One afternoon as Ned, Tommy, and Dick stepped from the boat after an exciting spin, they saw a man emerge from the shelter of a lumber pile on the dock and come toward them. He was muffled in a heavy fur coat, and a cap of the same material, pulled low upon his forehead, effectively concealed his features. In one gloved hand he carried a big valise, which, from the way he handled it, was evidently of considerable weight.
“I want to get to Cleveland as quick as I can,” announced the stranger in a voice which was muffled to a harsh growl by the thickness of his fur collar.
“There’s a train leaving in half an hour,” replied Ned, with a glance at his watch. “The station is only a few steps beyond the dock.”
The stranger shook his head. “That’s a slow local,” he said impatiently. “It’s the Detroit express I want, but it doesn’t stop here and they won’t flag it for me. I’ll give you ten dollars if you’ll run me up to Cleveland, so I can board it there.”
“It’s all of fifty miles to Cleveland and it’s four o’clock now,” objected Tommy Beals.
The man shot a quick glance back toward the station where the engine of the despised local was blowing off steam in a tempest of sound. “Yes, it’s fifty miles,” he growled. “I’ll pay you twenty-five dollars, if you get me there ahead of the express.”
“Can we do it?” asked Dick, a bit doubtfully. “How about it, Ned?”
“We might,” replied Ned, and then added with native caution, “but I’d want to see the money before we start.”
With an impatient grunt, the stranger plunged a hand beneath his coat and brought forth a roll of paper money, from which he selected two bills.
“Here’s fifteen dollars!” he exclaimed. “I’ll pay you the other ten if you land me at Cleveland station ahead of the express.”
With a nod of agreement Ned pocketed the money, and at his command the ice-boat was swung around till her long bowsprit pointed westward. The passenger took his place forward, where he lay flat, grasping the foot of the mast. The big valise he handled with care, holding it tightly in the crook of his free arm.
“There goes the express!” cried Dick as, with a shriek of its whistle, the big locomotive tore past Truesdell station with unabated speed and roared away down the line, dragging a long line of swaying coaches in its wake.
Rather slowly at first, theFrost Kingnosed its way out from the partial shelter of the docks and headed out upon the frozen lake. She was half a mile from shore before the full force of the wind struck her and then, with a sharp crunch of her keen runners, the big craft shot forward in pursuit of the already vanished express.
For the first few miles the ice was almost perfectly smooth, and to Dick’s excited senses it seemed as if the boat were actually flying through space, so steady was her bullet-like speed. Soon he caught sight of the train far ahead. It disappeared behind a wooded point, and when a few minutes later it had reappeared, they were running almost abreast of the rear coach. Car by car the flying ice-boat overhauled the fast express, till it ran neck and neck with the locomotive and a moment later had poked its long bowsprit into a clear lead. A flutter of white from the window of the cab told that the engine crew also watched the race with keen interest.
“We’ve got ’em licked!” screamed Dick as he waved back frantically; but at that instant Ned shoved the tiller hard down. TheFrost Kingslewed into the wind with her canvas slatting furiously and came to a quick stop.
“What the blazes!” yelped Dick, bouncing up from his place and staring about him in astonishment. “What’s the idea?”
The passenger likewise straightened up and demanded the reason for the sudden stop.
“There’s a big crack ahead,” explained Ned briefly, and leaping from the boat, he ran forward to investigate.
Large bodies of water, such as Lake Erie, do not freeze with uniform smoothness as do small ponds. At intervals over their frozen surfaces great cracks form, which the varying winds cause to open and close with a force sufficient to tilt the ice along their borders at a sharp angle. It was one of these open cracks dead ahead that had caught Ned’s watchful eye.
“‘WE’VE GOT ‘EM LICKED!’ SCREAMED DICK”
“‘WE’VE GOT ‘EM LICKED!’ SCREAMED DICK”
“It’s ten feet wide if it’s an inch,” grumbled Tommy, as he stood at the edge of the lane of black water that stretched far to right and left of their course. “Can you jump it, Ned?”
“Not with the load we’re carrying,” was the decided answer. “We’ll have to look for a better place.”
Hurrying back to the boat, they skirted the crack for a mile, coming at last to a spot where a great cake of ice on the near side of the opening lay tilted at an angle that afforded a good take-off for the jump.
