“You fellows wouldn’t believe me, I suppose, if I told you I seen a dog pull some of that inside stuff once? Sure, I ain’t fooling, although of course the pup didn’t know he was doing it.It was in Detroit when a big game was on and the home team was at the bat. They needed three runs to win and there were two men on bases. The batter lined out a peach between left and center. There were no automobiles in those days, but a whole raft of carriages were down back of center field. A big coach dog saw the ball coming and chased it, got it in his mouth and scooted down under the bleachers, the left and center fielders yelling to him to drop it and racing after him like mad. He was a good old rooter for the home team, all right, though, and, by the time they got it away from him, the whole bunch had crossed the plate and the game was won. The home team boys found out whom he belonged to, and clubbed together and got him a handsome collar.
“Another funny thing I seen one time that makes me laugh whenever I think of it,” continued Reddy, “was when a high fly was hit to left field with three men on bases. It ought to have been an easy out and nine times out of ten would have been. But, as luck would have it, the ball slipped through the fielder’s fingers and went into the outside upper pocket of his baseball shirt. He tried desperately to get it out, but it was wedged in so tight he couldn’t. All this time the men were legging it around the bases. At last, Mitchell—that was the fellow’s name—ranin toward third and caught the batter, just as he was rounding the base on his way to home. He grabbed him and hugged him tight and they fell to the ground together. Say, you’d have died laughing if you’d seen them two fellows wrestling, Mitchell trying to force the other man’s hand into his pocket so that the ball could touch him, and the other fighting to keep his hand out. It was a hard thing for the umpire to settle, but he finally let the run count on the ground that Mitchell had no right to interfere with him. Poor old Mitchell was certainly up against it that day, good and plenty.”
By this time they had reached the college dormitory, and the boys reluctantly bade Reddy good-by. They had been immensely amused and interested by his anecdotes, although they did not altogether agree with his easy philosophy of life. To Reddy all was fair in love or war or baseball, provided you could “put it over.”
“But it isn’t,” said Bert, as they went upstairs. “Strategy is one thing and cheating is another. It’s all right to take your opponent unawares and take advantage of his carelessness or oversight. If he’s slow and you’re quick, if he’s asleep and you’re awake, you’ve got a perfect right to profit by it. Now take for instance that case of Mack and Anson. Whether that was a strike or a ball was a thing to be decided by the umpire alone,and Anson ought not to have paid any attention to Mack’s bluff. Then, too, because Mack usually put on his mask and shin-guards before the ball was pitched, Anson had no right to assume that he wouldalwaysdo so. Mack acted perfectly within his rights, and Anson was simply caught napping and had no kick coming.
“But when you come to ‘cutting the corners’ and pretending that the ball was caught when it wasn’t, that isn’t straight goods. It’s ‘slick,’ all right, but it is the slickness of the crooked gambler and the three-card monte man. It’s playing with marked cards and loaded dice, and I don’t care for any of it in mine.”
“Right you are, old fellow,” said Tom, heartily, clapping him on the back, “my sentiments to a dot. I want to win and hate to lose, but I’d rather lose a game any day than lie or cheat about it.”
Which he was to prove sooner than he expected.
The days flew rapidly by and the time drew near for the Spring trip. All the members of the team were to get a thorough trying out in actual games with the crack teams of various colleges before the regular pennant race began. Then the “weeding out” process would have been completed, and only those remain on the team who had stood the test satisfactorily. The trip was to take about two weeks, and they were to “swing around the circle” as far west as Cincinnati and as far south as Washington.
They did not expect much trouble in coming back with a clean score. As one of the “Big Three,” their team was rarely taken into camp by any of the smaller colleges. They usually won, occasionally tied, but very seldom lost. Yet, once in a while, their “well-laid schemes” “went agley” and they met with a surprise party from some husky team that faced them unafraid and refused to be cowed by their reputation.
Bert’s college was one of the largest and mostimportant in the country. The “Big Three” formed a triangular league by themselves alone. Each played three games with each of the other two, and the winner of the majority was entitled to claim the championship of the “Big Three.” And it was generally, though not officially, admitted, that the team capable of such a feat was the greatest college baseball team in the whole country. Their games were followed by the papers with the greatest interest and fully reported. The “Blues,” as Bert’s college was usually referred to on account of the college colors, had won the pennant the year before from the “Grays” and the “Maroons,” their traditional opponents, after a heart-breaking struggle, and columns of newspaper space had been devoted to the concluding game. This year, however, the prediction had been freely made that history would not repeat itself. Both the Grays and Maroons were composed of tried and tested veterans, while, as we have seen, Ainslee had been compelled to fill several important positions with new material. No matter how good this might prove to be, it takes time and practice to weld it together in one smooth machine, and it is seldom done in a single season.
Moreover, the time was at hand when Ainslee would have to rejoin his own team, and his keen eye still noted a number of rough places thatneeded planing and polishing. For this reason he was all the more anxious to secure good results during this trip. After it was over, he would have to turn over the team to a manager and to Reddy, the assistant coach and trainer. The manager would confine himself chiefly to the technical and financial features, but it was arranged that Reddy should have full charge of the team on the field. Ainslee reposed implicit confidence in him because of his shrewd judgment, his knowledge of men, and his vast baseball experience.
West Point was to be their first stop, and it was a jolly crowd, full of the joy and zest of living, that embarked on the steamerHendrik Hudson, and sailed up the lordly river, the finest in the world, as most of the boys agreed, though some, who had traveled, were inclined to favor the claims of the Rhine to that distinction. They were disposed to envy the Dutch explorer, who, first among civilized men, had sailed up the river that bore his name and feasted his eyes upon its incomparable beauty; a delight that contrasted so strongly with the final scene when he and his little son had been thrust by a mutinous crew into an open boat on storm-tossed Arctic waters, and left to perish miserably. The reward, as Dick cynically insisted, of most of the world’s great benefactors, who have been stoned, burned, or otherwise slain by their fellows, while posterity, toolate, has crowned them with laurels and honored them with monuments.
The game with Uncle Sam’s cadets was a fight “for blood,” as was entirely appropriate for future soldiers. In the seventh, with the cadets one run behind, one of them attempted to steal from second to third. Hinsdale got the ball down to Tom like a shot, but, in the mix-up, it was hard to tell whether the runner had made the base or not. The umpire at first called it out, but the captain of the cadets kicked so vigorously that the umpire asked Tom directly whether he had touched him in time.
For an instant Tom hesitated, but only for an instant. Then he straightened up and answered frankly:
“No, I didn’t; he just beat me to it.”
