I
Joe Tyson, playing third on the Randall’s School first team, pegged the ball across in the general direction of first base. Steve Cook stabbed the air with a gloved hand and the ball continued blithely on its way, disappearing behind the grandstand. Four blue-stockinged youths raced home, the fourth registering the tenth tally for Popham Academy.
Daniel Webster Jones, Jr., seated cross-legged in front of the bench on the home side of the field, score book on knees, credited the enemy with four runs and added a black dot under the “E” column and opposite the name of Tyson.
“Of course,” murmured Jonesie reflectively, “in order to throw to first you’ve got to know more than the ball.”
Of the three occupants of the bench, weary and disgruntled with waiting, none replied to the sagacious observation. Jonesie, however,hadn’t expected any reply. He didn’t care. When there was no one to talk to, Jonesie talked to himself. That was much better than keeping still. Jonesie had a horror of being bored, and nothing bored him quicker than inactivity, either of body or tongue. That was the reason why, on a perfectly glorious afternoon in early June, he was to be found seated Turk-fashion here keeping score for the Team.
Art Simpson, the manager, whose duty it was to preside over the official score book, was in the infirmary with a delightful case of double mumps, and Billy Carpenter, baseball captain, had, so to speak, drafted Jonesie from a comfortable seat in the stand, thrust a black-covered book and a leaky fountain pen upon him and bade him keep the score. Jonesie knew how to do that after a fashion, but his fashion was not Art Simpson’s, and he soon found the intricacies too many for him. After Jimmy Buell had been caught flat-footed off second and chased down between that station and third by exactly six-ninths of the opposing team, Jonesie gave it up in despair. The only redeeming feature of his task was the fact that it allowed himto square accounts to some extent with one or two fellows he had grudges against. Thus Carpenter himself, for imposing such a task on Jonesie, had been credited with two errors when, as a matter of fact, Billy had so far played his position faultlessly. Jimmy Buell, too, had erred, according to the book, not once, but three times, and even Steve Cook, who was a particular friend of Jonesie’s, had a neat period set opposite his name in the error column. Jonesie had chuckled when he set that down. It was always fun getting a rise out of Steve!
Daniel Webster Jones, Jr., was a cherub-faced youth of fifteen with coppery brown hair brushed sleekly back, gray-blue eyes that were pools of truth and innocence, a somewhat button-like nose that attested to good nature, and a general appearance of physical and mental well-being. Folks generally, and nice elderly ladies in particular, fell in love with Jonesie at first sight. They simply couldn’t help it. Such candor and truthfulness and innocence shone from his countenance it did one good merely to look upon it. For the rest, he was comfortablyrounded as to figure, a fact which perhaps increased his likeness to a cherub, dressed very carefully—Jonesie was always a little in advance of the fashions—and carried himself with an air.
After much searching the ball was back in the pitcher’s hands. (For no especial reason Jonesie credited Gordon, who had thrown it in, with an assist!) Carey Bingham, football captain, who was umpiring, was evidently getting tired of standing out there in the sun, for he called three strikes on the Popham batsman in succession—Proudfoot, the Randall’s slab artist, had never been known to pitch three good ones in succession before!—and then ruled the next man out at first in spite of the fact that Steve Cook had quite failed to tag him. But Popham had a comfortable lead of eight runs, it was getting late and Carey wanted to get on the river before suppertime. Popham objected only half-heartedly to the decision, being doubtless quite willing to hurry the battle through.
The bench filled as the perspiring players trotted in from the field. Billy Carpenter,squeezing in behind Jonesie, glanced at the score.
“Ten to two, isn’t it?” he asked wearily.
“Yes,” replied Jonesie. “Gordon up! Proudfoot on deck! Billings in the hold!”
“What’s the inning, Jonesie?” inquired Joe Tyson from further along the bench.
“Last of the ninth,” answered Jonesie promptly.
“Get out! It’s the eighth!” declared Billy Carpenter. “Let’s see. Of course it’s the eighth, you idiot!”