“Here’s the only possible chance I can see to make it,” observed Ned, after a quick survey of the situation. Then addressing the stranger he rapidly stated the case. “This crack right where we are is almost six feet wide,” he explained. “There’s a fair chance that we can jump it, but I’ll admit it’s none too easy a stunt. Do you want to risk it?”
“Sure,” growled the man in the fur coat. “Go ahead.”
Without another word, Ned tacked quickly to starboard, swung in a wide circle and headed directly for the crack, driving theFrost Kingto the very limit of her speed.
“Here we go!” yelled Tommy. “Holdeverything!” And at that instant the big boat struck the tilted ice-cake, fairly leaped into the air, and a second later landed with a splintering crash on the farther side of the crack.
“Zowie!” yelped Dick. “That loosened every tooth in my head!”
“We’re lucky it didn’t take the mast out of her,” answered Ned. “Now keep a sharp lookout ahead. I’m going todriveher.”
For the next twenty miles theFrost Kingtore along at a speed that almost forced the breath from the bodies of her crew. The wind was increasing in strength, and in some of the sharper gusts it would lift the windward shoe clear off the ice, dropping it again with a jolt that caused the mast to sway and buckle dangerously.
“It’s up to you to stop that, Fatty,” shouted Ned and, obedient to orders, Tommy Beals crept out along the cross-plank till his ample weight reposed at the extreme outer end, where he held tightly to the wire shrouds.
With this extra ballast to windward, the boat held to the ice much better and showed a considerable increase in speed, such that very soon Dick pointed to a white plume of steam which showed against the dark stretch of woodland far ahead.
“She’s blowing for some crossing,” shouted Ned, above the whistle of the wind. “We’re picking up on her but she’s got a big lead.”
The early winter twilight soon closed down, making it difficult to distinguish objects a hundred yards ahead. The green and red lights of a railroad switch-tower swept past, and a moment later Dick sighted the rear lights of the train. At the same moment a second plume of steam appeared and the faint scream of a distant whistle reached their ears. Foot by foot the lead was cut down till once again theFrost Kingran neck and neck with the big locomotive. A bobbing red lantern saluted them from the window of the cab and then, as the express slackened in the outlying suburbs of the city, the ice-boat shot ahead and in a few minutes was rounding the breakwater that protects Cleveland’s waterfront.
“Here we are!” announced Ned, as he brought the boat into the wind. “We’ve beat the express by five minutes.”
The man in the fur coat rose stiffly from his place beside the mast. “All right,” he replied gruffly. “Here’s your money,” and peeling a ten-dollar bill from his roll, he handed it to Ned and hurried away across the ice, holding the heavy valise beneath his arm.
For a long minute after the stranger had departed, Ned Blake stood staring after him, a puzzled frown wrinkling his forehead.
“Humph!” grunted Dick, who also was gazing after the hurrying figure. “He must have been in an awful rush, if he’d pay twenty-five dollars just to get here ahead of the express. What do you make of it, Ned?”
Dick had to repeat his question before Ned roused himself to reply; but now the conversation was interrupted by the plaintive voice of Tommy Beals, who had dragged himself from the end of the cross-plank and was stamping the blood back into his aching feet.
“Gosh, I’m about froze to death!” he wailed. “Froze and starved! What’s the program, Ned?”
Ned cast a quick look at the fast-gathering shadows, which already lay in a black smudge along the shore of the lake. “We’d better not try to get home tonight,” he decided. “I’ve no mind to chance jumping that crack after dark. There’s a hotel close by the station where we can get a good dinner and a bed. We’ve got the cash to pay for both.”
“Yeah, that’s the idea!” exclaimed Tommy fervently. “A steak smothered in onions and French fried spuds! What?”
“How about the boat?” asked Dick.
“We’ll furl the sails and push her in against the dock,” replied Ned. “We can unship the tiller and hide it so that nobody will be tempted to run off with her.”
This was quickly done and the boys turned their steps toward the Union Station, the lights of which gleamed a scant hundred yards ahead. The express had thundered into the station while they were taking care of the boat, and now, as they crossed the tracks, her rear lights were blinking in the distance as she picked her way through the switch-yards westward bound.
