CHAPTER IVPRACTICE MAKES PERFECT
Laurie folded Kewpie’s sweater and placed it on the ground a few yards from the gymnasium wall. “There’s your plate,” he announced. “See if you can put ’em over the middle button, Kewpie.”
Kewpie tightened his belt, thumped a worn baseball into a blackened glove, and rather ostentatiously dug a hole in the moist turf with his heel. Laurie grinned. Here on the south side of the building the sun shone warmly and the ground was fairly dry. Behind Laurie about four yards away, was a wire fence which, if Kewpie retained ordinary control of the ball, would make life easier for Ned, who sat in the embrasure of a basement window. Laurie pulled his mitten on and waited. Kewpie was at last satisfied with the hole he had dug and fitted his toe into it. Then he looked speculatively at the folded sweater and wrapped his fingers about the ball.
“What’s this going to be, Kewpie?” asked Ned. “A drop?”
“Straight ball. Just warming up.” Kewpie let go, and the ball struck the fence and bounded back. Laurie sighed and went after it.
“I’m not as young as I was, Kewpie,” he said, “and anything more than ten feet on either side of me is likely to get away. See if you can put ’em somewhere near the plate.”
Kewpie laughed. “That one got away from me, Nod.”
“Me, too,” said Laurie. “Let her come. Shoot her in!”
Kewpie’s next offering was a good deal better, and Laurie didn’t have to move to get it. Kewpie sent four or five more balls within reasonable distance of the sweater. There was no speed in them, nor were they other than perfectly straight offerings. Still, as Laurie reflected encouragingly, it was something to be able to do that much. He was not quite sure he could do it himself the first few times.
“All right, old son,” he called. “Speed ’em up now.”
But speed did not seem to be included inKewpie’s budget of tricks. The first attempt sent the ball over Laurie’s head and likewise over the fence. While Ned, sighing, went after it, Laurie indulged in gentle sarcasms. Kewpie thumped his glove with a bare fist and smiled genially. Then the ball came back, and Kewpie began again. Laurie picked the ball from the trampled turf between his feet and viewed Kewpie questioningly.
“Didn’t you have some drop on that?” he queried.
“Sure,” answered Kewpie. “Here’s another. You watch it.”
Laurie did watch it. And it did drop. A faint, new-born respect for Kewpie as a pitcher was reflected in his voice as he said: “That’s not so poor, old thing. Where’d you learn it?”
But Kewpie was throwing his chest out now, a purely unnecessary thing for Kewpie to do, and strutting a bit. “Never you mind,” he answered. “I told you I had something, and you wouldn’t believe me.”
“That’s all right,” remarked Ned, “but you’ve got to know more than just how to pitcha drop if you’re going to put Nate Beedle out of business.”
“That’s not half so worse,” commented Laurie after the next ball had performed a very creditable drop, “but let’s see something else, old son. How about a curve just for variety?”
“We-ell,” said Kewpie, “I haven’t got curves down so well, but—” He spent a long moment fingering the ball and finally sent it off with a decidedly round-arm delivery. Laurie caught it by leaping far to the left.
“What was that supposed to be?” he asked politely.
“In-shoot,” said Kewpie, but his tone lacked conviction.
“Huh,” returned Laurie, “you ain’t so well in your in-shoot. Better see a doctor about it. Try an out, old son.”
But Kewpie’s out wasn’t any better, and, at the end of about twenty minutes, by which time Ned was the only member of the trio not bathed in perspiration, it had been shown conclusively that Kewpie’s one and only claim to pitching fame rested on a not very remarkable drop-ball. Laurie picked up Kewpie’s sweater and returnedit to him gravely. “Better put that on,” he said with vast concern. “It would be awful if you got cold in that arm of yours.”
Kewpie struggled with the garment, breathing heavily, and when he had conquered it he turned expectantly to Laurie. “Well, what do you say?” he asked.
“What do you want me to say?” Laurie stared frowningly at his mitten.
“Why, you know what I asked you,” said Kewpie. “I—you—”
“But, great jumpin’ Jupiter, Kewpie, I can’t ask Pinky to put you on the squad just because you can pitch a sort of a drop! You haven’t an ounce of speed; you can’t curve ’em—”
“Well, but I haven’t had any work!” protested the other. “Gee, I guess Nate Beedle couldn’t do much better the first time he pitched!”
“But Nate knowshow, you simple fish! All the work in the world won’t make you any better if—”
“Practice makes perfect, don’t it?” interrupted Kewpie indignantly.
