CHAPTER XVIIIA DEFEAT FOR YALE.
The brief sensation that had been caused the night before by the dean’s announcement as to the history examination and the suspension of Taylor and Gray, was not allowed to last long in the morning. It was announced that Professor Canfield himself was thoroughly satisfied that everything was all right, and the dean immediately revoked the suspensions.
New Haven presented a lovely sight. The June day was perfect as to weather, warm and bright, with just enough wind to make it cool and comfortable. From all over the country the friends and families of the seniors, who occupied the principal place in the day’s program, had gathered to see the impressive ceremonies of the graduation.
The seniors themselves, looking highly dignified and important in their new caps and gowns, were to be seen on all sides, showing pretty girls the sights of the college and the town; pointing out to proud parents and sisters the various landmarks of which they had all heard so much and so often; and, generally, making the most of their great day.
Sometimes in a group there would be some man with white hair and beard who had little need of his son’s guidance, and he would go to some old classroom, and point out to his boy the desk where he had carved his own name years before.
For the great baseball game with Harvard, also, a mighty crowd had come to town. The trains from Boston had poured out hundreds of enthusiastic youngsters from Cambridge, their confidence not shaken a bit by the fact that Yale had already won one victory, sure that this was Harvard’s day.
And all over town, too, were old Yale men, back to celebrate the anniversaries of their own departure from New Haven years before. Every year scores of classes celebrate their reunions. Men, three, five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five years from Yale, had hired houses and floors of hotels, and there all sorts of meetings took place. Men who had not seen each other for years, during which business cares had kept them apart, rushed into each others arms and reminded one another of the old days when they had been boys in Yale, where their own boys were now students. And, after the formal commencement exercises, when the diplomas had been given out with due solemnity, it was time to get ready for the game.
The classes back in New Haven for their reunions vied with one another in improvising strange costumes for the occasion. One class was arrayed in the garb of clowns, with painted white faces, baggy white trousers, and all the paraphernalia of the circus. Another was dressed in roughrider costume—that was the class of ’98, so many of whose members had not stayed to graduate, but had rushed to enlist at the first sign of the coming war with Spain.
Then there were monks, and ballet dancers, and cooks, and men dressed like little boys, in knee breeches and blouses, and all sorts of fantastic costumes. All the classes assembled by the campus, near Dwight Hall, and then, swinging into procession behind a band that blared out Yale tunes all the way, marched gayly out to the field, singing and shouting all the way, swinging back and forth across the street in the famous old Yale march, so that girls who had never been there before squealed with delight, and even the proud and pompous fathers of the graduates had to laugh, to see men as old as themselves behaving like boys again just because they were back at Yale, and wanted to show that they still had the old Yale spirit.
It was a great sight, and even Dick Merriwell, who had seen it many times, and would that day, except for his more important duties as universal coach, have been dancing along with his own class, dressed like a Russian peasant, laughed as if he was seeing it for the first time.
Every one got to the field early, and the graduates took possession of the diamond, with the band in the middle, and danced around, so that every one could see them. And they didn’t seem to care how ridiculous they looked. They were having a good time, and they were back at Yale, to see a Yale team beat one from Harvard, so that was all they cared about. Up in the stands, the pretty girls cheered them madly, and the men from Harvard, who were perfectly willing for Yale to have all the fun beforehand, so long as their team won and gave them a chance to have a procession of their own afterward, cheered them, too.
“Don’t you wish you were going to pitch, Jim?” asked Harry Maxwell, of Jim Phillips, as they sat on the bench, waiting for it to be time for the game to begin.
“Not a bit,” said Jim heartily. “This is old Gray’s big day—it’s his last chance, you know, and I want him to have all the glory there is coming to him. Where is he, I wonder?”
Others were asking that question, too, in sudden wonder. Taylor, the big senior catcher, was there, but he had not seen Gray since the diplomas had been handed out. Dick Merriwell, too, was absent, and Tom Sherman, already nervous as he thought of his responsibilities as captain of the Yale team that all these graduates had turned out to cheer so heartily, grew more and more worried as time for the game approached.
Jim himself was anxious. He was not by any means ready to pitch. He had, under strict orders from Dick Merriwell, been resting his arm in anticipation of the possible need of playing in New York on Saturday, and he was stiff and unprepared for action. Entirely aside, therefore, from his desire to see Gray pitch and establish his reputation, Jim was unwilling to face the idea of filling in, for he was afraid that he would be an easy victim for the Harvard batters, and would be quite unable to rally in time for the game on Saturday, should he lose.
But five minutes before it was time for the game to begin, Dick Merriwell, hot and flushed, suddenly appeared. He called Sherman, Jim Phillips, and Bill Brady, and Winston, the substitute pitcher, to talk to him.
“Gray has been forbidden to play by the faculty,” he said abruptly. “It seems that he turned in a blank examination paper in the history course yesterday morning. Canfield is furious, and won’t listen to Gray’s statement that he did nothing of the sort. The dean is inclined to think that there is something that Gray doesn’t know about, but he says that, if it is true, he will be required to return his diploma. And, anyway, he can’t play to-day. I haven’t time to explain more now. Winston must pitch, and do his best. You’re in no condition, Jim, and we’ll have to take a chance to-day. Run the team, Sherman. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Winston, confused and nervous at the sudden demand upon him, was still more flurried by the groan of surprised disappointment that went up from the crowded stands when he went into the box instead of Gray or Jim Phillips. Every one had supposed that one of the veteran twirlers would be sent in to pitch this highly important game, and Winston’s improvement under Dick Merriwell’s coaching had not become generally known.