“There goes our twenty-five-dollar passenger,” remarked Dick, with a characteristic jerk of his thumb toward the departing train. “He had plenty of time to catch her, I guess.”
“I can’t get it out of my mind that I’ve seen that man somewhere before today,” began Ned. “I couldn’t see his face clearly, he was so muffled up, and yet there was something about him that seemed familiar—the way he stood—or walked—or something.”
The hotel was just across the street from the station, and here the boys registered after bargaining for a room containing three beds.
“And now for that steak and onions,” gloated Tommy Beals as he headed for the grill room closely followed by Dick.
“I’ll be with you in a jiffy,” Ned called after them as he paused at a telephone booth. “I’ll just shoot a word to the folks that we’re O.K. and will be home in the a.m.”
It took Ned several minutes to complete his call, and then, as he was about to step from the booth, he halted suddenly at the sound of a voice in the telephone compartment next to his own. There was a familiar note to the harsh growl. As Ned paused in surprise, the words came clearly to his ears.
“Sure, I made it on time and Miller was there, too. Where wasyou?” Silence a moment; then the voice continued. “Localnothing! I told you I’d be in on the express—stop or no stop. As a matter of fact I got there ahead of time—never mind how. Now listen.”
For a moment the heavy voice rumbled on but in a lower tone so that no word reached Ned’s ears; then the door of the booth was jerked open and its occupant crossed the hotel lobby with a rapid stride. He was joined by a tall, red-faced man and the two disappeared through the door leading to the street. For the second time within half an hour, Ned Blake found himself staring after a short, thick-set figure in a fur coat. There was no doubt of it. The growling voice in the telephone booth had been that of his mysterious passenger on theFrost King. Hurrying to the grill room, Ned acquainted his companions with what he had learned.
“Then that yarn about wanting to catch the Detroit express was all bunk!” exclaimed Dick.
“Evidently,” agreed Ned. “But also it’s sure that he had some important date that coincided with the arrival of the train. That red-faced man ‘Miller’ showed up on time but somebody else missed out. I wonder what the game is.”
“We should worry about him or his business,” was Tommy’s cheerful comment as he eyed with huge satisfaction the nicely browned steak, which at the moment was being placed before him on the table. “Right now I’m for enjoying this feed that he’s paying for. Afterwards, I’llwonder—if you insist,” and Tommy helped himself lavishly to the savory fried onions that accompanied the steak.
Long exposure to the biting wind had induced appetites which required a deal of satisfying, but at length even Tommy’s splendid yearnings had been appeased and he sank back in his chair, the picture of well-fed contentment. Hardly had the boys left the dining-room, when drowsiness came upon them as the natural reaction to long hours in the open air supplemented by a heavy meal.
“Can’t keep my eyes open,” mumbled Dick after a prodigious yawn. “Me for little old bed-o, even if it is only seven-thirty.”
The idea was accepted unanimously and the boys lost no time in seeking their room and making ready for bed. But now the puzzling question regarding their unknown passenger recurred to Ned with redoubled force. Before his mind’s eye there passed countless faces and figures of men he had known or seen. He was groping painfully in an effort to place one thick-set figure in a fur coat.
“What’s the matter, Ned? Do you see a ghost?” grinned Dick at his friend who sat on the edge of the bed, shoe in hand, staring blankly at the opposite wall.
“Not unless ghosts wear fur coats,” muttered Ned, flinging the shoe under the bed. “Hang it all! I’m sure I’ve seen that fellow—or at least somebody a whole lot like him. I wish I could remember when or where!”
“While you’rewishingyou might as well wish for thatrollhe packed,” chuckled Tommy. “Gosh! I’ll bet there was half a thousand dollars in it—and that furcoat!” Here Tommy rolled up his eyes enviously.
“One thing Iamsure of,” continued Ned, “whoever he is, he probably does at least a part of his business in Canada. That last bill he gave me was Canadian money. I noticed it when I paid the dinner charge. Luckily, they accept Canadian money here.”
“What do you suppose he had in that suitcase he was so fussy about?” queried Dick. “It was darned heavy—from the way he handled it.”
“That’s another question I’d like answered,” admitted Ned, “also, what was he doing in Truesdell, when all the time he was so anxious to get to Cleveland that he was willing to risk his neck on theFrost King, just to save half an hour or so?”
