CHAPTER IV.A DESPERATE ENEMY.
“Ginger up, there, Robinson! You’re worse than a dead man!”
“Get in front of ’em, Dashleigh! Stop ’em with your body if you can’t hold ’em with your hands!”
“You throw like an old woman, Mason! You’ll break your back some day.”
“Here, here, Ready! that will do with those flourishes! When you get hold of a ball throw it. Don’t juggle it.”
“Say, you chap with the curly hair, don’t get so excited. Take a little time in throwing to first, after picking up a ball.”
“Who is that long-legged chap?” Gamp questioned.
“Here, Gamp, it’s your turn to bat.”
“Oh, murder! Who let that grounder go through him? Carker? Is that his name? Say, Carker, you’re a sieve! Keep your feet together and you’ll do better.”
It was a lively scene in the great baseball cage at Yale, for the squad of candidates for the ball-team were hard at work and the coaches were putting them “through the paces.”
The men were working hard, and the coaches wereyelling and shouting at them, giving orders, criticizing, commenting—but seldom expressing approval.
It would not do to let any man think he was doing too well at this early stage of the work, for it might spoil him by giving him a good opinion of his ability.
More men have been spoiled by praise than by adverse criticism, and the professional coach knows this very well.
It is a pretty level-headed youth who can stand open praise without thinking himself the “only one.”
Sometimes it pays to praise a man, but it is best to know your man before you venture to praise him. Be sure it will do him more good than silence, or keep your mouth shut.
In rare instances praise will serve to spur a man on to do still better. Far oftener it will cause him to think he is good enough already and that the other fellows should hustle to keep in his class.
The fellow who manages or coaches a ball-team must know this, and he must be exceedingly careful with his praise.
In the cage the sweating crowd of candidates accepted this criticism without a word, for it would not do to “talk back.” When one was called down for something he did, if he was a good man, he shut his teeth and made an extra attempt to do it well the next time. If he was sulky and had a bad temper, he might tell himself he did not care a rap, and then he would be careless and do worse the next time. In that case, the chances were he would be quietly informed that itwould be a waste of time for him to practise further, and that the room he occupied in the cage was needed for others.
Of course, there were men, and plenty of them, who worked like slaves to improve, yet failed to make thenecessarynecessaryprogress, and who were dropped one after another for that reason.
But no man of this class, willing and determined, was dropped till the coaches were perfectly satisfied that there was no possible chance of making good material out of him.
The turnout this year had been most unsatisfactory, barely more than half the usual number of candidates coming to the cage each day.
This happened despite all efforts to get out the usual large squad. It seemed very remarkable, but men came to attribute it to the absence of Merriwell, which, they said, accounted for the apathetic interest taken in baseball.
There was at one time talk of making some move to choose a new captain for the team, to see if that would not bring about better results; but Merriwell had given no notice that he would not be on hand to fill the position, and the one who hinted openly of selecting some one to fill his place was soon hissed down.
But now Merriwell had arrived, and his return showed immediately by the change that took place in the cage. He had made inquiries about the work, and, having learned what men were practising and whowere not, he went around among those whom he regarded as having a chance to make the nine.
The following day a swarm of new men flocked into the cage and went to work with a vim that astonished and delighted the coaches. Joe Gamp, Hock Mason, Berlin Carson, and Greg Carker were among the new men.
Carson had given up in despair, having tried to make the team the year before and failed; but during the trip of Merriwell’s athletes through the West the previous summer Frank had been given an opportunity to see what the rancher’s son could do at the game, and he urged Berlin to come out and make one more attempt to get onto the varsity nine.
Frank did not have so much confidence in Greg Carker, the pessimist, for he knew that Carker’s peculiar temperament was such that he could never be at his very best in anything.
Joe Gamp, however, despite his awkwardness, was one of the best outfielders Merry had ever seen. This was rather astonishing, for Gamp was not regarded at college as a person having the least baseball material in him, and he had never tried for a place on the varsity nine.
But Merriwell had seen him play center field on the great athletic trip, and he knew Gamp could cover an “outer garden” in splendid style, and could throw with almost the marvelous power of the once famed Sockalexis, and was an unusually good hitter againstpitchers who had not discovered his "weak spot"—high and close to his shoulders.
With Hock Mason it was different. Frank had seen Mason, who was from the South, catch some flies in field practise, which he had done very well; but outside of that Merry knew very little about the fellow except that he was sturdy, well built, and a perfect bulldog at anything he set out to do.
