Ere the horsehide was brought down between Rod's shoulder-blades, his hand had found the plate.Ere the horsehide was brought down between Rod'sshoulder-blades, his hand had found the plate.
Ere the horsehide was brought down between Rod's shoulder-blades, his hand had found the plate.Ere the horsehide was brought down between Rod'sshoulder-blades, his hand had found the plate.
"Safe!" shouted the umpire.
And the game was won by the pitcher who had taken Springer's place in the fifth inning.
Like one stunned Roy Hooker passed out through the gate and turned down the street, dully conscious of the continued rejoicing uproar behind him. Alternately buoyed by hope and weighted by fear, he had passed the most trying hour of his life, and now in his bosom he carried a heart that seemed sick and faint and scarcely able to pump the blood through his veins.
"I was a fool to listen to Rackliff," he muttered; and over and over he kept repeating, "I was a fool, a fool!"
Suddenly apprehensive lest he should be overtaken by some one who might observe his all-too-evident wretchedness, he quickened his steps and made straight for his home. He did not enter the house, and as he slipped through the yard he cast sidelong glances toward the windows, hoping his mother might not be looking out. In the carriage house he sat down on the box beside his motorcycle.
"I was a fool—an awful fool!" he kept repeating.
Presently, his mind running over the game, feature by feature, he began to realize that he had not felt as much elation as he would have supposed might come to him on witnessing Springer's misfortune in the fifth inning. He had imagined it would afford him unreserved exultation to see Phil batted out of the box, but his rejoicing had been most remarkably alloyed by an emotion of another sort, which even now he could not understand. And, as he sat there, slowly but surely he began to perceive the real reason for Springer's failure.
"It was lack of control," he finally exclaimed. "That's just it. He was pitching all right until they broke his nerve by three hits in succession. After that he couldn't find the pan to save his life. If he'd been able to put the ball where he wished and steady down a little, he might have stopped that batting rally and had the satisfaction of pitching the game through to a successful finish. Now, Rod Grant gets all the glory."
He was still sitting there, obsessed by his dismal meditations, when a shadow appeared in the doorway, and he looked up to see Rackliff, the stub of a cigarette in his fingers, gazing at him. For a full minute, perhaps, neither boy spoke; and then Herbert, tossing the smoking stub over his shoulder, sunk his hands deep in his pockets and uttered two words:
"Hard luck."
"Rotten," said Roy. "But you certainly were all to the punk in your judgment about that game."
"Oh, I don't know," objected Herbert, leaning against the side of the doorway and crossing his tan-shod feet. "Barville should have won."
"How do you make that out?"
"They batted Springer out, didn't they? They sent him to the stable, all right."
"He lost his control, and Eliot had to take him out."
"Well, if you hadn't been mistaken in your judgment, that would have settled the game."
"IfIhadn't been mistaken!" cried Roy resentfully.
"Precisely."
"Why, I don't see——"
"Don't you? Then you should consult an oculist. You said Springer was the only pitcher the team had; you insisted that Grant couldn't pitch a winning game."
"Well, I know," faltered Roy; "but I——"
"You were mistaken—sadly mistaken. It's been an expensive blunder in judgment for both of us."
A flush rose into Hooker's pale cheeks, and he stood up. "Now, look here, Mr. Rackliff," he said harshly, "don't you try to shoulder it all on to me. I won't stand for that. You professed to be dead sure that under any circumstances Barville could down Oakdale. As to the matter of expense, it may have been expensive for you', but, according to our distinctly understood agreement, I don't lose anything."
Herbert lifted his eyebrows slightly, producing his cigarette case and fumbling in it vainly, as it was empty.
"Agreement?" he said. "What agreement?"
Hooker choked. "You know; don't pretend that you don't know. I hope you're not going back on your word. If you do——" He stopped, unable to continue.
"Oh, yes," said Herbert slowly, "I think I know what you mean. Of course I'm not going back on my word to a pal."