“Heigh, ho! I’ll give it up,” yawned Tommy and, with a sigh of unalloyed satisfaction, the plump youth rolled over luxuriously and buried his face in the pillow.
Dick was only seconds behind Tommy in his plunge into the depths of sleep; but long after his companions were sunk in blissful oblivion, Ned lay racking his brain in what proved to be a futile effort to find some reasonable solution of the puzzle. Weariness at last closed his eyes, but through his troubled dreams there persisted these tantalizing, half-formed questions, always on the point of being answered but ever eluding his grasp.
The sharp rattle of icy particles on the window awakened Dick Somers next morning. Springing out of bed, he roused his companions and they stared out at a world rapidly whitening under a driving storm of snow.
“This will never do!” cried Ned. “We’ve got to get a move on or we’ll be snowed in down here!”
After a quick breakfast of bacon, eggs, rolls and coffee, the boys hastened down to the lake. The snow was, as yet, only about two inches deep, but it was whipping out of the north with a power that warned of much more to come. Sails were quickly hoisted and theFrost Kingshot away, homeward bound.
Holding close enough to the shore so that its dim outline served as a guide, Ned kept his bearings; and although slowed somewhat by the fast gathering snow, the ice-boat made fair speed. Constant wind pressure had closed the shoreward end of the big crack and a cautious crossing was made without difficulty. Through a six-inch depth of snow, theFrost Kingplowed to a stop beside the dock at Truesdell, where the crews of other boats were busily engaged in removing the canvas from their craft.
“That’s what we’ve got to do right now,” declared Ned. “This storm feels like a genuine blizzard that will probably put an end to ice-boating for the rest of the winter.”
As rapidly as possible the sails were removed, the stiffened canvas folded up and stored in a safe place and the boat itself hauled as far up on shore as possible, pending the time when the boys would return her to her former place of storage.
“Well, we’ve had a bully time and a swell feed and have fifteen simoleons to divvy up among the crew of theFrost King,” chortled Tommy Beals as they trudged homeward. “I’ll say that’s good enough for anybody.”
“Yes, it’s O.K.,” agreed Ned, “but I’m going to keep my eye out for that fellow in the fur coat, and the next time I get a look at him, I’ll try to find out who he is or whom he reminds me of.”
As it transpired, however, many months were to pass and many strange happenings were to take place before Ned Blake again found himself face to face with the mysterious stranger.
It had been a great winter for the lads of Truesdell. Although the big blizzard put an end to ice-boating, it provided instead snow-shoeing, ski-running, and many other delightful winter sports. Plenty of hard study interspersed with recreation made the winter months pass rapidly, and when the last shrunken snow-drift had sunk to a muddy grave and the balmy south winds were drying soggy fields and muddy lanes as if by magic, the boys turned from winter sports to the enthusiastic consideration of baseball possibilities.
“We’ve got a swell chance to cop the championship pennant in the Lake Shore League,” declared Charlie Rogers to a group which had gathered in a sunny nook behind the school building. “Believe me! We’ll wipe the earth with Bedford this year!”
“Where do you get that stuff, Red?” demanded Abner Jones, a sallow youth whose prominent knee and elbow joints had won for him the nickname “Bony.” “I hear Slugger Slade is going to play third for Bedford. He’s an old-timer and knows every trick in the bag; and can he hit? Oh, boy!”
“Slade is tricky all right,” agreed Rogers. “He’s tricky and dirty, too, if he gets a chance, but when it comes to hitting, why we’ve got a couple of pitchers who may fool him.”
“Forget it!” scoffed Jones. “Slade will make a monkey of any pitcher we’ve got—even Ned Blake.”
“Here comes Ned right now,” interposed Wat Sanford. “Let’s hear what he has to say about it.”
“What’s all the row?” asked Ned, as he came down the steps swinging a strapful of books.
“Bony, the crape-hanger, says we can’t beat Bedford with Slade playing for ’em, and I say we’ll wipe ’em off’n the map,” explained Rogers. “How about it, Ned?”