“Is it?” murmured the non-official scorer. “All right. I just said ninth so as you fellows would get off easier.”
“Is that so?” said Billy unamiably. “Never you mind about us. Just you—— Here, what the dickens are those things over there in my column?”
“Those?” asked Jonesie innocently. “Oh, those are errors.”
“Errors! When did I make an error, you lunkhead?”
“I forget; third, I guess; maybe it was the fourth.”
“You’re dippy! I haven’t made an error to-day! You rub those out, Jonesie, or I’ll kick you back to school!”
“My mistake,” replied Jonesie untroubledly, canceling the dots. “Say, Billy, why don’t you have a good team?”
“The team’s all right,” answered the captain, mollified as the untruthful periods disappeared. “We’ve had perfectly rotten luck to-day.”
“Oh, sure!” Jonesie’s tone was maddeningly sarcastic. “Blame it on the luck, Billy. Say, honest, Billy——”
“Don’t you be so fresh with your ‘Billys,’ kid,” advised the other, prodding Jonesie’s spine with the toe of his shoe. Billy was a senior, and at Randall’s seniors exacted proper respect from lower-class fellows.
“My mistake, Mr. Carpenter,” corrected Jonesie sweetly. “I was going to say—Proudfoot up! Billings on deck!—going to say that I could make up a team of lower-class fellows that would beat you all around the block, Bil—er—Carpenter.”
“You could do wonders,” responded the captainderisively. “Suppose, though, you credit that Popham first base with a put-out if you’re not too busy talking nonsense.”
“No trouble at all,” murmured Jonesie, placing a period in the wrong space and so adding to the glory of the Popham left-fielder. “The trouble with this bunch of yours is that they can’t bat, can’t field and can’t handle the ball. Aside from that, though, Billy, they’re certainly a fine lot. Who threw that to first?”
“Why don’t you watch the game and find out?” snarled Billy.
“Call this a game? It—it’s a farce, that’s what it is, a blooming farce!” Jonesie gave the assist to the shortstop on a chance and chattered on. “You see, Bil—that is, Mr. Carpenter—in order to play baseball you’ve got to know more than the ball.”
“Oh, cut it out,” growled Billy. “A fat lot you know about it!”
“If you mean baseball, I know a great deal. I don’t pretend that I invented the game, Billy, but I certainly organized the Nile Valley League and——”
“Say, you bum scorer, who’s up?”
“You are, you talented right-fielder!”
“What on earth is the Nile Valley League?” inquired Billy, who had never heard of that mythical aggregation. Jonesie glanced around with a look of pitying surprise.
“And you’re captain of a ball team!” he exclaimed. He shook his head gently. “Honest, Billy, I look at you in wonder! You’re on deck, by the way.”
Billy got up and selected a bat with much care. Jonesie watched him pessimistically.
“Say, Cap, in order to use that you’ve got to know more than the bat,” he volunteered helpfully. Billy scowled.
Randall’s failed to add to her score and Popham came in. With a man on first the second batsman lined a hot one at Billy, and Billy watched it travel into center field while he wrung a bunch of aching fingers. Jonesie smiled and restored one of the canceled errors opposite the captain’s name.
“Prophetic,” he murmured. “That’s what it was, prophetic!”
Popham added another run to her tally in that first of the ninth, but Jonesie didn’t troubleto score it. He was too busy drawing a picture of Steve Cook at first on the margin of the page. It wasn’t a good likeness, but it showed a lot of action, and it pleased Jonesie. So enthralled was he with his artistic endeavors that the teams had changed sides before he realized it, and he hurriedly set down several assists, put-outs and errors wherever they looked best.
Billy was disgruntled when he got back to the bench, and he was rather rude in the way in which he thrust Jonesie aside to get his seat.
“Ah,” observed Jonesie, looking about with a gratified air, “the heroes are back again! In order to catch a ball, Billy, you’ve got to know——” But a muscular hand closed about Jonesie’s throat from behind and the remark was not concluded. Instead, “Buell at bat!” he announced huskily. “Gordon on deck! Proudfoot in the hold!”