"Then give me the money I let you have to bet on Barville."
"Why, that money's gone. We lost it."
"Yes, but you pledged yourself to make good any loss I might sustain. There are reasons why I must have that money back—right away, too."
"I'm sorry," murmured Herbert, regretfully returning the empty cigarette case to his pocket; "but I'm afraid you'll have to wait a while. I went broke myself—haven't got a whole dollar left in the exchequer."
"But I'vegotto have it," insisted Roy huskily. "I depended on getting it back to-night."
Herbert laughed and snapped his yellow fingers. "When a thing is impossible, it can't be done, old fellow. You don't need money in this dead hole, anyhow. Why, a profligate couldn't spend ten dollars a week here, if he tried. You'll simply have to wait until my old man coughs up another consignment of the needful."
Roy sat down again, his face wearing such a look of dismay that Herbert was both puzzled and amused.
"To see you now," observed the city youth, "any one might fancy you a bank cashier who had speculated disastrously with the funds of the institution. Four dollars and sixty-five cents—that was the amount of your loss; and you look as if you had dropped a thousand."
"I want to tell you something," said Hooker suddenly; but again he stopped short and seemed to find it impossible to proceed.
"I'm listening," encouraged Rackliff. "Let it come. Great Scott! I'd like to have a cigarette."
But Roy, after remaining silent a few moments longer, slowly shook his head. "I won't tell you," he muttered; "I can't. But look here, Rack, you've got to get that money for me as soon as you can. I need it—if you only knew how I need it!"
"I'll drop my old pater a line to-night, informing him that I'm financially ruined. Gee! that makes me think of that little runt, Cooper! He certainly irritated me some by his insolent yapping."
"You came pretty near getting into trouble trying to coach Barville. You certainly had your nerve with you. I'd never had the crust to try that."
Herbert frowned. "It would have been all right, only for that big stiff, Bunk Lander. He threatened to punch me up, and I knew he was just the sort of a brainless fellow to do it. Only for his interference, Barville would have taken the game, and we'd be on Easy Street to-night."
"Eh?" exclaimed Roy, puzzled again. "I don't think I quite get you. I don't see how Lander's interference with you had anything to do with the result of the game."
The city youth coughed and shrugged his shoulders, a singularly crafty smile playing over his face.
"Of course, you don't see," he nodded. "I'll admit that I was somewhat too hasty. I should have waited a while longer before I attempted to put in my oar. That was whereIblundered; but I didn't quite reckon on Lander."
"You've got me guessing. I wish you'd explain."
"I will. Did you think I took that journey to Barville on your old motorcycle merely for recreation?"
"Not exactly; I had an idea you went over there to talk with Copley and Roberts for the purpose of finding out how strong the Barville nine really was."
"Well, that was a part of the reason, but not the whole of it. I had something else on my mind. In case I became satisfied that the two teams were pretty evenly matched, I had a little plan through which I felt confident I could make it a dead sure thing for Barville. I was not off my base, either, and it would have worked out charmingly if that big duffer, Lander, hadn't dipped in and messed it for us."
"I'm still in the dark."
"Don't you remember that when I got back I asked you about Eliot's signals to the pitcher?"
"Yes."
"I thought I knew them, but I wanted to be dead sure; for I'd made arrangements with Copley to tip off certain Barville batters who could be trusted to the kind of balls that would be pitched. This was to be done in case the necessity arose, which it did when Oakdale took the lead and Springer seemed to be going well, with every prospect of holding them down. Then I proceeded to get down close to the ropes back of first base, where, by watching, I could come pretty near catching Eliot's signs. Sometimes I couldn't see them distinctly, but almost always I could. I was tipping off the Barville batters when they proceeded to fall on Springer and pound him beautifully. They did so because they knew just the kind of a ball he was going to pitch."