“Both wrong—as usual,” laughed Ned, clapping a strong hand on the disputants and pushing his broad shoulders between them. “Now here’s how I see it,” he continued. “Slade is a wicked hitter and a tough man in the field. He’ll be a big help to Bedford, but he can’t play the whole game. Keep that in mind, Bony. On the other hand, Red, remember that plenty of teams are world-beaters before the season starts. We’ve got some good material, but it will take a lot of hard work to make a winning nine out of it. That’s what it’s up to us to do. I’ve just posted a notice for the squad to show up for practice this afternoon. The field is drying fast and I want every man on the job.”
“All except the pitchers, I suppose,” yawned Dave Wilbur. “I’ll be around the first of next week and work on the batting practice.”
“You’ll be right on the job at two p.m. this afternoon, Dave,” replied Ned, firmly. “I’m depending on you to set a good example to the new men.”
“Do you hear that, Weary?” gibed Tommy Beals. “You’re expected to set the old alarm for one forty-five p.m. and be made an example of.”
“That’s the idea, Fatty,” laughed Ned. “Anybody going my way?”
“I am, if you don’t walk too darned fast,” replied Beals.
Dick Somers also rose to his feet and joined the two as they shouldered their way out of the group and strode down the street.
“Bony Jones is an awful knocker,” remarked Tommy, when they were out of hearing.
“He’s that all right,” agreed Ned, “and yet for the good of the team right now, I’d rather they’d hear Bony’s knocking than Red’s boasting. Over-confidence at the start of the season is a mighty bad thing, and as captain of the team, it’s up to me to kill it if I can.”
“What’s the real dope on this fellow Slade?” asked Dick. “I don’t have any very pleasant recollections of him myself, but how about his playing?”
“I’ve seen him in a couple of games,” replied Ned. “He’s a good third baseman and a small edition of Babe Ruth when it comes to hitting.”
“How about these stories of his spiking men on bases and other dirty work?” persisted Dick.
“I don’t know,” answered Ned with a shrug of his shoulders. “I won’t condemn a man till I actually see him do something of the kind myself. I’m more worried right now about how good our fellows are going to be than how bad somebody else is. By the way, Dick,” he continued, “how much ball have you played?”
“Oh, not a whole lot,” answered Dick, modestly. “We had a pretty fair team where I used to live. They let me chase around out in right field.”
“Well, I want you and Fatty to be on hand this afternoon,” declared Ned. “We’re going to need every man who shows any class.”
Promptly at two o’clock the Truesdell squad assembled on the muddy field and began the season with an easy workout. Dick Somers quickly demonstrated a remarkable throwing arm, both for distance and accuracy, while his quickness of foot promised to make him a valuable fielder and base-runner. The development of hitting ability was Captain Blake’s most difficult problem, and upon this first day and for many days thereafter he kept the weak hitters swinging at pitched balls till their shoulders ached.
“D’j’ever hear about ‘the straw that broke the camel’s back’?” grumbled Dave Wilbur as he left the pitcher’s box after a particularly long session of batting practice. “Ned’s an awful glutton for work. He’s making me wear out my wing throwing balls past these dubs, who couldn’t hit a balloon with a bass viol!”
“Don’t kid yourself, Weary,” gibed Rogers. “Ned is figuring on giving you some much-needed practice in hurling. We’re just standing up there so’s you can learn to locate the plate.”
“Aw say, use your bean,” grinned Dave. “I can put ’em over the old pan with my eyes shut!”
The first regular game of the schedule was won by Truesdell but the victory proved costly. Charlie Rogers, sliding home with the winning run, sprained his ankle and was pronounced out of the game for the rest of the season.
“There goes the best fielder in the Lake Shore League,” wailed Tommy Beals, as he watched Rogers hobble from the field. “A few more unlucky breaks like that will make hard going for us!”
This pessimism seemed well founded, for a few days afterward, Ned Blake dropped into Somers’ home with another gloomy bit of news. “Tinker Owen flunked math. yesterday,” he announced, shortly. “That wipes him out of the picture, unless old Simmons will relent—and you know how much chance there is of that.”
“Not a look-in,” agreed Dick, picking up his banjo from the couch and plunking a few chords in a doleful minor key.
“It leaves us only nine real players anyhow you figure it,” continued Ned, who was checking off the names from a slip of paper. “You’ll have to play center field in Red’s place, Dick, and we’ll try out Fatty Beals in Tinker’s position behind the bat. Dave and I will have to alternate pitch and right field.”