It was well enough to get such a man into the cage and see if something could not be made of him, so Frank urged Mason to turn out and practise. Mason did so.
A long time before this Mason had been one of the greatest bullies in college; but he found more than his match in Frank, and the result of the sound thrashing he received was very beneficial. After that it was his belief that Merriwell must despise him, but when he was injured and lying in a hospital it was Merriwell who came every day to ask about him, it was Merriwell who first reached his side when a visitor was permitted to see him, and it was Merriwell who pressed his hand and spoke encouraging words to him.
When he left that hospital the student from South Carolina was cured completely of his bullying ways, and Frank Merriwell had made a new and stanch friend.
Still, Mason was strangely proud, and he would not force himself on any one, for which reason it happened that he never became one of Merriwell’s recognized “flock.”
Deep in his heart Mason had often longed to join the jolly band of Merriwell’s friends, but his pride had held him back.
Now, when Frank came and asked him to get out for practise in the cage, Hock was ready enough to do so, even though it seemed really preposterous that he could ever make sufficient advancement to have a show to get onto the nine.
Bertrand Defarge was among the men who had taken his regular amount of work in the cage day after day, and he was showing up pretty well, too. But Frank knew Defarge of old, and he was aware that such a fellow, though full of vigor, fire, and intensity at times, could not always be relied upon, having a temper that conquered and swayed him absolutely at times.
Of course, Frank was on hand, and it was his presence in the cage that seemed to make the marvelous change in things, so that the men went at their work with a gingery earnestness that quite surprised and wholly delighted the hitherto disgusted and disheartened coaches.
And Frank had managed to keep himself in excellent form, so that he remained the admiration and marvel of the athletic-loving students. He began his pitching-work easily, however, knowing the folly of starting off with too much vigor, even though he was in perfect condition.
Even Frank was not above taking advice from the coachers, although it is probable that not one manamong them knew more about baseball and the work of getting into trim for it than did Merry himself.
If any one watched the first day to see him throw some samples of the “double-shoot” that person was disappointed, for he indulged in nothing of the kind.
But he still had it at his command, as he very well knew, and his wrist was hard as iron. When the time came he would swiftly convince his doubting opponents that the “double-shoot” was not a fanciful invention of some romancer’s brain.
For among the hundreds of pitchers who had worked and tried and schemed to learn his secret, it was not probable that one had entirely succeeded, therefore they gave up in despair, and became scoffers, saying there was no such thing as the double-shoot.
Among the candidates for pitching-honors was Dade Morgan, and he worked persistently and faithfully.
On the first day of Frank’s appearance in the cage one of the coaches asked him to watch Morgan’s work and see what he thought of it. Merry did so for a few moments, and Dade flushed hotly when he saw this, though he kept at it without a break.
When Frank had moved away the man who was coaching Morgan said:
“Try to throw that drop with just the same motion you use in throwing your other curves. You give yourself dead away every time you start to throw a drop. The batter would know just what was coming.”
Dade’s dark eyes flashed and drooped. For onemoment he betrayed anger, and then he smiled sweetly, saying:
“I’ll do my level best.”
But Bertrand Defarge quickly found an opportunity to slip over to Morgan and sneer:
“So you got a call-down! I knew it would come the minute Merriwell saw what you were doing. He’s jealous, and you don’t stand the least show of making the nine. You may as well give up trying now.”
“How about you?”
“Oh, I’m not a pitcher, and there is no chance that I’ll rob him of any glory. Indeed, if I pan out well, I may add to his glory by helping him in games, so he’ll let my head alone. Yours comes off before the Easter trip, see if it doesn’t. You may as well quit now.”
“I’ll never quit till I have to!” returned Dade. “Get out and let me alone! I’m sick of your croaking!”
“Go to blazes!” hissed Defarge. “I may find a way to make you sicker!”
A number of men were hard at work fielding ground balls and throwing to first. Mason was one of this squad, and he was not making a great success of it. The coaches yelled at him, but that did not seem to do him much good.
Then Frank Merriwell, being a privileged character, walked down and talked to Mason in a quiet, soothing tone.
“You’re rattled, Mason,” said Merry. “Just get rid of the idea that everybody is looking at you. Theyare not. The other men are busy taking care of their own affairs.”