After a little consultation, it had been decided that it would be better for Brady to do the catching. The big sophomore was famous for his ability to steady pitchers who were likely to go up in the air, and he did his best to encourage Winston, who was certainly in need of all that could be done in that way.
The Harvard captain, Bowen, made a quick shift as soon as he found that Winston was to pitch for Yale. It had been felt at Cambridge that a victory in this game was absolutely essential, and, therefore, after some hesitation, they had decided to send Briggs in to pitch, although he had had only a short rest after the terrific game in Cambridge, which Harvard had lost by the closest of scores. But now Wooley was chosen, for it was felt that he was more than a match for Winston, and Briggs could thus be saved for the deciding game.
The effect of the sudden change in Yale’s battery was twofold. It restored the waning confidence of the Harvard men, who were now certain that they could win, and thus prolong the struggle for the championship; and it depressed the Yale players, who had no such confidence in the skill of Winston as both Gray and Jim Phillips had been able to inspire.
Winston made a bad start, too, to help along the work of destroying what little confidence he had in himself. The first man up for Harvard made a lucky single, and when the next batter stood up at the plate, Bill Brady signaled for a swift outcurve, meaning to get a chance for a quick throw to second in case of an attempted steal. He was ready to catch such a curve, but Winston misunderstood him, and pitched to the other side of the plate. The ball got away from Bill, and the Harvard runner, who had started to steal second, easily reached third. Before the inning was over, in spite of Bill’s best efforts to steady him, Winston gave two bases on balls and hit a batsman, and, altogether, three Harvard men scored.
All through the stands, Harvard men were rejoicing; and the Yale rooters, just before so enthusiastic and happy, were cast down in anticipation of a crushing defeat. With such a start, there wasn’t any limit to the score Harvard might well pile up.
“This is Harvard’s day,” sang thousands of loyal Harvard men all around, and it certainly looked as if they were right. But Winston had good stuff in him. He got rid of his stage fright in the first inning, and, after that, obeying the signals from Brady implicitly, he proved himself simply unhittable. He had speed, control, and good judgment, and, try as they would, the Harvard men were unable to get on the bases as the game went on. Moreover, in the third inning, coming up with two out after Bill Brady had smashed out a two-bagger, Winston did much to redeem his poor pitching at the start by driving out a beautiful single that sent Brady home with Yale’s first run.
There was a tremendous cheer for him when he made that hit, and, although he had to come in without scoring himself when Sherman drove a long fly to the left fielder, poor Winston felt much better. There was still a good chance to win, he told himself, if he could keep Harvard from further scoring. Surely the team behind him ought to be able to make up those two runs that formed the Harvard lead. Anyhow, he settled down, and pitched his very best.
Meanwhile, Jim, after a moment’s talk with Sherman, had gone back under the stand with Taylor to limber up his arm. He felt that if there was need for it, he could safely pitch a couple of innings toward the end of the game, if Winston showed signs of tiring; and that might be enough to save the game yet, and win the championship for Yale in spite of the hard luck that had cost her the services of Gray when they were most needed.
The spirit of the Yale crowd soon turned. It saw that Winston, in spite of the handicap, was making good, and pitching well, despite his bad beginning, and it turned in and gave him support and applause just as hearty as would have fallen to Gray or Phillips. The team, too, took new courage, and went after the Harvard pitcher. In the sixth inning, Sherman led off with a hit, and, aided by his own fine base running and a hit by Carter, scored a run that left Yale only one tally behind. But to get that one extra run that would tie the score was the problem, and Wooley, with Briggs always in reserve, seemed able to prevent it.
Harvard was batting first, and in the ninth inning began a determined effort to increase its narrow lead. Bowen was afraid of the margin, and called on his men to try hard for at least another run.
Winston was tired. He had to pitch hard to hold the crimson team down, and Bowen was quick to notice the signs of his distress. In two minutes the game changed again from one of extraordinary closeness to the semblance of a Yale rout. Two hits and a base on balls filled the bases, and not a man was out. Then, suddenly, as Winston, tired out, but game to the end, prepared to pitch to Bowen himself, who was determined to clinch his team’s victory, there was a wild roar from the Yale crowd. Dick Merriwell had suddenly appeared at the bench and waved the battery to him. Thunders of applause drifted up to the skies from the packed stands, for Gray and Taylor, eager and ready to do their best, had appeared, and took their places in the field.
No one asked for an explanation of Gray’s absence or of his sudden reappearance. It was enough that he was there. Foote and Parker, seemingly as enthusiastic as any of their fellow students, were the ones most amazed by the sight of Gray, but they could say nothing without betraying themselves. And Gray, while Foote, trembling, wondered how his plan could have miscarried, proceeded to accomplish a baseball feat that put him almost on a level with Jim Phillips himself. For, without seeming effort, he struck out the next three Harvard batters, and, amid a roar of cheering such as Yale Field had never heard before, left the three runners stranded high and dry on the bases.
But Harvard was still a run ahead, and, try as they would, the Yale players could not tie the score. Gray’s brilliant feat was all in vain, and Harvard’s victory left the series tied, with another game needed to decide the championship.