Jonesie remained silent while Jimmy Buell fell victim to the puzzling slants of the Popham pitcher. But he felt communicative to-day, and after Buell had disconsolately reseated himself Jonesie went on brightly.
“Honest, Carpenter,” he said, “I wasn’t joshing about that.”
“About what?” growled Billy, working the fingers of his right hand experimentally to see if they were broken or merely dislocated.
“About making up a team from the lower-class fellows and showing your bunch a few of the rudiments of baseball. You see, Billy, it isn’t so much that your fellowscan’tplay; I think they could if they knew how; but no one has ever shown them, do you see? Now, I think—what? yes, you’re on deck, Billings!—I think that if you could only play a game or two with a team that knew a little about it, do you see——?”
“I’ll wring your neck for you in a minute,” returned Billy angrily. Jonesie silently considered the chances of Billy’s carrying out the threat. It was Billy himself who made the next remark.
“I’d like to see the bunch of players you’d get together, Jonesie,” he said. “They’d be wonders.” He laughed most disagreeably. “Bring ’em along some day and give us some sport, Jonesie. We need practice——”
“You sure do! You need more than that, though, old top; you need to learn what to do on a ball field. For instance, now, if someone explained to Proudfoot that a bat is made to swat the ball with and not to hang over his right shoulder, he might do something besides posing like one of those Roman gladiators at the circus. Yes, sir, Billy, you fellows certainly ought to have a little instruction.”
Captain Carpenter opened his mouth to reply hastily and angrily. But he closed it again. After all, it was only Jonesie talking! Jonesie indicated on the score book that Proudfoot had been hit by a pitched ball and had taken his base and then credited the Popham pitcher with a put-out on the ground that anyone who inflicted pain on Proudfoot was a public benefactor and deserving of reward! Then, after another moment, Jonesie spoke again.
“What day will it be convenient to play us, Billy?” he asked.
“Play who?” inquired Billy, wondering whether it was worth while to relieve Steve Cook in the coacher’s box and try to get Proudfoot around for a run.
“This team I’m going to get up,” answered Jonesie. “Any day next week will suit us.”
Billy laughed derisively. “Cut out the comedy, Jonesie,” he begged.
“Well, I don’t much blame you,” was the reply. “It would look bad to be beaten by a lot of lower-class fellows. I guess you’re right to back down, Billy.”
“Oh, dry up, Jonesie! And credit Billings with a two-bagger, why don’t you? Say, what sort of a score is that you’re keeping, anyway?”
“This? This is the finest little score you ever saw. What did you say Billings made?”
“I said——Good work, Charlie!Guess I’d better go out and take a hand.” The bases were filled and Billy’s good nature was restored by the prospect of adding a few runs to their meager score.
“Then you mean you won’t play us?” insisted Jonesie as the older boy pushed by him.
“Play you? Yes, we’ll play you, Jonesie.” Billy laughed. “Bring on your team!”
“Next—next Thursday?” yelled Jonesie.
“Sure thing!”
Jonesie whistled softly to himself, not at all melodiously, and scrawled strange forms on the margins of the score sheet. He was thinking. When Jonesie thought it was safe to assume that sooner or later, and probably at no very distant time, something of interest would happen at Randall’s!
His preoccupation was rudely dispelled by the sound of a bat striking a ball and the frenzied shouts of the few onlookers who had survived eight wearisome innings. Jonesie looked up to see Steve Cook legging it to first, the Popham center-fielder racing back toward the distant fence and the bases emptying. Behind first base Billy Carpenter was waving and shouting. Behind third Jimmy Buell was doing likewise. Jonesie sighed. More work for the scorer!
And then a flat silence fell. Away out in center field a blue-stockinged youth had, after a desperate race, put up a hand and pulled down the ball. Steve had flied out! The game was over! Popham had won, 11 to 2! or was it 10 to 2?
Jonesie added an error to Billy’s column on general principles and closed the book with a vindictive slam.