It is only just to Tom’s companions to say that, after the first minute of disappointment, they felt that he could and should have done nothing else. The standard of college honor is high, and when it came to a direct issue, few, if any, of the boys would have acted differently. Even Reddy, with his free and easy views on winning games “by hook or crook,” as long as you win them, felt a heightened respect for Tom, although he shook his head dubiously when the man from third came home on a sacrifice, tieing the score.
The tie still persisted in the ninth, and thegame went into extra innings. In the tenth the Blues scored a run and the cadets made a gallant effort to do the same, or even “go them one better.” A man was on second and another on third, when one of their huskiest batters came to the plate. He caught the ball squarely “on the seam” and sent it straight toward third, about two feet over Tom’s head. He made a tremendous jump, reached up his gloved hand and the ball stuck there. That of course put out the batter. The man on third, thinking it was a sure hit, was racing to the plate. As Tom came down, he landed right on the bag, thus putting out the runner, who had turned and was desperately trying to get back. In the meantime the man on second, who had taken a big lead, had neared third. As he turned to go back to second, Tom chased him and touched him just before he reached the bag. Three men were out, the game was won, and Tom was generously cheered, even by the enemy, while his comrades went wild. He had made a “triple play unassisted,” the dream of every player and one of the rarest feats ever “pulled off” on the baseball diamond.
During the trip, Winters and Benson occupied the pitcher’s box more often than Bert, and it was evident that, despite Bert’s showing in the early spring practice, both Ainslee and Reddy were more inclined to pin their faith this season ontheir tested stars than on the new recruit. They really believed that Bert had “more on the ball” than either of the others, but were inclined to let him have a year on the bench before putting him in for the “big” games. They knew the tremendous importance of experience and they also knew how nerve-racking was the strain of playing before a crowd of perhaps twenty-five thousand frenzied rooters. Bertmightdo this, but Winters and Benson had actuallydoneit, and they could not leave this significant fact out of their calculations. So they carried him along gradually, never letting up on their instruction and advice and occasionally putting him in to pitch one or two innings to relieve the older men after the game was pretty surely won.
Bert was too sensible and sportsmanlike to resent this, and followed with care and enthusiasm the training of his mentors. A better pair of teachers could not have been found and Bert made rapid progress. Something new was constantly coming up, and, as he confided to Dick, he never dreamed there was such a variety of curves. There was “the hook,” “the knuckle,” “the palm,” “the high floater,” “the thumb jump,” “the cross fire,” and so many others that there seemed to be no end to them. But though he sought to add them all to his repertory, he followed Ainslee’s earnest urging to perfect hiswonderful fadeaway, and gave more attention to that than to any other.
“And to think,” he said to Tom, one day, “it isn’t so very long ago that people didn’t believe it was possible to throw a curve ball at all and learned men wrote articles to show that it couldn’t be done.”
“Yes,” said Tom, “they remind me of the eminent scientist who wrote a book proving, to his own satisfaction, at least, that a vessel couldn’t cross the Atlantic under steam. But the first copy of the book that reached America was brought over by a steamer.”
“Yes,” chimed in Dick, “they were like the farmer who had read the description of a giraffe and thought it a fairy story. One day a circus came to town with a giraffe as one of its attractions. The farmer walked all around it, and then, turning to his friends, said stubbornly, ‘There ain’t no such animal.’”
Reddy joined in the laugh that followed and took up the conversation. “Well,” he said, while the others in the Pullman car in which they were traveling drew around him, for they always liked to see him get started on his recollections, “the honor of having discovered the curve rests between Arthur Cummings and Bobby Mathews. It’s never been clearly settled which ‘saw it first.’ Before their time it used to be straight,fast ones and a slow teaser that was thrown underhand. But even at that, don’t run away with the idea that those old fellows weren’t some pitchers. Of course, they were handicapped by the fact that at first they had to keep on pitching until the player hit it. The four-ball rule, and making a foul count for a hit, and all those modern things that have been invented to help the pitcher, hadn’t been thought of then. Naturally, that made heavy batting games. Why, I know that the old Niagara team of Buffalo won a game once by 201 to 11.”
“Yes,” broke in Ainslee, “and the first college game in 1859 was won by Amherst over Williams by a score of 66 to 32.”
“Gee,” said Hinsdale, “the outfielders in those days must have had something to do, chasing the ball.”
“They certainly did,” agreed Reddy, “but, of course, that sort of thing didn’t last very long. The pitchers soon got the upper hand, and then, good-by to the big scores.
“I suppose,” he went on, “that the real beginning of baseball, as we know it to-day, goes back to the old ‘Red Stockings’ of Cincinnati, in ’69 and ’70. There was a team for you. George and Harry Wright and Barnes and Spalding, and a lot of others just as good, went over the country like a prairie fire. There wasn’t anybody thatcould stand up against them. Why, they went all though one season without a single defeat. It got to be after a while that the other teams felt about them just as they say boxers used to feel when they stood up against Sullivan. They were whipped before they put up their hands. The next year they got their first defeat at the hands of the old Atlantics of Brooklyn. I was a wee bit of a youngster then, but I saw that game through a hole in the fence. Talk about excitement! At the end of the ninth inning the score was tied, and the Atlantics were anxious to stop right there. It was glory enough to tie the mighty Red Stockings—a thing that had never been done before—without taking any further chances. But Harry Wright, the captain, was stubborn—I guess he was sorry enough for it afterwards—and the game went on, only to have the Atlantics win in the eleventh by a score of 7 to 6. I’ve seen many a game since, but never one to equal that.
“Of course the game has kept on improving all the time. I ain’t denying that. There used to be a good deal of ‘rough stuff’ in the old days. The gamblers started in to spoil it, and sometimes as much as $20,000 would be in the mutual pools that used to be their way of betting. Then, too, the players didn’t use to get much pay and, with so much money up, it was a big temptation to‘throw’ games. It got to be so, after a while, that you wouldn’t know whether the game was on the level or not. The only salvation of the game was to have some good strong men organize and put it on a solid footing and weed out the grafters. They did this and got a gang of them ‘dead to rights’ in the old Louisville team. They expelled four of them and barred them from the game forever, and, although they moved heaven and earth to get back, they never did. And since that time the game has been as clean as a hound’s tooth. As a matter of fact, it’s about the only game in America, except perhaps football, that you can count on as being absolutely on the square.
“It’s a great sport, all right, and I don’t wonder it is called the national game. It’s splendid exercise for every muscle of the body and every faculty of the brain. Rich or poor, great or small, everybody with a drop of sporting blood in his veins likes it, even if he can’t play it. At the Washington grounds a box seat is reserved for the President, and I notice that no matter how heavy the ‘cares of state,’ he’s usually on hand and rooting for the home team. Why, I’ve heard that when the committee went to notify Lincoln that he was nominated for President, he was out at the ball ground, playing ‘one old cat,’ and the committee had to wait until he’d had his turn atbat. It may not be true, but it’s good enough to be.”