"Great Caesar!" muttered Roy, who was again standing. "You did that? How——"
"Oh, I'm surprised at your dullness," laughed Rackliff. "You heard me coaching. You heard me calling out for the batters to 'get into it,' 'hit it out,' 'drop on it,' 'give it a rise,' and so forth."
"Yes."
"Yes; well, there you are. When I said 'get into it,' it meant that Springer would pitch an in-shoot. 'Hit it out,' meant that he would use an outcurve, and——"
"Holy smoke!" gasped Hooker. "It's a wonder nobody got on. Do you suppose Lander——"
"Nit. That big bonehead didn't tumble. He was simply sore because I was a student at Oakdale and seemed to be rooting for Barville. All the same, he stuck to me like a leech, and I had to quit or get into a nasty fight with him. I couldn't afford to have my face beaten up, even to win ten dollars. By Jove! I've simply got to have a whiff."
In silence Hooker watched the shifty, scheming, treacherous city youth turn and search on the drive outside the door, recover the cigarette stub he had tossed away, relight it, and inhale the smoke with a relish that told of a habit fixed beyond breaking. Thus watching and thinking of the fellow's qualmless treachery to his own school team, Roy felt the first sensation of revulsion toward Rackliff.
At the close of the game there was another boy on the field who was quite as glum and downcast as Hooker himself. This was Phil Springer, who remained seated on the bench while his team-mates and a portion of the enthusiastic crowd swarmed, cheering, around Grant and lifted him to their shoulders.
Presently he realized that this behavior on his part must attract attention the moment the excitement relaxed, and he got up with the intention of hurrying at once to the gymnasium. Barely had he started, however, when something brought him to a halt, and beneath his breath he muttered:
"That won't do. They'd notice that, too, and sus-say I was jealous."
He was jealous—bitterly so; but he forced himself to join the cheering crowd and to make a half-hearted pretense of rejoicing. All the while he was thinking that Grant owed everything to him, and that perhaps he had been foolish in training a fellow to fill his shoes in such an emergency. For Phil had long entertained the ambition of becoming the first pitcher on the academy nine, and this year he had been fully confident until the present hour that the goal he sought was his beyond dispute.
The victors did not forget to cheer courteously for the vanquished, and Barville returned the compliment with a cheer for Oakdale.
So many persons wished to shake hands with Rodney Grant that he laughingly protested, saying they would put his "wing out of commission." Suddenly perceiving Phil, the Texan pushed aside those between them, sprang forward and placed a hand on Springer's shoulder, crying:
"Here's my mentor. Only for him, I'd never been able to do it. I owe what little I know about pitching to Springer. Let's give him a cheer, fellows."
They did so, but that cheer lacked the spontaneous enthusiasm and genuine admiration which had been thrown into the cheering for Grant, something which Springer did not fail to note.
"Oh, thanks," said Phil, weakly returning the warm grasp of Rod's strong hand. "I didn't do anything—except blow up."
Under cover of the chatter, joking and laughter, while they were changing their clothes in the dressing room of the gymnasium, Grant, observing the dejection Springer could not hide to save himself, again uttered some friendly words of encouragement.
"Don't you feel so bad about it, old partner," he said. "The best professional pitchers in the business get their bumps sometimes, and I might have got mine, all right, if I'd started the game on the slab, as you did. You'll make up for that next time."
"You're very kind, Grant," was Springer's only response.
Phil got away from the others as soon as he could, and hurried home to brood over it. It had been a hard blow, and he had stood up poorly beneath it. Thinking the matter over in solitude, he was forced into a realization of the fact that he lacked, in a great measure, the confidence and steadiness characteristic of Rodney Grant, and he could not put aside the conviction that it was Grant, the fellow he had coached, who was destined to become the star pitcher of the nine. In spite of himself, this thought, aided by other unpleasant contemplations, awoke in his heart a sensation of envious resentment toward Rodney. He was sorry now that he had ever spent his time teaching the Texan to pitch, and it occurred to him that the same amount of coaching and encouragement bestowed upon Hooker would not have resulted in the training of a man to outdo him upon the slab and push him into the background.
