CHAPTER XTHE COACH MAKES A PROMISE
“Turner,” said Coach Mulford, taking the vacant place on the bench beside Laurie and laying a hand on his knees, “Turner, they tell me you’re grooming a dark horse.”
“Sir?” Laurie looked blank. Pinky’s smile told him that there was a joke somewhere about, but the phrase was a new one to him and he didn’t get the coach’s meaning. Mr. Mulford laughed.
“They tell me that you’re training a new pitcher for us,” he explained. “How about it?”
Laurie reddened a bit. He wasn’t surprised that the coach knew about it, for his crazy boast and his daily work-outs with Kewpie were known all over school and he was being joked unmercifully. Those morning sessions now were being attended by something of a gallery of interested spectators who were generous with suggestions and applause. But it occurred to him now that Coach Mulford must think him rather a fool.
“I—well, I’m sort of helping Kewpie Proudtree,” he answered haltingly. “He wants to learn to pitch, Mr. Mulford.”
“I see.” The coach evidently didn’t disapprove of the proceeding. Laurie gathered that from his tones. “I see. How’s he getting on?”
Laurie shook his head. “Not very well,” he said frankly.
“Sorry to hear that,” was the grave reply. “Still, there’s quite a while yet, and I dare say we’ll manage to get along with Beedle and the others until your man’s ready.” Mr. Mulford slapped Laurie’s knee again and again laughed. Laurie laughed, too, but it wasn’t a whole-hearted laugh. Aware of the coach’s amused regard, he felt slightly resentful. After a moment he said offhandedly:
“I reckon he’ll be ready for the Farview game, sir.”
“Think so? Fine!” Mr. Mulford chuckled as he arose. “Well, let me know when he is ready, Turner.”
“If I do will you give him a trial?” asked Laurie quickly.
“What?” Mr. Mulford paused in his departure and looked back. “Give him a trial? Why, I don’t know, Turner,” he continued slowly, “but I might.”
“You—you wouldn’t care to make that a promise, would you, sir?” asked Laurie. Pinky’s round, red face smiled back as, after a perceptible pause, he nodded.
“Yes, I’ll make it a promise, Turner,” he agreed. “But, mind you, you mustn’t ask me to waste my time. If your Great Unknown gets so he can really pitch, you let me know, and I’ll look him over. But no duds, Turner!”
When, just before supper that evening, Laurie jubilantly repeated the conversation to Kewpie, Kewpie was all swelled up over that title of Great Unknown until Ned dryly remarked that most Great Unknowns never amounted to a hill of beans. Even that pessimistic utterance failed to dispel all of Kewpie’s pleasure, however.
“That’s all right,” he said. “But some of them make good, don’t they? Well, here’s one of ’em. You ask Nod if I didn’t pitch some mighty nice curves this morning.”
“Yeah,” agreed Laurie glumly, “they curvedall right, but you mustn’t think that a batter’s going to step out of his box to hit your balls, Kewpie. Batters aren’t that accommodating!”
“Gosh,” complained Kewpie, “you don’t give a fellow credit when he deserves it. If you think it’s any fun going through that stunt every morning—”
“Who started it?” demanded Laurie.
“Well, that’s all right, but—”
“You’ll get a nice long rest pretty soon,” said Ned soothingly. “Spring recess’ll be along in less than two weeks, old son.”
Kewpie made no reply for a moment. Then, “Well,” he began hesitantly, “I was thinking, Nid, that maybe I ought—oughtn’t—oughtn’t to go home at recess.”
“Not go home! For goodness’ sake, why?”
“Well, I’d lose a whole week, wouldn’t I? You and Laurie will be here, won’t you?”
“Yes,” replied Ned, with a notable lack of enthusiasm. He and Laurie weren’t at all keen on remaining at school during the spring vacation, but it lasted only eight days, and as the journey to California occupied four, why, as Laurie put it, “they’d meet themselves coming back!”
“Sure,” continued Kewpie. “Well, I ought to stay, too, I guess, and get a lot of practice in. Don’t you think so, Nod?”
“Why, I don’t know.” Laurie looked startled. The prospect of seven long days with nothing to do but to catch Kewpie’s drops and curves seemed decidedly lacking in attraction. There were moments when Laurie’s determination wavered, and this was one of them. “I suppose it would be a mighty good idea, though,” he added listlessly. Ned’s mouth trembled in a smile.
“Absolutely corking, Kewpie,” he declared. “Of course, you ought to stay. But what about your folks? Won’t they expect you home?”
Kewpie nodded. “But I wrote yesterday and told them that maybe I wouldn’t be able to.”
“I’d like to have seen that letter,” chuckled Ned.
Kewpie grinned. “I just told them that I might have to stay here on account of baseball practice,” he explained innocently.
“Of course,” agreed Ned gravely. “Well, you and Laurie can have a fine old time during recess. No recitations to bother you or anything.”
“O Death, where is thy sting?” murmured Laurie.
“There is, though,” observed Ned, throwing his legs over the side of the Morris chair and eyeing Laurie quizzically, “just one complication that occurs to me. I’ve heard talk of the baseball team taking a Southern trip during recess. In that case, Laurie, I suppose you’d go along.”
“Honest?” exclaimed Kewpie anxiously. “I didn’t know that!”