“It’s pretty tough on Weary Wilbur, making him pitch every other game and play right field between times,” grinned Dick. “He’ll crab plenty when he hears the news!”
“I’m not worrying about Dave,” was Ned’s reply. “Of course he’ll crab a bit and probably he’ll spring one of his everlasting proverbs on us, but he’ll come through in his own lazy fashion. It’s a shame we haven’t got a few more good subs, but we’ll manage somehow.”
Truesdell High struggled through the next three games with its changed line-up, winning each by a narrow margin but improving steadily in the matter of speed and smoothness. Bedford Academy, although heavily scored against, likewise kept a clean slate showing six victories. It was freely predicted by the followers of baseball that this year’s annual game between the two great rivals would be “for blood.”
A special train brought a wild crowd of Bedford supporters down to Truesdell for the big game. Rooters for the local team jammed the bleachers and watched the preliminary practice with critical eyes.
“I can’t see Fatty Beals as catcher,” grumbled Bony Jones. “He might do all right for a backstop, but he can’t throw down to second to save his life! I could do better myself.”
“Why didn’t you think to mention that the first of the season?” demanded Charlie Rogers, whose hair was only a shade redder than his temper when one of his friends was assailed. “It’s a crime to keep your talents hidden that way, Bony!”
“Fatty’s all right,” declared Wat Sanford, “and anyhow, Ned Blake’s going to pitch, and there won’t be a Bedford man get to first—take it from me!”
The Truesdell players were soon called in and Bedford took the diamond for ten minutes fast work, handling infield hits and throwing around the bases.
“Look at Slugger Slade over on third!” exclaimed Jim Tapley. “This is his first year with Bedford, but I hear he’s a semi-pro. He looks more like a football fullback than a third sacker!”
“He’ll try football stuff, if he gets a chance,” asserted Rogers. “I’m hoping the umpire keeps his eye peeled for crooked work. Here’s our team,” he continued, hoisting himself up on his one sound foot with the help of a cane. “Come on, boys. Let’s give ’em a cheer!”
The long yell rolled forth from half a thousand throats. “Oh well! Ohwell! Oh WELL! Truesdell!Truesdell!TRUESDELL.” To which the Bedford rooters responded with their snappy “B-E-D-F-O-R-D!”
The visiting team was first at bat and three men went out in quick succession, not a man reaching first.
“What did I tell you!” chortled Wat Sanford. “You should worry about the heavy hitters, Bony!”
Truesdell’s efforts at bat were, however, little better than Bedford’s. The first man up drew a base on balls but perished on an attempt to steal second; the next fouled out and Ned’s long fly was captured by Bedford’s left-fielder.
Slugger Slade came to bat in the first half of the second inning and smashed to right field a wicked line-drive, which Dave Wilbur gathered in with his usual lazy grace.
“Atta boy, Weary!” screamed Jim Tapley. “Youtell ’em!”
“What do you think now about Slade’s hitting?” demanded Jones. “That drive of his would have gone for a homer sure, if it had got past Dave!”
“Horsefeathers!” snorted Charlie Rogers.
What looked like a break for Truesdell came in their half of the fourth. Dick Somers bunted safely and went down to second on the first pitch, running like a scared rabbit and scoring the first stolen base of the game. Tommy Beals hit a grounder to right field, which was returned to first base before the plump, short-legged youth was half-way there. Dick raced round to third on the play and Truesdell’s chances for a run were excellent. Ned Blake ran out to the third-base coaching line.
“Great work, Dick,” he chattered. “Only one gone! Take a big lead. I’ll watch ’em for you!”
Slugger Slade, the third baseman, threw him a sour look. “Keep back of that coaching line, you!” he snarled.
Dave Wilbur was up, and as the bleachers yelled lustily for a hit, he lifted a high sky-scraper to center field. Dick clung to the bag till he saw the ball settle in the fielder’s glove; then dashed for home. Ordinarily it would have been an easy steal for a runner of Dick’s speed, but he had faltered noticeably in his start and the throw-in to the plate beat him by a narrow margin for the third out.
“I want to enter a protest on that decision!” cried Dick to the umpire, as the Bedford players trooped in from the field.