That evening he was missing from the group of boys who gathered in the village to talk over the game, and at school the following Monday he kept away from Grant as much as it was possible for him to do so. When practice time came after school was over, he put on his suit and appeared upon the field, but soon complained that he was not feeling well, and departed.
The following morning, shortly after breakfast, Phil saw Rod turning into the dooryard of his home. Instantly Springer sought his hat, slipped hastily through the house and got out, unperceived, by the back door. When he arrived at school, a few minutes before time for the morning session to begin, Grant was waiting for him.
"What became of you after breakfast, partner?" questioned Rod. "I piked over to your ranch looking for you, but you had disappeared. Your mother said you were around a few moments before, and she thought you must be somewhere about; all the same, I couldn't find hide or hair of you."
"I—I took a walk," faltered Phil, flushing. "I've got a bub-bad cold." In evidence of which, he coughed in a shamefully unnatural manner.
"Got a cold, eh?" said Rodney sympathetically. "You caught it sitting on the bench during the last four innings of that game, I reckon. I remember now that you didn't even put on your sweater."
"Yes, I guess that's when I got it," agreed Phil.
"Well, you've got to shake it in time for the game with Clearport. That's when you'll even things up."
All that day Springer sought to avoid talking baseball with any of the fellows, for invariably they spoke of Grant's surprisingly successful performance; and when they did so something like a sickening poison seemed to bubble within the jealous youth, who told himself that he could not long continue to join in this praise, but must soon betray himself by bursting forth into a tirade against the Texan. In a measure he did relieve his feelings by expressing his opinion of Herbert Rackliff, who was brazenly seeking to ignore the open disdain of his schoolmates. He did not come out for practice that night, and Grant explained to the others that Phil was knocked out by a cold, whereupon Cooper chucklingly remarked that he thought it was Barville that had knocked Springer out.
Shortly before dark, Phil, chancing to take a cross cut from Middle Street to High Street, observed Roy Hooker pelting away with a baseball at the white shingle on the barn. Drawing near, Phil asked Roy what he was doing, and the latter, startled and perspiring, looked round.
"Oh, is it you?" said Roy. "I thought perhaps it was Rackliff. I'm practicing a little by my lonesome."
"That's a hard way to practice," said Springer. "You can't get much good out of that."
"Oh, I don't know. I'm getting so I can hit that shingle once in a while, and use a curve, too. I couldn't seem to hit it with a straight ball when I began."
"You haven't given up the idea of pitching?"
"Not quite. After watching your performance Saturday—seeing you soak a batter in the ribs, and then hand out free passes enough to force a run—I came to realize what control means. I'm trying to get it."
Phil felt his face burn. "Control is necessary," he admitted; "but it isn't everything. When I put the ball over, they pup-pounded it."
"But they wouldn't if it hadn't been for——" Choking, as he realized what he had so nearly said, Hooker bit his tongue. Then he hastened to make an observation that snapped Springer's self-restraint. "They didn't seem to pound Grant much, and he appeared able to put the ball just about where he wanted to."
"Grant!" snarled Phil furiously. "That's all I've heard since the game! Grant, Grant, Grant! It makes me tired!"
"Oh, ho!" muttered Roy. "It does, does it? Well, say, didn't you realize what you were doing while you were coaching that fellow? I knew what would happen. I knew the time would come when you'd be mighty sore with yourself. I'm going to talk plain to you. This fellow Grant is practically an outsider; he doesn't belong in Oakdale. He's a presuming cub, too—always pushing himself forward. Here I am, an Oakdale boy, but you pick up with Rod Grant and coach him to pitch so he can step into a game when you're batted out and show you up. You won't be in it hereafter; he'll be the whole show."
"Oh, I don't know," returned Springer sourly. "He may get his some time."