“Nor any one else,” said Laurie, frowning. “Don’t you know yet when Ned’s joshing?”
“Oh,” breathed Kewpie with immense relief. “I thought maybe—”
“A swell chance I’d have of going with the team if it did go,” said Laurie. “I can’t play ball. I didn’t make a hit this afternoon. Couldn’t even see the old pill! Guess I’ll quit and go in for—for soccer or rowing.”
“Yes, rowing would be nice for you,” said Ned. “You’re so big and strong! It’s a wonder to me they haven’t grabbed you for the boat before this!”
“I’ll bet I could row as well as you, you old bluffer!”
“There goes the bell!” yelped Kewpie. “Gosh, I didn’t know it was so late! S’long!” He collided with a chair and rushed out.
A week passed, a week of ideal weather. The days were mildly warm and spring-like, and Polly’s possible snow didn’t develop. It showered occasionally, usually at night, and never enough to interfere with baseball practice. Tennis came into its own again, and Bob Starling was torn between the desire to remain at home and speed the making of the court behind the big house and the longing to go over to the school field and engage in combat with his ancient rivals. The crews were on the river daily. The education of Kewpie Proudtree as a baseball pitcher continued. Laurie regained his batting eye in a measure and talked no more of abandoning the diamond for the courts or the four-oared shells. Ned borrowed three golf-clubs from as many different acquaintances, bought a fourth, and accompanied Joe Stevenson, captain of last autumn’s football’s eleven, around the links. Mr. Goupil, of Sioux City, Iowa, continued to emulate the Sphinx, and Miss Comfort was temporarily installed in one of the up-stairs roomsat the Widow Deane’s, Polly sleeping in the room below.
This arrangement had come about as the result of an eleventh-hour hitch in the program that was to have placed Miss Comfort in the poor-farm, down the river about two miles. It turned out that gaining admission to that institution was not such a simple matter as one might suppose. There was a great deal of red tape to be untied, and the untying of it occupied the energies of several of Orstead’s influential citizens. There was no doubt that eventually Miss Comfort would reach that haven, but meanwhile there ensued a delay that might last a week—a fortnight—even longer. Bob Starling’s father, instigated by his sister, who, since the death of Bob’s mother, had kept house for them, offered very generous assistance of money. Other individuals had sought to aid, as, too, had the congregation of the little church that Miss Comfort attended. But all such offers had been gratefully and firmly declined. Hospitality the little old lady would have accepted, but charity in the form of money was, to her mind, something quite different and most repugnant. So, until the last knot in the massof red tape had been untied, she was to remain as Mrs. Deane’s guest, an arrangement that brought as much pleasure to the Widow and Polly as it did to Miss Comfort.
Even Polly had now accepted the inevitable. That first search for a modest habitation for the exile had been discouragingly unsuccessful, as had a second and more half-hearted one, and the four sympathetic young folks had finally agreed that the situation was beyond them. If Polly was a wee bit disappointed in Laurie because of his failure to find a solution of the problem—and I think she was—she doubtless recognized the injustice of that emotion and concealed it. Laurie, once satisfied that everything had been done that could be done, philosophically banished the matter from his mind. Of course, he was just as sorry as ever for Miss Comfort, but that didn’t keep him from giving his full attention to matters of more personal interest, such as trying to beat Elk Thurston out for the position of first substitute catcher, and striving, sometimes hopelessly, to make Kewpie into a pitcher. It is always so much easier to view another’s misfortunes with philosophy than one’s own.
Hillman’s played two games during the week preceding the spring vacation and won one of them. The second, with Lincolndale High School, went to ten innings at 7 to 7 and was then called to allow the visitors to catch a train. Laurie, to his oddly mingled relief and disgust, saw action in neither of the contests. Elk Thurston took the place of Cas Bennett, the regular catcher, for the last two innings in the first encounter, but in the second game Cas worked through to the end. Laurie had to acknowledge that Elk did pretty well that Wednesday as a catcher—better, probably, than he could have done. Laurie’s modesty, though, did not keep him from telling himself that, while he might have performed less skillfully behind the plate than Elk had, he was mighty sure he could have done better at the bat. The Orstead High School pitcher, the third since the beginning of the game, had nothing on the ball, was, in fact, scarcely more of a twirler than Kewpie Proudtree, and yet Elk had swung ingloriously at the first three offerings and had failed to so much as tickle one of them. “Bet you,” thought Laurie, “I’d havefouledone, anyhow!”
The Lincolndale game was on Friday, and the next day vacation began. By noon the school was pretty well depopulated, although there remained a scattering of unfortunate fellows who, like Ned and Laurie, lived too far from Orstead to allow of a home visit, or who could not afford the trip. Kewpie had reached a compromise with his parents. He was to go home and remain until Tuesday morning. Then he was to return to school and the demands of baseball. Ned was cynical after Kewpie’s departure.
“Bet you we won’t see Kewpie again until a week from to-morrow,” he said to Laurie.
Laurie shook his head. “I don’t know,” he replied, “but I have a hunch that he will be back Tuesday. Kewpie’s taking this pretty seriously, Ned, and he’s really trying mighty hard. Sometimes I think that if only he wasn’t so outrageously like a dumpling he could do something at it!”