“What’s the matter?” demanded the official. “The catcher had the ball on you half a yard from the plate!”
“I know that, but I’m claiming interference by the third baseman,” yelped Dick, wrathfully. “He held me by the belt just long enough to spoil my start!”
“That’s right, I saw him do it!” asserted Ned, who had run in to add his protest to that of Dick.
“What’s all the crabbin’ about?” growled Slade, swaggering up to the group. “You was out by a mile!”
“I’m not crabbing,” declared Dick. “I’m just calling the umpire’s attention to some of your dirty playing!”
“Who says I play dirty ball?” demanded Slade, doubling up his big fists menacingly.
“I do, for one!” Ned spoke quietly, but his gray eyes were blazing. “I saw you hook your fingers under Dick’s belt when you stood behind him on the bag!”
“You mean you think that’s what you saw,” sneered Slade. “The umpire says he’s out and that settles it!”
There seemed no chance for further argument, and Dick walked out to center field in a savage humor, which was somewhat appeased when Ned, a moment later, struck the slugger out with three fast ones. The next Bedford man was out at first, and a long fly to Dick ended the inning.
Ned Blake was up in Truesdell’s half and brought the crowd to its feet with a screaming three-bagger.
“Wow! That’s cracking ’em out!” yelled Wat Sanford. “It’s a crime we didn’t have a couple of men on bases when Ned got hold of that one!”
“There’s nobody gone, any kind of a hit will mean a run now!” cried Charlie Rogers.
The next Truesdell batter swung at two bad balls, but lifted the third for a high fly to right field. Slugger Slade’s heavy breathing sounded in Ned Blake’s ear as he crouched on third base, all set for the dash for home. With quick fingers he loosened his belt-buckle and as the fielder’s hands closed upon the fly ball, Ned sprang from the bag; stopped short in his tracks; and yelled lustily for the umpire. Every eye turned in his direction and saw Slade standing stupidly on third base with Ned Blake’s belt dangling from his hand. The Slugger had been caught in his own trap.
A chorus of boos and jeers changed to cheers as the umpire motioned Ned home; a penalty which Slade had earned for his team by interfering with a base-runner.
“Oh, boy! What a stunt!” shrieked Jim Tapley. “Slade met his match that time!”
The wild yells and jeers seemed to rattle the Bedford team for the moment. Slade, purple with rage, let an easy grounder roll between his legs, and before the inning was over, two more Truesdell runs came across, making the score three to nothing.
In their half of the next inning, two Bedford batters were easy outs, but the third drove a savage liner straight for the pitcher’s box. Ned knocked it down and managed to get the ball to first for the third out. The effort proved costly, however, for he came in with the blood streaming from his pitching hand, two fingers of which were badly torn.
“You’ll have to finish the game, Dave,” announced Ned, and the lanky southpaw at once began warming up.
Ned’s injured fingers were hastily taped and he took Wilbur’s place in right field.
“Oh, I’d give a million dollars to be out there now!” groaned Charlie Rogers, as he shifted his lame ankle to a more comfortable position.
Dave Wilbur had scant time to warm up before he faced the leaders of Bedford’s batting order. He was found for four hits and two runs scored. The score was now Truesdell three—Bedford two, and thus it stood when the latter came to bat in the first half of the ninth.
“Holycat!” wailed Jim Tapley, as the first man up whaled out a two-bagger. “A couple more like that and we’re sunk!”
The second batter hit to shortstop and reached first on a fumble. Bedford now had men on first and second, with none out.
“For the luv o’ Mike, hold ’em, Dave!” screamed Wat Sanford.
Tommy Beals threw off his mask and ran half-way to the pitcher’s box to confer with Wilbur. Yells and jeers from the Bedford stand greeted this evidence of worry on the part of Truesdell’s battery, but it took more than mere noise to rattle Dave Wilbur. Strolling lazily back to the box, he fanned the next two men, and the Bedford yells subsided for the moment. The next batter, however, sent a pop-fly just out of the shortstop’s reach, and Bedford had the bases loaded with two out. Slugger Slade was up, and as he swaggered to the plate, the Bedford yells again rent the air.
“Come on now, Slugger! Knock the cover off’n it! Put it out of the lot!”
“One strike!”