"He may, and then again he may not; you can't be sure of it. If you'd only spent your time with me, I would have been willing to act as second string pitcher, and you would not have been crowded out. You put your foot in it, all right, old man."
"I suppose I did. But let's not talk about it. You weren't at school to-day."
"No."
"How did that happen?"
"Working."
"Working? How careless! I didn't know you ever did such a thing."
"Well," said Roy slowly, "this was a case of necessity, you see."
"Oh, you needed the money, eh?"
"No; it wasn't that, though I earned a dollar and a quarter helping shingle John Holbrook's barn. You see—my mother, she—she lost some money recently."
"Lost it?"
"Yes; lost it, or—or something," Roy replied stumblingly. "It wasn't much, but it was all she had. She'd saved up a little at a time to buy material for a new dress."
"How did she happen to lul-lose it?"
"I can't tell. She doesn't quite know herself. She put it in a drawer in the house, and when she went to look for it, it was gone."
"That sounds like a robbery instead of a loss."
"But it couldn't be a robbery," protested Hooker quickly and earnestly. "Nobody would come into the house and take money out of that drawer—nobody around here. You never hear of such a thing happening around this town. Perhaps mother mislaid it somewhere. Anyhow, it's gone, and I'm going to try to earn enough to replace it."
"Well, say, Hooker," exclaimed Phil, "you're all right! I didn't suppose you'd stoop to work, even under such circumstances. Do you know, lots of times we're liable to misjudge some one until something happens to show us just the sort of a person he is."
"Yes; I suppose that's right," said Roy. But he did not look Phil in the eyes.
"How's your cold, Phil?"
It was Eliot who asked the question, and Springer, pausing with one foot on the academy steps, replied:
"Oh, it's some bub-better, I think."
"Glad to hear it," said Roger, slipping his arm through Springer's. "Come on, let's walk over yonder to the fence. I want to have a little chin with you. It will be ten minutes yet before school begins."
Together they walked to the fence at the back of the yard, pausing beneath one of the tall old trees which was putting forth tender green leaves. Leaning against the fence, the captain of the nine faced his companion.
"As a rule," he began, "you've been a great enthusiast over baseball, and I didn't think you'd let a slight cold keep you away from practice. Exercise is one of the best remedies for a cold, if a person takes care of himself when he's through exercising."
"I know that," said Phil, poking his toe into an ant's nest and declining to meet Roger's steady, level gaze; "but, really, I—I was feeling pretty rotten, you know, and I didn't have mum-much heart for practice."
"Yes," said the captain, "I'm afraid that was the principal trouble—you didn't have much heart for it. You lost heart in the game, and you haven't braced up yet. I hardly thought it of you, Phil; I didn't expect you to play the baby."
"The baby!" exclaimed Springer resentfully.
"Yes; that's just what you've been doing. I made up my mind to speak plainly to you, and I'm going to do so—for your own good. You've been sulking, old fellow. It doesn't pay, Phil; you're hurting yourself far more than any one else."
"I don't think you've got any right to call it sulking," objected Springer in a low tone. "I own up that I did feel bad about the way things went in that gug-game; but I caught a cold, and I decided to take care of myself in order to get back into my best condition."
"Is that the reason why you've been giving Rod Grant the cold shoulder?"
"I haven't been giving him—— What has he said to you, Eliot? Has he been tut-tut-talking about me?"
"Not a word."
"Then why should you say I'd given him the cold shoulder?"
"It was apparent to the dullest, Phil. For some time before that game you and Grant were very chummy; you were nearly always together, so that everybody noticed it. Since the game you've not been together at all, and I, myself, have plainly observed your efforts to avoid him. Now, old man, there can only be one explanation for such conduct: you're sore—sore because he succeeded in holding Barville down after you had failed."
Weakly Springer sought to protest against this, but stopped in the midst of it, fully comprehending how feeble his words were.