“And not only is it our national game,” put in Ainslee, “but other countries are taking it up as well. They have dandy baseball teams in Cuba and Japan, that would make our crack nines hustle to beat them, and, in Canada, it is already more popular than cricket.”
“I’ve heard,” said Tom, “that not long ago they made a cable connection with some island way up in the Arctic Circle. The World’s Series was being played then, and the very first message that came over the cable from the little bunch of Americans up there was: ‘What’s the score?’”
“Yes,” laughed Ainslee, “it gets in the blood, and with the real ‘dyed in the wool’ fan it’s the most important thing in the world. You’ve heard perhaps of the pitcher who was so dangerously sick that he wasn’t expected to live. The family doctor stood at the bedside and took his temperature. He shook his head gravely.
“‘It’s 104,’ he said.
“‘You’re a liar,’ said the pitcher, rousing himself, ‘my average last season was .232, and it would have been more if the umpire hadn’t robbed me.’”
The train drew up at Washington just then, and the laughing crowd hustled to get their traps together. Here they played the last game of theseason with the strong Georgetown University nine, and just “nosed them out” in an exciting game that went eleven innings. While in the city they visited the Washington Monument, that matchless shaft of stone that dwarfs everything else in the National Capital. Of course the boys wanted to try to catch a ball dropped from the top, but the coach would not consent.
“Only two or three men in the world have been able to do that,” he said, “and they took big chances. I’ve had too much trouble getting you fellows in good condition, to take any needless risks.”
So the boys turned homeward, bronzed, trained, exultant over their string of well-earned victories, and, in the approving phrase of Reddy, “fit to fight for a man’s life.” Ainslee left them at New York to join his team amid a chorus of cheers from the young athletes that he had done so much to form. From now on, it was “up to them” to justify his hopes and bring one more pennant to the dear old Alma Mater.
“Play ball!” shouted the umpire, and the buzz of conversation in the grandstand ceased. All eyes were fastened on the two teams about to enter on the first important game of the season, and people sat up straight and forgot everything else, so great was their interest in the forthcoming event.
All the games that the Blues had played up to this time had been with teams over which they felt reasonably sure of winning a victory, but the nine they had to face to-day was a very different proposition. Most of the young fellows composing it were older and had had more experience than the Blues, and the latter knew that they would have to do their very utmost to win, if win they did. The thing they most relied on, however, was the fact that their pitcher was very good, and they believed that he would probably win the day for them.
Of course, they had a lot of confidence in themselves, too, but the importance of a steady, efficientpitcher to any team can hardly be exaggerated. It gives them a solid foundation on which to build up a fast, winning team, and nobody realized this better than Mr. Ainslee, their veteran coach.
“Only give me one good pitcher,” he was wont to say, “and I’ll guarantee to turn out a team that will win the college championship.”
The star on the college team this year, Winters, was, without doubt, an exceptionally good pitcher. He had considerable speed and control, and his curves could generally be counted on to elude the opposing batsmen. He was the only son in a wealthy family, however, and, as a consequence, had a very exaggerated idea of his own importance. He was inclined to look down on the fellows who did not travel in what he called “his set,” and often went out of his way to make himself disagreeable to them.
As Dick put it, “He liked to be the ‘main squeeze,’” and he had been much irritated over the way in which Bert had attracted the coach’s attention, and the consequent talk on the campus regarding the “new pitcher.” He and his friends made it a point to sneer at and discredit these stories, however, and to disparage Bert on every possible occasion.
The veteran trainer had not forgotten, however, and moreover he was worried in secretabout Winters. It was, of course, his duty to see that all the players attended strictly to business, and let no outside interests interfere with their training. Of late, however, he had heard from several sources that Winters had been seen in the town resorts at various times when he was supposed to be in bed, and Reddy knew, none better, what that meant.
However, he hoped that the pitcher would not force him to an open rebuke, and so had said nothing as yet. Nevertheless, as has been said, he kept Bert in mind as a possible alternative, although he hoped that he would not be forced to use him.
“He’s had too little experience yet,” he mused. “If I should put him in a game, he’d go up like a rocket, most likely. Them green pitchers can’t be relied upon, even if he did fool Ainslee,” and the veteran, in spite of his worry, was forced to smile over the memory of how Bert had struck the great coach out in practice.
Previous to the actual start of the game both teams had been warming up on the field, and each had won murmurs of applause from the grandstands. To the wise ones, however, it was apparent that the Blues were a trifle shaky in fielding work, and many were seen to shake their heads dubiously.
“The youngsters will have to do some tallhustling if they expect to win from the visitors,” one gray-haired man was heard to say, “but they say they have a crackerjack pitcher, that’s one thing in their favor.”
“Yes, of course,” agreed his friend, “but it’s not only that; the other fellows have had a whole lot more experience than our boys. And that counts an awful lot when it comes to a pinch.”
“You’re right, it does,” acquiesced the other; “however, there’s no use crossing the bridge till we come to it. We’ll hope for the best, anyway.”
After a little more practice both teams retired to the clubhouse to make their last preparations. Not many minutes later everything was in readiness, and the teams trotted into their positions. Of course, the visitors went to bat first, and then could be heard the umpire’s raucous cry of “Play ball!” that ushered in the game.
A wave of handclapping and a storm of encouraging shouts and yells swept over the grandstand, and then ensued a breathless silence. The first two balls Winters pitched were wild, but then he steadied down, and struck the first batter out. The second man up swung wildly, but after having two strikes called, popped an easy fly toward first base that Dick smothered “easier than rolling off a log,” as he afterwards said. The third man met with no better fate, and Winters struck him out with apparent ease.
As the fielders trotted in, the elderly gentleman who had entertained such doubts before chuckled, “Well, now if our boys can only get in a little stick work, and keep on holding them down like this, it looks as though they might win, after all.”
Tom was the first man up at the bat for the Blues. But the pitcher opposed to him had lots of “stuff” on his delivery, and the best Tom could do was to lift an easy foul that dropped into the catcher’s glove.
The next man up was struck out, as was also the third, and the inning ended without a run for either team.
From his seat on the substitutes’ bench, Bert had watched the game up to this point with eager eyes, and had felt that he would almost have given ten years of his life to take part in it. He knew there was practically no chance of this, however, and so with a sigh of regret settled back to watch the further progress of the game.
The next two innings also passed without a run scored on either side, and it became more and more evident as the game went on that this was to be a pitchers’ battle.
The first man up at bat for the visitors at the beginning of the fourth inning was considered their heaviest hitter, and as he walked up to the plate he was swinging two bats, one of which hethrew aside as he stepped to the plate. From the way he crouched in readiness for the ball it could be seen that he meant business, and the coach called Winters over to him.