The umpire’s shrill voice cut through the babel of yells from the Bedford stand. Slade glared round at the official and muttered something in protest. Dave Wilbur took his time in the wind-up and delivered the ball in his customary effortless style.
“Strrriketwo!”
A yell of delight from the Truesdell rooters greeted this decision. Slade rubbed his hands in the dirt and gripped his bat till his big knuckles were white. Dave Wilbur had fooled him with two slow out-drops and the crowd fell strangely silent as the lanky youth began his third wind-up. Dave put everything he had into the pitch—a high, lightning-fast ball over the inside corner of the plate.
The sharp crack of the Slugger’s bat brought the Bedford crowd to its feet with a roar, while the silent Truesdell bleachers watched with sinking hearts as the horse-hide sphere sailed high and far between right and center fields.
Ned Blake and Dick Somers were playing deep, and at the crack of the bat both started on the instant. The ball curved away from Ned and a bit toward Dick who was running as he had never run before. For a moment it seemed to the watchers that the two racing fielders would crash together. Suddenly they saw Dick make a desperate leap into the air with upstretched arm. The ball struck the tip of his glove, and bouncing high to one side, fell into Ned’s extended hands for the final out.
Truesdell had won, and with the sort of finish that comes once in a lifetime. With a roar, the Truesdell rooters swept across the diamond, and hoisting Ned Blake and Dick Somers high above the surging crowd, bore them in triumph from the field.
Slugger Slade stared after the retreating crowd and a savage scowl darkened his face. Into his mind there flamed a great hatred of these jubilant lads who had beaten him so unaccountably. Deep within him arose the sullen wish that he might somehow even matters with them. It was a wish that would later bear much fruit.
The school year had ended in a fashion to delight the heart of every loyal son of Truesdell, and the day following graduation found a group of the boys lounging in Dave Wilbur’s yard, a convenient meeting-place by reason of its central location.
“Are you going to play ball this summer, Ned?” asked Jim Tapley. “I hear they’re looking for a pitcher on the North Shore Stars. You could make the team easy, and there’s seventy-five a month in it plus expenses.”
Ned Blake shook his head. “Nothing doing, Jim,” he said regretfully. “I’ll admit the money would mean a lot to me, for, as you all know, I’m trying to scrape together enough to enter college in the fall. But if I get there, I want to play ball and this professional stuff would bar me.”
“What I’d like to do is go to England on a cattle steamer,” declared Charlie Rogers. “All you have to do is rustle hay and water for the steers.”
“Yeah, that’s all, Red,” drawled Dave Wilbur, “and they only eat about four tons a day and drink—well, they’d drink a river dry, and you sleep down somewhere on top of the keel and eat whatever the cook happens to throw you—unless you’re too blamed sea-sick to eat anything.”
“Well, even that would be better than hanging round this dead dump all summer,” retorted Rogers, with some spirit.
“Dan Slade has got a job over across the lake in Canada,” announced Wat Sanford. “I saw him at the station yesterday when the train came through from Bedford. He was bragging that he was going to pull down a hundred a month, but he didn’t say what the job was.”
“Some crooked work probably,” remarked Tommy Beals. “Now what I’d like would be a good job bell-hopping at some swell summer hotel. A fellow can make all kinds of dough on tips.”
“Sure, you’d look cute in a coat with no tail to it and a million little brass buttons sewed all over the front!” laughed Dick Somers. “What you really need, Fatty, is a job as soda-fountain expert, where you can get enough sugar and cream to keep your weight up to the notch.”
There was a general laugh at this in which Tommy joined good-naturedly.
“I guess what we’re all looking for is a chance to make some money this summer,” suggested Ned. “What Red says about this being a dead dump is true of every town, until somebody starts something. It’s up to us to show signs of life. I don’t believe any of us would be content to loaf till next September.”
“Speak for yourself, Ned,” yawned Dave Wilbur, who, stretched at full length on his back, was lazily trying to balance a straw on the tip of his long nose. “I’m enjoying myself fine right here—and besides you want to remember that ‘a rolling stone gathers no moss.’”
“Bony Jones got a job down at the Pavilion dance hall,” remarked Tapley. “His old man has something to do with the place and they took Bony on as assistant. Pretty soft, I’ll say.”