"It's folly, Springer," said Eliot, "sheer childish folly. We were all sorry to see you get your bumps and lose control, and I don't believe any one was any sorrier than Grant himself; for, somehow, I've come firmly to believe that he's on the square. He was reluctant about going on to the slab when I called him."
"Perhaps that was because he was afraid he'd get his, too," muttered Springer.
"Now, that isn't generous, and you know it. If the score had been heavy against us at the time, some fellows might have fancied Grant's reluctance was prompted by fear and a disinclination to shoulder another man's load in the first game he pitched. I've not sized it up as anything of the sort. You and he were close friends, and, knowing how you must feel to be batted out, he was loath to go in. You must realize it was a mighty lucky thing for us that we had a pitcher to take your place. Barville had you going, Phil, and you couldn't seem to steady down. Even old stagers get into that condition sometimes when pitching, and it's not an infrequent occurrence that a slabman who is not thought so good steps in and stops the slaughter."
"Every-bub-body seems to think Grant is pretty good," mumbled Springer.
"He certainly did amazingly well, for which he generously gave you all the credit."
"I suppose he'll be the whole shooting match, now."
"Those words betray you, my boy. You've been trapped by the green-eyed monster. Come, come, Phil, you're too manly for that." He put out a hand and rested it on Springer's shoulder.
The color mounted into Phil's cheeks and slowly receded, leaving him pale, and still with downcast eyes. Eliot went on, steadily and earnestly:
"We need two pitchers—we must have them if we hope to make a decent showing in the series. By and by we'll have to play two games a week, and some of those games come so close together that one pitcher alone, unless he has an arm of iron, can't do all the flinging. You've been wonderfully successful in coaching Grant, and all the time you were training him to relieve you in a measure when the hardest work should come. Nobody wants to rob you of any credit; every one says you've done a mighty good turn with him. But if you continue to sulk, as you have for the past few days, you'll lose the sympathy of your teammates; but you won't hurt Grant—otherwise than his feelings."
"I don't believe it would hurt his feelings a great deal."
Roger was vexed, but he continued to maintain his calm manner. "You ought to know him better than any one else around here; you ought to know whether he's at all sensitive or not. I'll tell you honestly, if I were in his place to-day, I'd feel it. Now, I'm your friend, old fellow, and I want you to listen to me and take my advice. Forget it. Get out for practice, treat Grant the same as before, and make up your mind you'll do your level best to redeem yourself in the next game you pitch. You'll have plenty of chances to show the stuff you're made of."
"I don't suppose the fellows have much confidence in me now."
"Nonsense! Unless they're chumps, they know every pitcher has his off days. There'll be a practice game to-night; we'll play against a picked up scrub team. Now, I want to see you at the field in a suit and ready to do your part."
"All right," agreed Phil.
But later, conscience-stricken and ashamed, he could not bring himself to seek Rodney Grant and own up manfully to his silly behavior. And Grant, having begun to feel piqued, made no further advances.
At noon that day Roy Hooker returned to school, bringing a written excuse from his mother. Having a chance to speak privately with Springer, he said:
"I hear Eliot has expressed his estimation of you and Rod Grant."
Phil started. "You can near lots of things," he retorted sharply.
"The fellows have been talking about it," returned Roy. "They say Eliot has said Grant will make a better pitcher than you, because you lack heart."
It was a blow below the belt, and, in spite of himself, Phil could not help showing the effect.
"He's welcome to th-think what he chooses," he exclaimed hotly; "it doesn't disturb me."
Nevertheless, he was so much disturbed that, in spite of his promise to Roger, he was not with the team when it took the field that night for the practice game. For he himself had vainly sought to put aside the depressing and unnerving conviction that in steadiness, stamina and self-confidence, Rodney Grant was his superior; something he had determined never to breathe to any one else, but which the keen judgment of the team captain had found out.
