CHAPTER VITHREE OUT
Sam noiselessly closed the stairway door and subsided on the lower step, a prey to disappointment. To win by Perkins was out of the question, while to reach the stable end of the building, where the stalls were, he would have to cross the room diagonally and be in plain sight of Perkins the whole distance. Of course, he might do it so quietly as not to be heard, but that was doubtful; and after he had reached the stalls he might find himself unable to leave the building. He must try for some other avenue of escape.
Back up the stairs he went and turned toward the loft in which was stored the hay and grain. From this, at the front, was a gable with two hinged doors through which the hay was brought from below with rope and tackle. But the doors were closed and padlocked, and although Sam searched about for the key itwas not to be found. The only other outlet was a window looking straight down into the service yard of the house, and here again he would have to have a rope of some sort. That put a new idea into his head and he started a search for something with which to lower himself. And in the midst of it there was a noise below; the sound of wheels and voices, and then the unmistakable entrance of a carriage into the carriage house. There was an animated conversation between Perkins and some one else, probably a coachman, and then the horse was unhitched and led into the stable below. Sam retreated toward the piled-up bales of hay, and scarcely a minute too soon, for the door at the foot of the stairs opened and the coachman came up. Sam peeped from his hiding place and saw the newcomer, a younger man than Perkins, go along the entry and open the door of one of the rooms on the front of the building. He left the door open behind him, and Sam could hear him moving about and whistling a tune. Beneath, Perkins was taking the harness off the horse. Now was Sam’s opportunity!He crept stealthily to the stairway, and saw to his delight that the coachman had left the door ajar. Down he went, step by step, and at the bottom peered out into the carriage room. It was empty, and from beyond came the sound of Perkins’s steps and the drag of harness. For a moment Sam hesitated. Then he left his hiding place and started across toward the door. And at the same instant Perkins appeared at the opposite corner of the room with a bridle in his hand.
“Billy!” he shouted.
Sam did the first thing that occurred to him, which was to drop just where he was. Perhaps had he made a dash for the door he would have got safely away, but the advent of the stableman had startled him. Perkins had his gaze fixed on a corner of the ceiling.
“Billy!” he called again.
There was an answering hail from upstairs and Sam seized the opportunity to creep into the shadow of the brougham that had come in and still stood in the middle of the floor.
“What time’s the master want the carriage?” asked Perkins.
“Three-thirty,” replied Billy from above. “I’ll take the sorrel, John.”
“All right.” Perkins walked to the door, humming a tune, and looked out. After a moment he draped the bridle over the back of the chair and seated himself again, rescuing his newspaper from the floor. Sam’s heart sank. Perkins had only to look in his direction to see him, for although his body was hidden by the carriage his legs showed beneath. Well, if Perkins came for him on one side he would run around the other. Once out of the stable, Sam believed himself a match for the stableman, although running in one’s stocking feet was no great fun.
“John!”
It was the coachman’s voice, and he was evidently at his window.
“Hello!” answered Perkins. He left his chair and walked out on to the drive. Like a flash Sam pulled open the door of the brougham, tumbled himself in and softly closedit again. Huddled on the floor of the carriage, he raised his head until he could see from the window. Perkins was still standing outside talking up at Billy in the window. As the brougham was tightly closed Sam missed what was said. Finally, however, Perkins returned to his chair and his newspaper. There was a clock in the carriage and it said ten minutes to three! Even if he managed to get away he would miss most of the game, for it was a good mile and a half back to Maple Ridge. He wondered what Perkins would do were he to open the brougham door and make a run for it. Of course the stableman had not the least right in the world to stop him, but there was something in Perkins’s face that told Sam that Perkins wasn’t greatly concerned about the rights of the matter. In short, Perkins looked like a man who would do as he was told, no matter what the consequences. There was nothing for it but to stay where he was and await an opportunity to slip out undetected. The minutes passed laggingly. Perkins finished one page of his paper and turned to the next. It was very hotand stuffy inside the brougham, with a strong odor of leather and upholstery. If only Perkins would go upstairs to have a look for the prisoner! But Perkins apparently entertained no doubts as to Sam’s whereabouts, congratulating himself, doubtless, that the latter was causing so little trouble. Sam viewed the clock again. It was five minutes past three. He changed his cramped position, wishing he dared to curl himself up on the seat.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs and the coachman appeared, yawning. Perkins put aside his paper, took up the bridle and went for the horse. Had Billy followed him Sam was prepared to make his dash for liberty. But Billy got a big feather duster and went over the brougham. Sam wondered whether he would open the door and discover him. But he didn’t. He confined his attentions to the outside of the carriage, still yawning sleepily, and before he was through Perkins led the sorrel in.