“You want to be mighty careful what you feed this man,” he whispered, “and whatever you do, keep them low. He likes high balls, and if you give him one up as high as his shoulder, he’ll swat it, sure.”
“Oh, you can bet he won’t get a hit off me,” replied Winters, carelessly. “I’ve got that team eating out of my hand.”
“Don’t be too sure of that, my lad,” warned the coach, but Winters only smiled in a superior fashion and strolled back to the box.
The first ball he pitched was an incurve, but it looked good to the batter, and he swung at it viciously. He missed it clean, and the umpire shouted, “One strike!”
This made Winters a little careless, and the next ball he pitched was just the one that the coach had warned him against. The batter took a step forward, swung fiercely at the ball, and there was a sharp crack as the ball and bat connected. The ball shot back with the speed of a bullet, and the outfielders started in hopeless chase. Baird, the batter, tore around the bases, and amid a veritable riot of cheering from the visiting rooters and a glum silence from the homesupporters, charged across the sack for a home run!
Too late now Winters thought of Reddy’s warning, and wished he had given it more heed. He knew that in so close a contest as this promised to be, one run would probably be enough to win the game, and this knowledge made him nervous. The breaks from training that he had been guilty of lately began to tell, also, and he commenced to lose confidence, a fatal thing in a pitcher. However, he managed to get through the inning somehow, and walked to the bench with a crestfallen air.
The coach forbore to reproach him just then, as he knew that it would probably do more harm than good. However, he kept a sharp eye on him, and inwardly was very much worried. He knew that Benson was not speedy enough to stand much chance against as strong a team as they were now playing, and though a great admirer of Bert, he did not know whether he had the stamina to go a full game. He resolved to give Winters every chance to recover himself, and prayed that he would be able to do so.
The first man of the home team to go to bat struck out on the hot curves served up to him, but Dick connected with the ball for a clean two-base hit. A great cheer went up at this feat, but it was destined to have little effect. The secondman fouled out and the third raised an easy fly to the pitcher’s box, and so Dick’s pretty drive did them no good.
In the fifth inning Winters’ pitching became more and more erratic, and to Reddy’s experienced eye it became evident that he would soon “blow up.” So he strolled over to the substitutes’ bench and sat down beside Bert.
“How does your arm feel to-day, Wilson?” he inquired. “Do you feel as though you could pitch if I happened to need you?”
Bert’s heart gave a great leap, but he managed to subdue his joy as he realized the trainer’s meaning, and answered, “Why, yes, I think I could make out all right. Do you think you will need me?”
“Well, there’s just a chance that I may,” replied Reddy, “and I want you to be ready to jump out and warm up the minute I give you the signal.”
“I’ll be ready, sir, I can promise you that,” replied Bert, earnestly, and the trainer appeared a little more hopeful as he turned away.
“I can at least count on that young chap doing the best that is in him, at any rate,” he thought; “he certainly doesn’t look like a quitter to me.”
In their half of the fifth inning the home team was unable to make any headway against the opposing pitcher’s curves, which seemed to get betterand better as the game progressed. Dick felt, in some mysterious way, that his team was losing heart, and his one hope was that the coach would give Bert a chance to pitch. The boys, one after another, struck out or lifted easy flies, and not one man reached first base.
The visitors now came to bat again, and the first ball Winters pitched was slammed out into left field for a two-base hit. The next batter up stepped to the plate with a grin on his face, and one of his teammates called, “Go to it, Bill. Eat ’em alive. We’ve got their goat now.”
The man thus adjured leaned back, and as Winters delivered a slow, easy ball he swung viciously and sent a smoking grounder straight for the pitcher’s box. The ball passed Winters before he had time to stoop for it, but White, the shortstop, made a pretty pick-up, and slammed the ball to Dick at first. The ball arrived a second too late to put the runner out, however, and in the meantime the first man had reached third. Now was a crucial moment, and everything depended on the pitcher. All eyes were fastened on him, but from something in his attitude Reddy knew that he was on the verge of a breakdown. Nor was he mistaken in this, for out of the next five balls Winters pitched, only one strike was called. The rest were balls, and the umpire motioned to the batter to take first base. Of coursethis advanced the man on first to second base, thus leaving all the bases full and none out.
As Winters was winding up preparatory to delivering one of his erstwhile famous drops, Reddy motioned to Bert, and in a second the latter was up and had shed his sweater. He trotted over to where Reddy was standing, and said, “You wanted me, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” replied Reddy, in a tense voice; “get Armstrong there”—motioning toward the substitute catcher—“and warm up as quickly as you can. Take it easy, though!” he commanded; “don’t start in too hard! You might throw your arm out on the first few balls. Just limber up gradually.”
“All right, sir,” replied Bert, and called to Armstrong.
In the meantime Winters had pitched two wild balls, and the visiting rooters were yelling like maniacs. The third ball was an easy inshoot, and the batter, making a nice calculation, landed it fair and square. It flew over into left field, between the pitcher’s box and third base, and before it could be returned to the waiting catcher two runners had crossed the plate. This made the score three to none in favor of the visitors, with two men on base and none out. Matters looked hopeless indeed for the home team, and one of the spectators groaned, “It’s all over now but theshouting, fellows. Winters is up higher than a kite, and we’ve got nobody to put in his place. This game will just be a slaughter from now on.”
“How about young Wilson?” asked his friend. “I heard the other day that he had showed up pretty well in practice. It looks now as though Reddy meant to put him in the box. See, he’s warming up over there right now.”
“Ye gods and little fishes!” lamented the other. “Now we are cooked, for fair. It was bad enough with Winters pitching, but now when they put that greenhorn Freshie in, we’ll just be a laughing stock, that’s all. Why doesn’t the band play the funeral march?”
“Aw, wait and see,” said the other. “I don’t suppose we’ve got the ghost of a show, but Dick Trent was telling me of some pretty good stunts this boy Wilson has pulled off before this. He was telling me about a race in which Wilson drove a car across the tape a winner after a dickens of a grilling race. Any fellow that’s got nerve enough to drive a racing auto ought to be able to hold his own at baseball or anything else. You just sit tight and don’t groan so much, and he may show us something yet.”
“Forget it, Bill, forget it,” returned the other. “They’ve got our team running, and they’ll keep it running, take my word for it.”
“That’s right,” agreed another, “we might aswell go home now as to wait for the slaughter. This game is over, right now.”
“Hey, look at that!” yelled the first speaker, excitedly. “There goes Wilson into the box. Three cheers for Wilson, fellows. Now! One! two! three!”