“Maybe. Maybe not. If you don’t know anythingabout pitching you can practise from now until—”
“But I do know, I tell you. All I need is practice. I’ve got a book that tells—”
“Book be blowed!” exploded Laurie. “You can’t learn pitching by taking a correspondence-course, you fat-head!”
“Quit your arguing, you two,” said Ned. “Laurie’s quite right, Kewpie. He can’t recommend you to Mr. Mulford until you’ve got more to show than you’ve shown just now. But I don’t see what’s to prevent you from learning more tricks or what’s to prevent Laurie from helping you if he can. Seems to me the thing to do is for you two to get together every day for a while.” Ned was looking meaningly at his brother. “Maybe Kewpie’s got it in him, Laurie. You can’t tell yet, eh?”
“Eh? Oh, no, I suppose not. No, you can’t tell. Maybe with practice—”
“Right-o,” agreed Ned. “That’s it; practice, Kewpie. Now you and Laurie fix it up between you to get together for half an hour every morning, savvy? Maybe after a week or so—”
“All right,” agreed Kewpie, beaming. “Gee, in a week I’ll be speeding them over like—like anything!”
Laurie looked at him pityingly. “You—you poor prune!” he sighed. Ned surreptitiously kicked him on a shin and quickly drowned Kewpie’s hurt protest with, “There! That’s fine! Come on, Laurie, it’s nearly eleven.”
“All right,” answered Laurie, rubbing the shin. “See you later, Kewpie, and we’ll fix up a time for practice.” Out of ear-shot of the more leisurely Kewpie, Laurie turned bitterly on his brother. “It’s all right for you,” he complained, “but that poor fish doesn’t know any more about pitching than I know about—about my Latin this morning! It’s all right for you, but—”
“You said that before,” interrupted Ned unfeelingly. “Look here, old-timer, did we or didn’t we agree to help Kewpie? Are you or aren’t you a member of the Association for the Reclamation—”
“Sure, I’m a member! And I’m the goat, too, it seems like! I have to do all the dirty work while you stand around and bark up my shins! How do you get that way? You can catch a ballif you try. Suppose you take Kewpie on some of the time and see how you like it!”
“I would in an instant,” responded Ned, “if you’d let me, but you wouldn’t.”
“I wouldn’t!” echoed Laurie incredulously as he followed the other up-stairs to No. 16. “Say, you ain’t so well! You just try me!”
But Ned shook his head, smiling gently. “Just now, old son, you’re not quite yourself. When your better nature asserts itself you’ll—”
“Oh, dry up,” growled Laurie. “Throw me my Latin. There goes the bell!”
Kewpie took his ball back to No. 15, pulled a small paper-bound book entitled “How to Pitch” from a table drawer, and curled himself on the window-seat. Presently, as he turned the pages slowly, his usually placid countenance became troubled. Reaching for the ball, he wound his fingers about it, his eyes ever and anon traveling to the book. Finally he arose, gathered the pillows from the two beds, and set them upright against the closet door, side by side. Then he moved an arm-chair out of the way and, having fitted his fingers around the scuffed baseball as indicated in Diagram 6, let fly. Naturally, thedistance was much too short to show whether or not he had held the ball correctly, but Kewpie was an optimist by nature. Several times he followed the instructions accompanying Diagram 6, not always landing the ball against the pillows, however, and then gave his attention to Diagram 7. He was very busy striving to diagnose its requirements when “Hop” entered.
Hop’s real name was Thurman Kendrick, and he had the honor of being Kewpie’s room-mate. They were both football players and of an age, but there the likeness ceased. Hop was rather small and slim, with dark hair and an earnest countenance, a description that didn’t fit Kewpie at all. Hop was Hillman’s most likely candidate for next year’s quarter-back. Fortunately, the two boys worked together quite as smoothly on the gridiron as center and quarter as they did on the campus as room-mates. Or you may put it the other way around if you like, the idea being that they were the very best of chums off the field and on. But even a chum may have to assert authority once in a while, and Hop asserted it now.
“What do you think you’re doing, Kewpie?”he demanded in puzzlement. “Practising? Well, you pick those pillows up and put that ball down or I’ll paddle you! Look here, did you get a cut in English?”
Kewpie looked blank. “Gee, no! What time of day is it? Well, what do you know about that? I just naturally—”
“You’ll just naturally get the dickens from Johnny, you silly chump,” responded Hop dryly as he dumped his books on the table. “What did you do? forget the time?”
“N-no, I—I guess I got sort of interested in this pitching business, Hop. Say, you ought to have seen me pitching drops to Nod a while back! Boy, I’ll say I made ’em eat out of my hand!”