“I reckon you made a mistake when you asked me to get out here, sah,” said the Southerner, the perspiration standing out on his drawn and worried face. “I judge I ain’t put up right to be howled at like this by a lot of loud-mouthed duffers.”
“Don’t be touchy, man. You can’t succeed if you are. We’ve all had coaches yell at us in the same way.”
“But it’s mighty galling to a man like me.”
“Haven’t a doubt of it, but you must set your jaws and lay right down to the work. Get your body in front of those bounding balls every time, even if they take your head off. Keep your heels together, and they may stop balls when your hands fail. Jump into the track of anything that comes your way. If it’s a slow one, go ahead to meet it, for every second counts in trying to cut off a runner who is sprinting to first.”
“All right. I’ll try it again, sah, but I’m mighty afraid it isn’t my line.”
After that Mason did better stopping the balls that came his way, even though he did not pick them all up cleanly, but he made his worst mistake in his hurry to throw to first. Seeing this, Frank fancied he had given the fellow a wrong impression, and so worked round to Hock to set him straight.
“Don’t be in such a fearful hurry to throw,” he instructed. “You make poor throws by your hurry.”
“But you told me a little while ago that every moment counts in cutting off a man running to first.”
“That’s true, but it’s far better to lose a little time in taking care to make a good throw than it is to hustle for all you’re worth and lose the man entirely by a poor throw. Besides that, you do not throw right. You never get into the right position.”
“That being the case, sah, I reckon I better quit now.”
“I don’t think you’re a quitter, Mason. Let me tell you where you make your mistake. In your haste to throw, if you pick the ball up with your body leaning away from the base you wish to throw to, you do not take time to right yourself, but you throw in that attitude. You can’t get any force into the throw. Besides, you swing your arm too far. Try a shorter swing; throw from the ear. Never take a hop, skip, and a jump before throwing, as I saw you do a few moments ago. Even though you send the ball whizzing across the diamond like a bullet, you have lost lots of valuable time before you got it away from your hand, and that may mean the loss of the runner. Pull your hand back behind your ear, lean forward a little as you throw, and just as it leaves your hand take a single step. Try that. Practice it all thetime.”time.”
Then Frank worked on to another man he had selected to advise, and in this manner Merriwell assisted the coaches. In fact, his quiet coaching was far more efficacious than that of some of the regular coaches who made considerable noise.
A regular system of batting-practise was gone through, each man being directed how to stand properly, how to hold his bat, and how to swing. Bunting and place hitting were practised by the more skilful batters.
Base-running and sliding to bases was a part of the regular work. At this the older hands showed up well, but some of the new men were very awkward. It caused the coaches to howl when a runner was told to slide, and he slammed himself prone on the ground as if going through to China and slid about ten inches, but they howled equally as much at the one “who let himself down in sections,” his knees striking first.
Dade Morgan was making excellent showing. He had a good eye for the ball when batting, and he could sprint to first like a deer. When it came to sliding, he slipped over the ground in an easy, graceful manner that was deserving of applause.
Frank felt like giving Morgan a word of praise, but remembering the past, and not knowing just what the effect on Dade would be, he refrained from doing so.
Dick Starbright, the giant freshman, was in the midst of the work, and he went at it with an energy that seemed almost savage. A change had come over him, and the good-natured, pleasant look that had seemed habitual had vanished before one of stern determination.
Indeed, Dick was doing everything possible to keephis mind from dwelling on a certain beautiful dark-eyed girl whom he now knew was lost to him. He studied hard, worked hard, played hard, and in this manner succeeded fairly well in his purpose.
He had read in Frank’s happy face the result of the trip to Fardale, but it had been exactly what he expected.
And Frank’s talk with Hodge had seemed to transform Bart, who had been fretful, listless, and ill-natured before, failing to take much interest in the cage-work or seeming to care whether Yale put a winning team on the field or not.
Now Hodge went into the work with vim and earnestness, and he actually smiled occasionally, which was so remarkable that it caused more than one to comment upon it.
Defarge had seen Merriwell talking to Mason, and at the first opportunity the French youth spoke to the Southerner.
“Did you get a calling down from the high muck-a-muck of this combination?” sneeringly asked Bertrand.
“What do you mean, sah?” demanded Hock.
“Why, I saw Merriwell shooting off his mouth at you, and I presume he was telling you just what sort of a slouch you are, which is a habit of his, the egotistical cad!”