The cheers were given by the faithful fans, but they had given up hope. It was indeed, as the rooter had said, however, and Bert was actually being given an opportunity to pitch in a big game, when he had only been with the team a few months! Many a pitcher has been a substitute until his junior year, and never had a chance like this one. And, to tell the truth, Reddy himself would have been the last one to put what he considered an inexperienced pitcher into the box, if he had had any alternative. Now, however, it was a case of having no choice, because he knew that the game was irretrievably lost if Winters continued to pitch, so he put Bert in as a forlorn hope, but without any real expectation that he would win.
As he noticed the confident way in which Bert walked to the box, however, he plucked up courage a little, but immediately afterward shook his head. “Pshaw,” he thought, “they’ve got too big a lead on us. If Wilson can only hold them down so that they don’t make monkeys of us, it will be more than I have a right to hope.”
For all Bert’s nonchalant air, however, it must not be thought that he was not excited or nervous. He had had comparatively little baseball experience in such fast company as this. He had learned, however, to keep a cool and level head in times of stress, and he knew that everything depended on this. So he just gritted his teeth, and when he motioned to the catcher to come up and arrange signals, the latter hardly suspected what a turmoil was going on under Bert’s cool exterior.
“Just take it easy, kid,” he advised. “Don’t try to put too much stuff on the ball at first, and pitch as though we were only practising back of the clubhouse. Don’t let those blamed rooters get you nervous, either. Take your time before each ball, and we’ll pull through all right. Now, just get out there, and show them what you’ve got.”
Bert took his position in the box, and the umpire tossed him a brand new ball. Remembering the catcher’s advice, he wound up very deliberately, and pitched a swift, straight one square over the middle of the plate. The batsman had expected the “greenhorn” to try a fancy curve, and so was not prepared for a ball of this kind. “One str-r-rike!” yelled the umpire, and the catcher muttered approvingly to himself. The batter, however, took a fresh grip on his bat,and resolved to “knock the cover off” the next one. Bert delivered a wide out curve, and the batter swung hard, but only touched the ball, for a foul, and had another strike called on him. “Aw, that kid’s running in luck,” he thought. “But watch me get to him this time.”
The next ball Bert pitched looked like an easy one, and the batter, measuring its flight carefully with his eye, drew his bat back and swung with all the weight of his body. Instead of sending the ball over the fence, however, as he had confidently expected, the momentum of his swing was spent against empty air, and so great was its force that the bat flew out of his hand. “Three strikes,” called the umpire, and amid a riot of cheering from the home rooters the batter gazed stupidly about him.
“By the great horn spoon,” he muttered, under his breath, “somebody must have come along and stolen that ball just as I was going to hit it. I’ll swear that if it was in the air when I swung at it that I would have landed it.”
As he walked to the bench the captain said, “What’s the matter with you, Al? Has the freshie got you buffaloed?”
“Aw, nix on that, cap,” replied the disgruntled batter. “Wait until you get up there. Either that kid’s having a streak of luck or else he’s got that ball hypnotized. That last one he pitchedjust saw my bat coming and dodged under it. I think he’s got ’em trained.”
“Why, you poor simp,” laughed the captain; “just wait till I get up there. Why, we all saw that last ball you bit on so nicely. It was a cinch, wasn’t it, boys?”
It sure was, they all agreed, but the unfortunate object of these pleasantries shook his head in a puzzled way, and stared at Bert.
As it happened, the next batter was the same who had scored the home run in the first part of the game, and he swaggered confidently to the plate.
Bert had overheard what the coach had told Winters in regard to this batter, so he delivered a low ball, which the batter let pass. “One ball,” called the umpire, and the captain of the visitors’ team remarked, “I thought he couldn’t last. That was just a streak of ‘beginner’s luck,’ that’s all.”
The next ball looked good to the batsman, and he lunged hard at the white sphere. It was a tantalizing upshoot, however, and he raised an easy fly to Dick at first. The man on second had become so absorbed in watching Bert, that when Dick wheeled like lightning and snapped the ball to second, he was almost caught napping, and barely got back in time.
The home rooters, who up to now had beenrather listless in their cheering, now started in with a rush, and a veritable storm of cheering and singing shook the grandstand. The coach drew a deep breath, and began to allow himself the luxury of a little hope.
The third man up was the captain, who had boasted so of what he was going to do to the “green” pitcher. As he rose to go to the plate he remarked, “Watch me, now, Al, and I’ll show you what it is like to swat a ball over the fence.”
He selected a very heavy bat, and stepped jauntily to the plate. Bert had been warned to do his best against this man, as he was popularly known as the “pitcher’s hoodoo.” He resolved to use his “fadeaway” ball for all it was worth, and shook his head at all the catcher’s signals until the latter signaled for the fadeaway. He then nodded his head, and wound up very deliberately. Then he pitched what looked like a straight, fast ball to the expectant batsman. The latter gripped his bat and put all his strength into what he fondly hoped would be a “homer.” His bat whistled as it cut the air, but in some mysterious way failed to even touch the ball, which landed with a loud “plunk!” in the catcher’s mitt. A roar of derisive laughter went up from the rooters, and the captain looked rather foolish. “That’s mighty queer,” he thought, “there mustbe something the matter with the balance of this bat. I guess I’ll try another.” Accordingly, he took a fresh bat, and waited with renewed confidence for the next ball. This time he swung more carefully, but with no better result. “Two strikes!” barked the umpire, and the frenzied rooters stood up on their seats and yelled themselves hoarse. “Wilson! Wilson! Wilson!” they roared in unison, and Bert felt a great surge of joy go through him. His arm felt in perfect condition, and he knew that if called upon he could have pitched the whole game and not have been overtired. He handled the ball carefully, and fitted it in just the right position in his hand. He resolved to try the same ball once more, as he thought the batter would probably think that he would try something else. This he did, and although the batter felt sure that he had this ball measured to the fraction of an inch, his vicious swing encountered nothing more substantial than air.
“Three strikes!” called the umpire, and amid a storm of cheering and ridicule from the grandstand the discomfited batter slammed his bat down and walked over to his teammates.
It was now Al’s turn to crow, and he did so unmercifully. “What’s the matter, cap?” he inquired, grinning wickedly. “That kid hasn’t got your goat, has he? Where’s that homer over thefence that you were alluding to a few minutes ago?”
“Aw, shut up!” returned the captain, angrily. “That Freshie’s got a delivery that would fool Ty Cobb. There’s no luck about that. It’s just dandy pitching.”
“I could have told you that,” said the other, “but I thought I’d let you find it out for yourself. That boy’s a wonder.”
The home team trotted in from the field eagerly, and there was a look in their eyes that Reddy was glad to see. “They’ve got some spirit and confidence in them now,” he thought. “I certainly think I’ve got a kingpin pitcher at last. But I’d better not count my chickens before they’re hatched. He may go all to pieces in the next inning.”