“And you’ll be eating off the mantel if I catch you missing any more recitations! Honest, Kewpie, you haven’t got the sense of a duck. Besides, what the dickens do you want to get into baseball for? Isn’t football good enough?”
“Sure, but I can’t play football now, can I? How do you suppose I’m going to keep myself in condition for it if I don’t have some exercise?”
“I don’t have much trouble.”
“Of course you don’t, but you’re not cursed with fat, Hop. It’s a terrible thing to be cursed with fat,” he said sadly.
“It’s a terrible thing to be cursed with a fat head,” replied Hop severely. “You’ve got about as much chance of getting on the baseball team as I have of—of—” But Hop couldn’t think of a satisfactory simile and so changed the subject. “Say, what’s Nod Turner been doing to Elk Thurston?”
“I don’t know. I heard something about Elk’s bicycle, but—”
“Well, Elk’s as sore as a pup about something, and— For goodness’ sake, put that ball away before you break something! How the dickens did I ever get hitched up with an idiot like you, anyway, I’d like to know!”
“Providence was watching over you, old chap,” answered Kewpie cheerfully. “As unworthy as you are—”
“Dry up,” laughed Hop, “and see if you can keep still long enough for me to find out why Johnny gave me only eighty-four on this theme.”
“Johnny has an awful crust,” said Kewpie sympathetically. “Wonder what he markedmine. Didn’t think to ask for it, did you?”
“I did not.Shut up!”
Laurie dropped around to the Widow Deane’s about five thirty that afternoon. It was getting to be something of a habit with him. Over a glass of root-beer he narrated to Polly the events of the morning. “He’s a perfect duffer at pitching,” he summed up finally, “and I guess I won’t ever have to trouble Pinky about him.”
“But perhaps he will learn,” said Polly hopefully. “And, anyway, he’s—he’s a changed mortal already, Laurie!”
“He’s a what?”
“I mean he’s different already. He was in this afternoon, and he had just a plain soda and only one cream-puff, and he was just as jolly as anything. Why, you wouldn’t know him for the same boy!”
Somehow these glad tidings didn’t appear to endow Laurie with any great feeling of uplift. He said, “Huh,” and took another sip of his root-beer. Polly went on earnestly.
“I suppose it’s just having something to interest him, something to live for, that’s changed him. Why, even if nothing actually came of it,Laurie, we’ve already done him a lot of good.”
“Great,” said Laurie. “I guess he’s got all the good that’s coming to him, then. He will never make a baseball pitcher.”
“But you mustn’t tell him that, even if you believe it,” said Polly earnestly. “You must encourage him, you know. We all must.”
Laurie grinned. “I’ve already told him he’s no good. I guess I told him so several times. But he doesn’t believe it, so there’s no harm done.”
“Oh, you shouldn’t have,” exclaimed Polly. “Don’t you see, if he’s to be—be taken out of himself, Laurie, he must—must have faith?”
“Oh, he’s got it, all right. I’m the one who hasn’t. He thinks he’s the coming scholastic wonder of the diamond, I guess. Of course, I’m perfectly willing to help the chap and keep him from killing himself off with cream-puffs, and that sort of thing, Polly, but you’ve got to own up that it’s a bit tough on me. Think of putting in half an hour every day with Kewpie! Gee, I’ve got troubles of my own, too. That silly Elk Thurston’s got it in for me, after that trifling affair of yesterday, and there’s no working in thesame cage with him. It wouldn’t be so bad if we weren’t both trying for the same job.”
“Do you mean that Elkins Thurston is a catcher, too?”
“He is if I am,” answered Laurie smiling. “More, I guess, for he did some catching last spring with the second. Still, at that, he isn’t so much better. We’re both pretty bad yet, Polly.”
“What does he do that—that you don’t like, Laurie?”
“Oh, just acts ugly and nags whenever he gets a chance. If he keeps it up I’ll crown him with a bat some fine day!”
“You mustn’t get into any fuss with him,” said Polly decidedly. “He’s a lot bigger than you and—”
“Huh, that’s why I mean to use a bat!”
“Besides, you shouldn’t have taken his bicycle. You see, Laurie, you really started the trouble yourself.”
“Yes, I suppose I did, but he shouldn’t be so touchy. Anyway, I don’t intend—”
He was interrupted by the opening of the door and the tinkling of the bell.A frail-looking littlewoman in a queer old-fashioned dressand a funny little flat bonnet entered and Polly went to attend to her. The two talked together across the opposite counter in low tones, and, just to show that he was not trying to overhear them, Laurie whistled softly. After a minute or two the little woman went out and Polly rejoined Laurie.