Sam smiled gleefully. If only he could remain unseen there on the bottom of thebrougham he could ride to the end of the drive, open the door and jump out!
The sorrel was backed into the shafts and harnessed up. Billy took his blue coat with the silver buttons from a peg and slipped it on.
“Did you dust the cushions?” asked Perkins. Sam’s heart stood still.
“Sure I did,” responded Billy untruthfully as he climbed to the box. “Whoa, boy. All right, John.”
The carriage moved, turned and a flood of sunlight reached Sam. They were outside the stable and moving slowly down the driveway! In the front of the brougham was a wide pane of glass through which Sam could see the box and Billy’s blue-clad back, and through which Billy, if he cared, could see Sam! But Billy never suspected that he had a passenger. As the drive made a turn Sam glanced back and saw Perkins once more seated at the carriage house door with his paper in hand. Sam grinned broadly. Then he untied his shoes and hurriedly thrust his feet into them. There was notime to lace them up, for the carriage had reached the gate. As Sam had expected, Billy turned the horse’s head toward the business centre of town. Opening the door of the brougham just as Billy clicked to the sorrel and the sorrel started into a trot, Sam leaped lightly into the road and slammed the door behind him. Billy turned startledly and pulled up his horse. But Sam was scudding in the opposite direction as fast as his legs would carry him. At a safe distance he turned and looked back. The brougham was still motionless and Billy was gazing after his late passenger with open mouth. Sam waved him a farewell and trotted on, chuckling enjoyably.
He had hoped that a trolley car would happen along and give him a lift as far as the Maple Ridge road, but there was none in sight, and a moment later Sam recollected the fact that he had no money and so wouldn’t have got very far anyway. It was nearly half-past three now. He no longer hoped to reach school in time to take part in the game. All he did hope for was to arrive in time to confront Chesty Harris andthe others and, backed by the indignant Boarders, give them a bad five minutes!
The sun was still pretty hot and the road was dusty and Sam heartily wished that Billy had been going in this direction instead of the other. He turned into the Maple Ridge road, pausing a moment at the fountain there to have a drink. Then removing his coat and mopping his face, he went on. He wasn’t trotting now, but he stepped out briskly and, having found his second-wind presently, made good time. It was well toward four o’clock when he entered the deserted campus at Maple Ridge. That none of the fellows were in sight proved that the game was still in progress, so Sam hurried by the gymnasium and down the terrace walk. The crowd was too thick about the plate for him to see much, but Watkins out in right field showed that the Towners were at bat. So interested were the watchers in the contest that Sam joined them unseen, and it was only when he pushed his way through the throng about the plate that his advent was noted.
A wild cheer went up from the Boarders asSam laid his hand on Dolph’s arm, and they began to press around him. Questions fell thick, but Sam waved them aside.
“They caught me this noon and locked me up in Chesty’s stable,” he said shortly. “I just got away. How’s it going, Dolph?”
“Six to five in our favor,” replied Dolph succinctly. “First of the ninth. Three on bases, none out, and Morris pitched to a standstill. Can you go in?”
“Sure!” The light of battle flamed in Sam’s eyes. “Six to five, you say? Let’s get at it!”