Nevertheless, when he reached home by a roundabout course, and found it impossible to dismiss thoughts of the boys engaged in that practice game, he eventually decided that he was a fool. Having reached this conclusion, he set off in great haste for the gymnasium, running the greater part of the distance.
Drawing near the gym, he could hear the boys engaged in the game beyond the high board fence. It did not take him long to shed his outer clothes and get into a baseball suit.
The game was in the second inning, with the regular team at bat and Hooker pitching for the scrub, which was made up partly of grammar school boys. Everybody seemed to be watching Roy, and Phil walked on to the field and toward one of the benches without attracting attention.
"Look at Hook!" whooped Chipper Cooper. "He's actually trying to strike Roger out!"
Eliot was at bat, and the umpire had just called the second strike on him. There were no runners on the sacks.
"He struck aout Tut in t'other innin'," drawled Sile Crane. "I guess that's got him puffed up some."
Apparently not at all discomposed by these remarks, Hooker continued steadily about his business, and presently, rousing a shout of surprise, he succeeded in fanning the captain of the nine. Roger stepped back from the plate, after striking out, and stood there gazing at Roy, with one of his strange, rare smiles.
Crane followed. "Dinged if I wouldn't like ter see him fan me!" he said.
A moment later Hooker pulled him handsomely on a wide one, and the first strike was called, Cooper being again awakened to a wondering, whooping state of merriment.
"Look out! look out!" shouted the little fellow. "He'll get you if you don't. Who said Hooky couldn't pitch? There's more pitch in him than you can find in a big chew of spruce gum."
Crane, setting his teeth, made two fouls, and then sent Chipper into real convulsions by whiffing at a high one which Roy whistled across his shoulders with surprising accuracy.
"You wanted to see it," yelled Cooper. "You got a look, all right. Oh, say! Where did this new Christy Mathewson come from, anyhow? Look out for him, Roddy, or he'll add you to his list. List' to my warning."
Rodney Grant did not strike out, but, nevertheless, he failed to meet one of Hooker's shoots squarely, and the grammar school shortstop gathered in an easy grounder and threw to first for the third put-out.
Roger Eliot lingered to speak a word to Hooker, and Springer, still unnoticed, plainly heard what he said.
"Perhaps we've made a mistake in sizing you up, Roy, old fellow. It's your work alone that has prevented us from scoring in either of these innings. You've always had speed and curves, but now you seem able to get the pill over. Keep it up, old fellow, and you'll make a pitcher yet, We may need you before the season ends."
"There's Phil," cried Grant, spying him. "I'll take the field. Let him pitch."
Eliot turned, saw Springer, and looked relieved.
"Wondered where you were," he said pleasantly. "I see you're ready for business. This is a five-inning game, and Grant has pitched two innings already; you can hand 'em up the last three."
"But I haven't warmed up any," said Phil. "I couldn't get around any sooner."
"There's no hurry," returned Roger. "You can have plenty of time to limber your wing; the scrub won't object to that."
"But I don't want to butt in and take Grant's place."
"Shucks!" cried Rod genially. "Who's butting in, anyhow? What are you talking about, partner? I want to get some field practice anyhow, and perhaps I will if you're kind enough to let the scrub hit you once in a while. They're putting up a right smart sort of a game, but Hooker's mainly responsible, as he hasn't been letting us rap him to any great extent. No scores yet on either side."
"Come on, Phil," called Eliot decisively, as he slipped his left hand into the big catching mitt, "get out there and wiggle your flinger. Tuttle, maybe they'll let you play with the scrub, so Grant can occupy the right-hand pasture."
This arrangement was quickly made, the captain of the scrub team having filled his outfield positions with youngsters who were even weaker than Tuttle. Springer accepted the ball tossed to him, and walked out to the pitcher's box, where he began warming up by throwing to Eliot, while the scrub batters waited around their bench. He was not in the most agreeable frame of mind, but he had no fear of the scrub players. In a few moments he announced that he was ready, and began work with the determination of striking out the first fellow who faced him. Ordinarily, this would not have been such a difficult thing to do, but, through some unusual freak of chance, the batter, swinging blindly, succeeded in hitting out a most annoying little Texas leaguer that sailed just beyond the eagerly reaching fingers of Jack Nelson.
