“If they want to learn it—yes.”
“Oh, don’t worry. They’ll be only too anxious, after to-day. But I notice some of the Trinity Hall and Lakeview Prep. players here. Getting a line on us, I guess.”
“Shouldn’t wonder. We play Trinity next week.”
“Well, we ought to win that game. Hurry up, Joe, and we can get the next trolley back. No autos for us.”
As the two chums hurried across the diamond they found themselves in the midst of a crowd of Morningside players and students. At the sight of one lad in the uniform of Morningside, a uniform not soiled by the dust and grime of the diamond, Tom plucked Joe by the sleeve.
“For the love of Mike, look there!” exclaimed the former first baseman of the Silver Stars.
“Where?” asked Joe, and Tom pointed to the player in the spick and span new uniform.
“Sam Morton!” gasped Joe, as he recognized his former rival on the Stars and his sometime enemy. “Sam Morton! What’s he doing here?”
“Looks as if he was on the nine,” replied Tom. “He’s in one of the Morningside uniforms, but he didn’t take part in the game.”
“Sam Morton here!” went on Joe, wonderingly. “It doesn’t seem possible. I wonder why we didn’t hear something about it? It sure is he, and yet——”
“Wait, I’ll ask some one,” volunteered Tom, and tapping on the shoulder a Morningside player near him, he asked: “Is he one of your nine?” Tom pointed to Sam Morton, who had not yet observed our heroes.
“What? Oh, yes; he’s a newcomer here I believe, but he had quite a reputation, so Captain Dalton put him on as substitute pitcher.”
“Substitute pitcher!” gasped Joe.
“Yes, he’s rather good I believe. He hasn’t had much practice with us as yet or we’d have played him part of the time against you fellows to-day. Why, do you know him?”
“Yes. He used to be on the same town team with me,” replied Joe.
“He’ll probably play next week,” went on the Morningside lad, “and when we meet you fellows again he’ll probably do what Ted Clay did to-day,” and he grinned cheerfully—there is nothing like a cheerful enemy.
“Sam Morton here,” murmured Joe, as if unable to believe it, while his old enemy strode on without having seen him, and the Morningside lad, who had given them the information swung about on his way to the dressing rooms.
“Say, that’s going some!” exclaimed Joe, as he and Tom walked on. “Fancy meeting Sam Morton here. I didn’t hear that he was going to boarding school.”
“Neither did I. He must have made up his mind lately. Probably he began right after the Easter vacation. I didn’t spot him at the time of the banner parade.”
“Me, either. But there was such a mob of fellows that it was hard to find anyone. But if he’s here and he makes good, and pitches in some of the games, and if——”
“If you get the chance to pitch for the school nine, you and Sam may fight your old battles over again,” finished Tom.
“That’s right,” agreed Joe.
It was a discouraged, disgruntled and altogether unhappy crowd of lads that returned to Excelsior Hall late that afternoon. Despondency perched like a bird of ill-omen on the big flagstaff; and a celebration that some of the lads had arranged for, in case of a victory, did not come off.
Tom and Joe were seated in their room, talking over various matters, including the game of the day, when there came the usual signal on their door, indicating that a friend stood without.
“That’s Teeter,” predicted Tom.
“Peaches,” was Joe’s guess, but when he swung open the portal both lads stood there. On their faces were looks of suppressed excitement.
“What’s up?” demanded Joe.
“Lots. Special meeting of the athletic committee called. In the gym. Come on!” panted Peaches.
“We’re going to protest against the way Hiram manages the team!” added Teeter.
“Come on!” urged Peaches, recovering his breath. “We want you with us. There’s a lot of feeling against Hiram and Luke. They practically lost the game for us to-day. The revolt is spreading. It’s a chance for you, Joe. Come on.”
“There’s going to be a hot time!” predicted Teeter. “We have permission to hold a meeting. All the fellows are coming. Get a move on.”
Joe and Tom grabbed up their caps and hurried after their chums, Joe with a wildly-beating heart. Had his chance come?