Sam shed his coat, tossed it to Midget Greeneand walked toward the plate. Over on the Towner’s bench the news of Sam’s arrival had awakened first incredulity and then dismay. The bench emptied as the fellows crowded up to see for themselves. But there was Sam as large as life and twice as cheerful.
“How the dickens did he get out?” whispered Mort Prince to Dick Furst.
“Search me,” growled the other. “Where’s Chesty?”
Chesty was nearby, looking very shamefacedand explaining volubly to a group of Towners that he couldn’t understand it at all!
“Well, he’s here,” said Drake disgustedly. “Seems to me you might have kept him half an hour longer. I said all along it wasn’t safe to leave him there with no one to look after him. They’ll beat us now; see if they don’t. You make me tired, Chesty!”
“It wasn’t my fault,” protested Chester. “We had him locked up so hecouldn’tget out! And Perkins was there watching him!”
“Well, heisout, isn’t he?” demanded Milton Wales angrily. “What have you got to say to that?”
Chester had nothing to say.
Hal Morris yielded the ball to Sam with a weary smile.
“I’m afraid I’ve got things in a mess, Sammy,” he said. “It’s one strike and three balls on him. Gee, but I’m glad you’ve come. About one more up would have completely finished me.”
“Well, you must have done good work, Hal, to keep those Indians down to five runs. Runalong now and don’t worry. I’ve got a score to settle with these chaps.”
Sam waved Joe Williams out of the batsman’s box and proceeded to warm up to Dolph. A couple of the balls he sped in were pretty wild, one going by Dolph into the crowd, and the Towners howled derisively. After all, Sam had had no chance to limber up, and, clever as he was, it was well-nigh impossible for him to shut them out with three on bases and none down! So the Towners took heart and shouted and sang and made all the hubbub possible.
“Play ball!” commanded Mr. Shay. “One and three, Phillips.”
Back of first base Mort Prince was leaping and waving his arms in his rôle of coacher, while across the field at third Dick Furst was doing all he could to worry Sam. Tyler Wicks was on third, Coolidge on second and Gus Turnbull on first. Sam looked over the field, smiled pleasantly at Turnbull, who returned the smile in a rather sickly way, and then gave his attention to Joe Williams at bat. Dolph crouched and gave the signal.
“Come on now, fellows!” he called as he got into position for the catch. “Out they go, one, two, three!”
Probably none of his team heard the remark, for Towners and Boarders were once more engaged in their vocal war. But Williams heard and his confidence, already disturbed by Sam’s appearance on the mound, suffered a further relapse. Sam settled his toes in the soil, twirled his arms and shot the ball away. Williams let it go by, as he should have with three balls to his credit, and yelled a protest when the umpire called it a strike. The Boarders yelled gleefully. Williams gripped his bat tighter and began to swing it nervously over the plate while he awaited the next delivery. This, he argued, was bound to be a good one, for if not it would force in a run. Dolph gave the signal, but Sam shook his head. Dolph gave a new signal and Sam nodded. Sam knew pretty well what Joe Williams would do in a crisis of this sort. He knew that Joe would expect a straight ball and would try for it. And as Joe was a fairly good hitter it was more than likely that he wouldconnect with it. So Sam sent him a ball that looked very, very good until it was almost at the plate. Then, as Williams swung at it, it settled into a drop and the bat went harmlessly over it.
“Strike! He’s out!” called Mr. Shay.
Howls of delight from the Boarders and of disappointment from the enemy; peevish remarks from Williams as he dragged his bat away to the bench; redoubled noise and confusion from the coachers.
“One gone!” called Ted at first.
Peters, the Towners’ third baseman, was the next batter, and Peters was an open book to Sam. Sam put the first one over, and Peters, just as Sam had expected, let it go by without an offer. Then Sam tried a high one and Peters scoffed at it. Sam followed this with a slow ball that cut the corner of the plate. Mr. Shay called it a ball and Sam turned and regarded him sorrowfully.
“That’s two!” yelled Prince. “Pick out a good one, old man, and just meet it! Make him pitch to you!”