A pleasant-faced little lady in a queer, old-fashioned dress
A pleasant-faced little lady in a queer, old-fashioned dress
A pleasant-faced little lady in a queer, old-fashioned dress
“I feel so sorry for her,” said Polly with a sigh.
“What’s the matter?” asked Laurie. “Who is she?”
“That’s Miss Comfort.” Polly seemed surprised that Laurie didn’t know it. “She lives on the next corner, in the little white house that faces the park. She makes most of our cakes and pies. Don’t you remember—”
“Of course,” agreed Laurie, “but that’s the first time I ever saw her, I guess. But why are you sorry for her?”
“Because she’s got to get out of that house, and she hasn’t any place to go. And she must be almost seventy years old, Laurie. Just think of it!”
“Well, but aren’t there any other houses inOrstead? Seems to me I saw one just the other day over on Washington Street that had a ‘To Rent’ sign in front.”
“Yes, but that’s the old Cummings house, and it has sixteen rooms and rents for goodness knows what! You see, Miss Comfort had the use of the house she was in as long as her sister lived. Her sister was married and lived out West somewhere; Ohio or Iowa, I think. Well, she died last December, and now some lawyer has written her that she must vacate on the first of next month.”
“Didn’t give her much time, and that’s a fact,” commented Laurie sympathetically.
“Oh, she’s known for quite a while, but the trouble is she hasn’t a cent of money.”
“Phew!” whistled Laurie. “How come?”
“I guess she never did have any. That house belonged to her mother, and she died a long time ago and left a funny will that let Miss Comfort stay there until her sister died. She’s been getting along pretty well by making cakes and things and selling them. She makes the best cake in town, and every one buys of her. But I guess she’s never made more than enough money to just live on. I know that winter before last,when coal was so high, she shut up all the rooms except the kitchen and lived there with just the stove for warmth. And goodness knows when she’s had a new dress. I declare she’s worn that one she had on just now ever since I’ve been in Orstead, Laurie!”
“Gee, that’s tough luck for the old girl,” said Laurie. “Must be some place for her, though.”
“There’s only one place I know of,” said Polly sadly, “and that’s the poor-farm. Of course, she’ll be well taken care of, and they’ll let her go on making cake and selling it, but she hates it dreadfully.”
“I should think she might! At her age! Gee!”
“Mama and I thought of having her here, but there’s only the two rooms up-stairs, and while it would be all right for a while it wouldn’t do as a—a permanent arrangement.”
“But isn’t there any one else who could give her a home? Some one who has more room? What about the folks in her church?”
“Well, of course there’s been talk of helping her, and I’m certain quite a lot of folks will give money, but I don’t believe she’d take it, Laurie.And even if she got quite a lot, even a hundred dollars, it wouldn’t pay house-rent very long, would it?”
“A hundred dollars!” snorted Laurie. “Say, they must be a lot of pikers. Why—”
“Why, no, Laurie, they’re not. You see, they’re not very well off themselves, and the congregation isn’t a large one at all. A hundred dollars would be quite a lot of money to them.”
“So the poor old lady’s got to go to the poor-farm, eh?” mused Laurie, frowning.
“I’m afraid so,” sighed Polly. “She’s never talked to me about it, but mama said this morning that she guessed Miss Comfort had about reconciled herself. And just now she came in to apologize for not sending two cakes she had promised for this afternoon. I guess the poor dear’s too worried and upset to make them.”
“Yes, I guess so,” Laurie agreed. “I call that tough luck. ‘Miss Comfort.’ Gee, I’ll bet she hasn’t really known what comfort is, Polly!”
“Not since her mother died, probably. But she’s always been just as cheerful and happy as any one could be until just lately. She’s a perfect dear, Laurie, and I could cry when I thinkof her having to go to that po-poor-farm!”
Dismayed by the catch in Polly’s voice, and horribly afraid that she was really going to cry, Laurie suddenly recalled the fact that he must get back to school. “Well, I—I suppose there isn’t anything any one can do,” he murmured awkwardly. “Maybe the poor-farm won’t be so bad. I suppose it’s the idea of it that sort of gets her, eh? Well, I must be trundling along, Polly.”
Laurie gave a farewell suck at his straw, which resulted in only a gurgling sound at the bottom of his glass, and dropped off the counter.
“Well, see you to-morrow,” he announced cheerfully. “Good night, Polly.”
“Good night,” said Polly. “But you didn’t need to run away. I hadn’t any intention of cr-crying!”