As they came in, Dick and Tom slapped Bert on the back. “We knew you could do it, old scout!” they exulted. “What will old Winters’ pals have to say after this?”
Reddy said little, but scanned Bert’s face carefully, and seemed satisfied. “I guess you’ll do, Wilson,” he said. “We’ll let you pitch this game out, and see what you can do.”
Sterling was the first man up, and he walked to the plate with a resolve to do or die written on his face. He planted his feet wide apart, and connected with the first pitched ball for a hotgrounder that got him safely to first base. The rooters cheered frantically, and the cheering grew when it was seen that Bert was the next batter. This was more in recognition, however, of his good work in the box. Heavy hitting is not expected of a pitcher, and nobody looked to see Bert do much in this line. While he had been watching the game from the bench, he had studied the opposing pitcher’s delivery carefully, and had learned one or two facts regarding it. He felt sure that if the pitcher delivered a certain ball, he would be able to connect with it, but was disappointed at first. Bert bit at a wide out curve, and fouled the next ball, which was a fast, straight one. But as the pitcher wound up for the third one Bert’s heart leaped, for he saw that this was going to be the ball that he had been hoping for. He grasped his bat near the end, for Bert was what is known as a “free swinger,” and crouched expectantly. The ball came to him like a shot, but he swung his bat savagely and clipped the ball with terrific force toward third base. Almost before the spectators realized that the ball had been hit, Bert was racing toward first base, and the man already on base was tearing up the sod toward second.
The ball scorched right through the hands of the third baseman, and crashed against the left field fence. The fielders scurried wildly after it,but before they could return it to the infield, the man on first base had scored, and Bert was on third.
“We’ll win yet! We’ll win yet! We’ll win yet!” croaked a rooter, too hoarse to yell any longer. “What’s the matter with Wilson?” and in one vast roar came the answer, “HE’S ALL RIGHT!”
The home team players were all dancing around excitedly, and they pounded Hinsdale unmercifully on the back, for he was up next. “Bust a hole through the fence, Hinsdale,” they roared; “they’re on the run now. Go in and break a bat over the next ball!”
“Hin” fairly ran to the plate in his eagerness, and, as he afterward said, he felt as though he “couldn’t miss if he tried.” The first ball over the plate he slammed viciously at the pitcher, who stopped the ball, but fumbled it a few seconds, thus giving him a chance to get to first. The pitcher then hurled the ball to the home plate, in the hope of cutting off Bert from scoring, but was a fraction of a second too late, and Bert raced in with one more run.
The pitcher now tightened up, however, and put his whole soul into stopping this winning streak, and it looked as though he had succeeded. The next two batters struck out on six pitched balls, and the visiting rooters had a chance toexercise their voices, which had had a rest for some time. Drake was up next, and he knocked out a long fly that looked good, but was pulled down by a fielder after a pretty run. This ended the sixth inning, and the visitors were still one run ahead.
As Bert was about to go onto the field, Reddy said, “Don’t take it too hard, Wilson. Don’t mind if they do hit a ball sometimes. If you try to strike each man out without fail, it makes too great a tax on your arm. Let the fielders work once in a while.”
With these instructions in mind, Bert eased up a little in the next inning, but the visitors had no chance to do any effective slugging. Twice they got a man on first base, but each time Bert struck out the following batter or only allowed him to hit the ball for an easy fly that was smothered without any trouble.
Consequently the visitors failed to score that inning, but they were still one run ahead, and knew that if they could hold Bert’s team down they would win the game.
The home team failed to “get to” the ball for anything that looked like a run, and the seventh inning ended with no change in the score.
“Well, Wilson, it’s up to you to hold them down,” said Reddy, as the players started for their positions in the beginning of the eighth inning.“Do you feel as though you could do it?”
“Why, I’ll do my best,” replied Bert, modestly. “My arm feels stronger than it did when I started, so I guess I’m good for some time yet, at any rate.”
“All right, go in and win,” replied Reddy, with a smile, and Bert needed no urging.
The first man to bat for the visitors was the one called Al, who had first had a taste of Bert’s “fadeaway.” He swung viciously on the first ball that Bert offered him, which happened to be a fast in-curve. By a combination of luck and skill he managed to land the sphere for a safe trip to first. The cover of the ball was found to be torn when it was thrown back. Consequently, Bert had to pitch with a new ball, and failed to get his customary control. Much to his disgust he pitched four balls and two strikes, and the batter walked to first, forcing the man already on first to second base.
“Yah, yah!” yelled a visiting rooter. “It’s all over. He’s blowing up! Pitcher’s got a glass arm! Yah! Yah!”
Others joined him in this cry, and Reddy looked worried. “That’s enough to rattle any green pitcher,” he thought. “I only hope they don’t know what they’re talking about, and I don’t think they do. Wilson’s a game boy, or I’m very much mistaken.”
“Don’t let ’em scare you, Bert,” called Dick, from first base. “Let ’em yell their heads off if they want to. Don’t mind ’em.”
“No danger of that,” returned Bert, confidently. “Just watch my smoke for a few minutes, that’s all.”
Bert struck out the next batter in three pitched balls, and the clamor from the hostile rooters died down. The next batter was the captain, and he was burning for revenge, but popped a high foul to Hinsdale, the catcher, and retired, saying things not to be approved. The third man was struck out after Bert had had two balls called on him, and this ended the visitors’ half of the eighth inning.
The home team could make no better headway against the visitors’ pitching and team work, however, and the inning ended without a tally. The score stood three to two in the visitors’ favor, and things looked rather dark for the home boys.
At the beginning of the ninth the visitors sent a pinch hitter, named Burroughs, to the plate to bat in place of Al, who by now had an almost superstitious fear of Bert’s delivery, and declared that “he couldn’t hit anything smaller than a football if that Freshie pitched it.”
Burroughs was hampered by no such feelings, however, and, after two strikes had been called on him, he managed to connect with a fast,straight ball and sent it soaring into the outfield. It looked like an easy out, but at the last moment the fielder shifted his position a little too much, and the ball dropped through his fingers. Before he could get it in, the runner had reached third base, where he danced excitedly and emitted whoops of joy.
Bert felt a sinking sensation at his heart, as he realized how much depended on him. The next man up made a clever bunt, and although he was put out, Burroughs reached home ahead of the ball, bringing in another run.
He was rewarded with a storm of applause from the visiting rooters, and it seemed as though all hope had departed for the home team.
With the next batter Bert made unsparing use of his fadeaway, and struck him out with little trouble. The third man shared the same fate, but it seemed as though the game were irretrievably lost. A two-run lead in the ninth inning seemed insurmountable, and Reddy muttered things under his breath. When the boys came trooping over to the bench, he said, “What’s the matter with you fellows, anyway? What good does it do for Wilson to hold the other team down, if you don’t do any stick work to back him up? Get in there now, and see if you can’t knock out a few runs. A game is never finished until thelast half of the ninth inning, and you’ve got a good chance yet. Go to it.”