“No, sah, he was not calling me down. He was giving me a few pointers, and I appreciate his kindness in doing so.”
“Well, you’re just like all the others,” growledDefarge. “He can rub it all over you and you’ll think it’s nice, but you’d kick like a mule if anybody else tried it.”
“I may kick like a mule, sah, if you are not careful about your language in addressing me, and I’ll guarantee that you’ll be within reach when I kick.”
Defarge showed his teeth.
“If you ever kicked me I’d make a hole in your skin and let some of your confounded upstart blood out!” he hissed.
“And if you ever tried that trick,” retorted Mason, not in the least frightened, “I’d forget that I’ve sworn never to strike a man who did not weigh as much as myself, and I’d give you the blamedest thrashing, sah, that you ever had in all your life!”
“Pouf!” said Bertrand, as he wheeled away.
“It really would do me good to thump him,” muttered Mason, watching the fellow’s retreating figure. “I think he’s about the only enemy of any account that Merriwell has left in college.”
Roland Packard did not occur to him just then. Besides, Roland had been keeping pretty quiet about Merry since the beginning of the term, realizing that popular sentiment was entirely against him.
The Chickering set was not regarded as worth considering.
Defarge could find little consolation in his attempts to deride and sneer at Merriwell, and it began to seem to him that all the old enemies of Frank with blood in their bodies and courage to take a stand againstthe idol of Yale had given over the struggle as worse than useless.
Thus, when the practise work was over and the men were preparing for the run into the suburbs, which always followed cage training, Bertrand sulked and growled and was disagreeable to every one.
“I’d like to get a good chance to do up Merriwell!” he thought; but he remembered how all his former efforts had failed and brought disgrace upon himself in several instances, and even his hating heart quailed.
As soon as the men were ready they left the gymnasium in a body and started at a brisk trot along one of the widest and most comfortable streets of the old city. The pace was not made too fast at first, and yet it was enough to keep them going sharply.
It was an interesting spectacle to see these sturdy-limbed youths start out in a body, their heads up, mouths closed, cheeks flushed and nostrils dilated. Surely a representative lot of young Americans they were.
Frank ran lightly and easily, seeming to find it no effort at all to get over the ground at the pace set. Hodge was beside him, and Jack Ready had swung in with them. Ready still ran in his own peculiar fashion, toeing in with his left foot, a habit he had been unable to break, try as he might. His cheeks were rosy and his eyes bright.
“Ah-ha!” he exclaimed, as he trotted along. “This is the kind of stuff that makes one feel fit to tackle the gods! Yea, verily! Why, just now I believe I couldgive old Thor, the god of thunder, a rattling good set-to!”
“Yet,” said Frank, “we know any amount of fellows in Yale who are literally grinding their lives out, and not one of them has sense enough to take sufficient exercise to preserve their health.”
“Which means that a few more fools will graduate near the head of their classes and go out into the world with broken constitutions. What will they be good for?”
“It’s all right for a man to graduate as near the head of his class as possible,” Merry asserted, “in case he gives enough time to exercise to keep his health and strength; but when he wears his life away and goes forth from college a physical wreck he has committed a crime. Not only that, but he will be punished for his crime, and there is no way for him to escape that punishment.”
“And all the while he doesn’t dream what fun he’s missing,” laughed Jack, thumping his breast with his clenched hands. “Why, it’s great just to be living and feel this way! I could fly—if I had a flying-machine.”
“You have the necessary wheels in your head,” declared Merry.
“But you’ll never develop a pair of wings,” asserted Hodge.
By the time they were well out into the suburbs it had begun to grow dark. They had passed Beaver Ponds, and were not far from West Rock, before theleader swung to the left by a country road and turned back toward the city.
The men had strung out behind for a short distance. It was impossible to tell if all of them had held out and kept with the squad.
In fact, one of them had not. Defarge had slowly fallen behind until he was near the rear of the squad, and then, making an excuse to tighten up his shoe, he knelt beside the road and let them go on without him.
“I know the way they’ll come back,” he muttered. “And I know where I can watch them without being seen. If Merriwell would just take a fancy to spurt, or would get off by himself! Oh, yes! I’d make one more try to settle his hash!”
Then he turned back, struck into a cross-lane, and ran swiftly through the gathering gloom, his heart filled with black thoughts and evil designs.