The next delivery looked like the last, but it swung in at the right moment and the umpire called: “Strike! Two and two!” Dolph gave the signal and then held his hands wide apart.
“Now, then, right over the plate, Sammy!” he called. “He can’t hit it!”
Peters smiled craftily. If Dolph asked for one over the plate it meant that the ball would be a wide one, he argued. He was all ready for it in case it should be good, of course, only he wasn’t going to be fooled as easily as that!
“Strike! He’s out!”
“What?” Peters stared open-mouthed at Mr. Shay. “It was over my shoulder! Gee, that’s a roast!”
But the batsman’s protest was drowned by the roar of joy from the Boarders.
“Two down!” called Dolph.
“Two gone!” yelled Ted.
“Next man!” cried little Smythe, smiting fist into mitt. Sam beckoned the fielders in as Milton Wales stepped to the plate. Wales was a heavy hitter and Sam’s show of confidence in calling the fielders in made Wales scowl. Samsmiled at him sarcastically as he rubbed the ball on his trousers.
“Where’ll you have it, Milt?” he asked.
“Anywhere I can reach it,” answered Wales angrily.
“Give him a good one,” called Dolph.
Sam nodded carelessly and shot a high ball that sent the batter staggering back from the plate.
“Don’t hit him!” begged Dolph.
The next one looked pretty good and Wales swung at it. There was a crack as bat and ball met and in an instant he was racing to first and Wicks and Coolidge were streaking for the plate. But the ball, a hard and low fly, came to earth in Finkler’s meadow, a foul by many yards.
“Foul! Strike!” called Mr. Shay, tossing a new ball to Sam. Sam waited while Wales walked back to the plate.
“Try again, Milt,” he said as the Towner went past him. Wales scowled. The tumult had subsided, for both sides were far too excited to shout. Wales picked up his bat againand stepped into the box. Dolph gave his signal. Sam wound himself up and pitched a wide one that was nowhere near the plate. But Wales, angry and nervous, stepped out and almost struck at it. Sam smiled as he leaned down to rub his hand in the dirt. He had learned what he wanted to know. Wales was “up in the air.” Sam had no doubt now of the outcome. He refused Dolph’s next signal, put his fingers to the brim of his cap, got his reply from Dolph, a cheerful “Now then, Sammy!” and hurled the ball. Straight as an arrow it shot, right across the plate, waist-high, as beautiful a strike as ever was pitched. And Wales knew that it was good and slugged at it, and missed it clean! What a yell of triumph went up from the Boarders!
“He’s easy, Sammy!” shouted Dolph as he returned the ball. “Give him another one like that!”
Sam nodded nonchalantly, cast his gaze about the bases, smiled at the anxious faces of Prince and Furst and then turned and spoke to Mr. Shay.
“Time!” called the umpire.
“What for?” shrieked Mort Prince.
“I want to tie my shoe,” replied Sam sweetly, as he knelt and went through the motions.
“He’s delaying the game!” cried Prince. “I protest, Mr. Umpire.”
Sam arose, picked up the ball and nodded.
“Play!” said Mr. Shay.
But still Sam was in no hurry. He put his head on one side and studied Dolph’s signal intently, thought it over for a moment and then shook his head. Dolph tried again and again Sam pondered. All this time Wales was swinging his bat more and more nervously, the Towners were hurling insults and protests and Prince was dancing with rage. At last Sam nodded, threw his arms up very slowly and stepped forward and launched the ball. It was a slow one. Wales leaned forward, his bat poised. An instant of suspense. Then he swung. There was a thud as the ball struck Dolph’s mitt and the next moment the crowd was over the diamond. Wales had struck out!
They caught Sam before he could run, and, high on the shoulders of three Boarders, he went swaying and bobbing up the hill to the gymnasium, the rest of the team following in similar fashion amidst a tumult that made all previous efforts seem weak and futile. The Boarders had won, 6 to 5, and they meant that the world should know it!