Every chap on the team resolved to make a run or die in the attempt, and Reddy could see that his speech had had some effect.
Dick was the first batter up, and he selected a heavy “wagon tongue” and stepped to the plate. The pitcher may have been a little careless, but at any rate Dick got a ball just where he wanted it, and swung with all his strength. The ball fairly whistled as it left the bat and dashed along the ground just inside the right foul line. Dick sprinted frantically around the bases, and got to third before he was stopped by Tom, who had been waiting for him. “No further, old sock,” said Tom, excitedly. “That was a crackerjack hit, but you could never have got home on it. Gee! if Hodge will only follow this up we’ve got a chance.”
Hodge was a good batter, and he waited stolidly until he got a ball that suited him. Two strikes were called on him, and still he waited. Then the pitcher sent him a long out curve, and Hodge connected with the ball for a safe one-bag hit, while Dick raced home. It looked bright for the home team now, but the next batter struck out, and although Hodge made a daring slide to second, a splendid throw cut him off.
Sterling was up next, and on the third pitched ball he managed to plant a short drive in left field that got him safely to first base. Then it was Bert’s turn at the bat, and a great roar greeted him as he stepped to the plate.
“Win your own game, Wilson,” someone shouted, and Bert resolved to do so, if possible.
He tried to figure out what the pitcher would be likely to offer him, and decided that he would probably serve up a swift, straight one at first. He set himself for this, but the pitcher had different ideas, and sent over a slow drop that Bert swung at, a fraction of a second too late. “Strike,” called the umpire, and the hostile fans yelled delightedly. The next one Bert drove out for what looked like a good hit, but it turned out to be a foul. “Two strikes,” barked the umpire, and some of the people in the grandstand rose as if to leave, evidently thinking that the game was practically over.
Bert watched every motion of the pitcher as he wound up, and so was pretty sure what kind of a ball was coming. The pitcher was noted for his speed, and, almost at the moment the ball left his hand, Bert swung his bat straight from the shoulder, with every ounce of strength he possessed in back of it. There was a sharp crack as the bat met the ball, and the sphere mountedupward and flew like a bullet for the center field fence.
As if by one impulse, every soul in the grandstand and bleachers rose to his or her feet, and a perfect pandemonium of yells broke forth. The fielders sprinted madly after the soaring ball, but they might have saved themselves the trouble. It cleared the fence by a good ten feet, and Bert cantered leisurely around the bases, and came across the home plate with the winning run.
Then a yelling, cheering mob swept down on the field, and enveloped the players. In a moment Bert and some of the others were hoisted up on broad shoulders, and carried around the field by a crowd of temporary maniacs. It was some time before Bert could get away from his enthusiastic admirers, and join the rest of his teammates.
As he entered the dressing rooms, Reddy grasped his hand, and said, “Wilson, you have done some great work to-day, and I want to congratulate you. From now on you are one of the regular team pitchers.”
“Thank you, sir,” replied Bert, “but I don’t deserve any special credit. We all did the best we could, and that was all anybody could do.”
So ended the first important game of the season, and Bert’s position in the college was established beyond all question. Winters’ friendsmade a few half-hearted efforts to detract from his popularity, but were met with such a cold reception that they soon gave up the attempt, and Bert was the undisputed star pitcher of the university team.
“Gee whiz! I’m glad I don’t have to do this every day,” said Tom, as he stood, ruefully regarding his trunk, whose lid refused to close by several inches.
“I’m jiggered if I see why it should look like that. Even with the fellows’ things, it isn’t half as full as it was when I came from home, and it didn’t cut up like that.”
The Easter holidays were approaching, and “the three guardsmen” had received a most cordial invitation from Mr. Hollis to spend them with him at his home.
Feeling the strain of the baseball season, the fellows were only too glad of a short breathing spell and had gratefully accepted the invitation. They were looking forward with eager anticipation to the visit.
They would not need very much luggage for just a few days’ stay, so, as Tom owned a small steamer trunk, they had decided to make it servefor all three. The fellows had brought their things in the night before and left Tom to pack them.
Tom had heard people say that packing a trunk was a work of time, and had congratulated himself on the quickness and ease with which that particular trunk was packed; but when he encountered the almost human obstinacy with which that lid resisted his utmost efforts, he acknowledged that it wasn’t “such a cinch after all.”
After one more ineffectual effort to close it, he again eyed it disgustedly.
“I can’t do a blamed thing with it,” he growled, and then catching the sound of voices in Dick’s room overhead, he shouted:
“Come on in here, fellows, and help me get this apology for a trunk shut.”
When Dick and Bert reached him, Tom was stretched almost full length on the trunk and raining disgusted blows in the region of the lock.
He looked so absurdly funny that the fellows executed a war dance of delight and roared with laughter, and then proceeded to drag Tom bodily off the trunk.
Landing him with scant ceremony on the floor, they proceeded to show the discomfited Freshman that a trunk lid with any spirit could not consent to close over an indiscriminate mixture of underwear, pajamas, suits of clothes, collar boxes, andshoe and military brushes—most of these latter standing upright on end.
With the brushes lying flat, boxes stowed away in corners, and clothing smoothly folded, the balky trunk lid closed, as Tom, grinning sheepishly, declared, “meeker a hundred times than Moses.”
This disposed of, and dressed and ready at last, their thoughts and conversation turned with one accord to the delightful fact that Mr. Hollis was to send the old “Red Scout” to take them to his home.
The very mention of the name “Red Scout” was sufficient to set all three tongues going at once, as, during the half-hour before they could expect the car, they recalled incidents of that most glorious and exciting summer at the camp, when the “Red Scout” had been their unending source of delight.
“Do you remember,” said Tom, “the first time we went out in her, when we were so crazy with the delight of it that we forgot everything else, and gave her the speed limit, and came near to having a once-for-all smash-up?”
They certainly did. “And,” said Dick, “the day we gave poor old Biddy Harrigan her first ‘artymobile’ ride. Didn’t she look funny when the wind spread out that gorgeous red feather?”
They all laughed heartily at this recollection,but their faces grew grave again as they recalled the time when, the brake failing to work, they rushed over the bridge with only a few inches between them and disaster.
“That certainly was a close call,” said Bert, “but not so close as the race we had with the locomotive. I sure did think then that our time had come.”
“But,” Tom broke in, “‘all’s well that ends well,’ and say, fellows,didit end well with us? Will you ever forget that wonderful race with the ‘Gray Ghost’? Great Scott! I can feel my heart thump again as it did that final lap. And that last minute when the blessed old ‘Red Scout’ poked her nose over the line—ahead!” and in his excitement Tom began forging around the room at great speed, but made a rush for the window at the sound of a familiar “toot, to-oo-t.”
“There she is,” he announced joyfully, and, taking the stairs three steps at a time, and crossing the campus in about as many seconds, they gave three cheers for the old “Red Scout,” which bore them away from college scenes with its old-time lightning speed.
Easter was late that year and spring had come early. There had been a number of warm days, and already the springing grass had clothed the earth in its Easter dress of soft, tender green. Tree buds were bursting into leaf, and in manyof the gardens that they passed crocuses were lifting their little white heads above the ground. Robins flashed their red and filled the air with music. Spring was everywhere! And, as the warm, fragrant air swept their faces they thrilled with the very joy of living, and almost wished the ride might last forever.
At last, “There is Mr. Hollis’ house, the large white one just before us,” said the chauffeur, and, so swiftly sped the “Red Scout” that almost before the last word was spoken, they stopped and were cordially welcomed by Mr. Hollis.
As they entered the hall they stood still, looked, rubbed their eyes and looked again. Then Tom said in a dazed way, “Pinch me, Bert, I’m dreaming.” For there in a row on either side of the hall stood every last one of the fellows who had camped with them that never-to-be-forgotten summer. Bob and Frank and Jim Dawson, Ben Cooper and Dave and Charlie Adams, and—yes—peeping mischievously from behind the door, Shorty, little Shorty! who now broke the spell with:
“Hello, fellows. What’s the matter? Hypnotized?”
Then—well it was fortunate for Mr. Hollis that he was used to boys, and so used also to noise; for such a shouting of greetings and babel of questions rose, that nobody could hear anybodyelse speak. Little they cared. They were all together once more, with days of pure pleasure in prospect. Nothing else mattered; and Mr. Hollis, himself as much a boy at heart as any one of them, enjoyed it all immensely.
Glancing at the clock, he suddenly remembered that dinner would soon be served, and drove the three latest arrivals off to their room to prepare.
Short as the ride had seemed to the happy automobilists, it had lasted several hours. Though they had eaten some sandwiches on the way, they were all in sympathy with Tom who, while they prepared for dinner confided to his chums that he was a “regular wolf!”
It goes without saying that they all did ample justice to that first dinner, and that there never was a jollier or more care-free company. None of the boys ever forgot the wonderful evening with Mr. Hollis.
A man of large wealth and cultivated tastes, his home was filled with objects of interest. He spared no pains to make his young guests feel at home and gave them a delightful evening.
The pleasant hours sped so rapidly that all were amazed when the silvery chimes from the grandfather’s clock in the living room rang out eleven o’clock, and Mr. Hollis bade them all “good-night.”
They had not realized that they were tireduntil they reached their rooms. Once there, however, they were glad to tumble into their comfortable beds, and, after a unanimous vote that Mr. Hollis was a brick, quiet reigned at last.
To Bert in those quiet hours came a very vivid dream. He thought he was wandering alone across a vast plain in perfect darkness at first, in which he stumbled blindly forward.
Suddenly there came a great flash of lightning which gleamed for a moment and was gone. Instantly there came another and another, one so closely following the other that there was an almost constant blinding glare, while all the while the dreamer was conscious of a feeling of apprehension, of impending danger.
So intense did this feeling become and so painful, that at last the dreamer awoke—to find that it was not all a dream! The room was no longer dark and he saw a great light flashing outside his window pane. Springing from bed it needed only one glance to show him that the wing of the neighboring house only a few hundred feet away was in flames.
Giving the alarm, and at the same time pulling on a few clothes, he rushed out of the house and over to the burning building. So quick was his action that he had entered into the burning house and shouted the alarm of fire before Mr. Hollis and his guests realized what was happening.Very soon all the inmates of Mr. Hollis’ house and of the neighboring houses rushed to the scene to do what they could, while awaiting the arrival of the local fire engines.
In the meantime Bert had stopped a screaming, hysterical maid as she was rushing from the house and compelled her to show him where her mistress slept. The poor lady’s room was in the burning wing and Bert and Mr. Hollis, who had now joined him, broke open the door. They found her unconscious from smoke and, lifting her, carried her into the open air.
Nothing could be learned from the maids. One had fainted and the other was too hysterical from fright to speak coherently. One of the neighbors told them that the owner was away on business and not expected home for several days. He asked if the child were safe, and just at that moment the little white-clad figure of a child about six years old appeared at one of the upper gable windows.
By this time, though the engines had arrived, and were playing streams of water on the burning building, the fire had spread to the main house and both the lower floors were fiercely burning. Entrance or escape by the stairways was an impossibility, and the longest ladders reached barely to the second story windows. The local fire company was not supplied with nets.
It seemed to all that the little child must perish, and, to add to the horror of the scene, the child’s mother had regained consciousness, and, seeing her little one in such mortal danger, rushed frantically toward the burning house. She was held back by tender but strong hands. She could do nothing to help her child, but her entreaties to be allowed to go to her were heart-breaking.
All but one were filled with despair. Bert, scanning the building for some means of rescue, saw that a large leader pipe ran down a corner of the building from roof to ground, and was secured to the walls of the house by broad, iron brackets. The space between it and the window where the child stood seemed to be about three feet. If he could climb that leader by means of those iron supports, he might be able to leap across the intervening space and reach the window.
All this passed through Bert’s mind with lightning-like rapidity. He knew that if he failed to reach the window—well, he would not consider that.
Coming to quick decision, he ran forward, dodged the detaining hands stretched out, and before anyone had an inkling of his purpose, was climbing the ladder from bracket to bracket. More than one called frantically to come back,but with the thought of that despairing mother, and with his eyes fixed on the little child in the window, he went on steadily up, foot by foot, until, at last, he was on a level with the window. Now he found that distance had deceived him and that the window was fully five feet away instead of three.
The crowd, standing breathless now, and still as death, saw him pause and every heart ached with apprehension, fearing that he would be forced to return and leave the little one to her awful fate. Eyes smarted with the intensity with which they stared. Could he with almost nothing to brace his feet upon, spring across that five feet of wall? He could not even take a half-minute to think. The flames might at any second burst through the floor into the room in which the little child had taken refuge. He dared not look down, but in climbing he had noticed that the flames, as the wind swayed them, were sweeping across the ladders. He must decide.
His resolve was taken, and he gathered his muscles together for the spring.
Now, Bert, you have need to call upon all your resources. Well for you that your training on the diamond has limbered and strengthened your muscles, steadied your nerves, quickened your eye, taught you lightning perception and calculationand decision. You have need of them all now. Courage, Bert! Ready, now!