"Come, Spring, old wiz," cried the thoughtless Cooper, "you've got to do better than that. If you don't, we'll have to put Grant back on the slab to avert the disgrace of being beaten by this bunch of kid pick-ups."
A sudden gust of anger caused Springer to glare, speechless, at the annoying shortstop; and he was so much disturbed that, in spite of all he could do, the next batter, "waiting it out," was rewarded for his patience by a pass. Within a few moments both these runners advanced on a long fly to the outfield, dropped by Stone after a hard run.
Springer forced a laugh. "Can't expect to hold the kids dud-down with that sort of support," he cried.
He did strike the following hitter out; and then came Hooker, who found a bender and straightened it for a sizzling two-bagger that sent in both runners.
Springer longed to quit at this juncture, but, being ashamed to do so, he relaxed his efforts and pitched indifferently, permitting the two following scrubmen to hit the ball. It chanced, however, that neither of these fellows hit safely, both perishing in a desperate sprint for the initial sack.
Rodney Grant, jogging in from the field, seated himself beside Springer on the bench.
"You were a little out of form that inning, son," he said; "but you'll be all right next trip, I opine."
Without replying, Springer got up and began pawing over the bats, as if searching among them for some special favorite.
Hooker again pitched very well, indeed, but poor support gave the regulars a score, and they would have obtained more had not Roy risen to the occasion, with one down and the bases full, and struck two hitters out.
Although Phil showed some improvement in the fourth inning, and the scrub team did not succeed in securing another tally, he felt all the while that his teammates were watching him closely and comparing or contrasting his work with that of Hooker; nor did he forget that in the first two innings Grant had performed more successfully.
To the surprise of many, fumbles and bad throws behind Hooker in the fourth did not seem to discourage him, and he persisted in pitching as if the game was one of some importance and he had resolved to do his part, no matter what happened. The errors gave the regular team three runs and the lead, and it was Hooker's work alone that kept them from obtaining several more.
In the fifth and last, Phil whipped the ball over spitefully, and only one batter hit it safely. Nevertheless, with the contest ended and the fellows trooping toward the gymnasium, he noticed that no one had any word of praise for him, while several expressed their surprise over the showing Hooker had made. Even Grant, whose friendly advance had been met with churlish spleen, commended Hooker. Phil felt as if the very ground was slipping from beneath his feet, and it made him sore and sick at heart. He paid little attention to the talk of the fellows while dressing, until of a sudden the words of Nelson caught his ear.
"Of course, you fellows have heard all about that Clearport-Wyndham game? I had a talk to-day with a fellow who saw the whole of it. Cracky! Clearport did come near pulling it out of the fire—actually batted out a lead of one run in the first of the ninth. If Wyndham hadn't come back in her half and made two tallies, she'd been stung."
"I hear," said Berlin Barker, "that Clearport pounded Wyndham's wonderful new twirler off the slab."
"That's right," said Nelson. "They got at Newbert in the seventh and gave him fits. The score was eight to two in favor of Wyndham when the 'Porters began connecting with Newbert's twists, and they hammered in three earned runs before the shift was made. Twitt Crowell was sent in to save the day, but if he hadn't had luck, they'd kept right on. It was his backing that checked the stampede."
"The Clearporters always have been heavy batters," said Eliot. "If they could play the rest of the game the way they bat, they'd be almost sure to win the championship."
"The fellow we put up against them for Saturday will have to have his nerve with him," grinned Cooper. "If he weakens, they'll murder him."
"Crowell got through the eighth all right," continued Nelson; "but in the first of the ninth the 'Porters found him and bingled out four runs. It looked as if they had the game tucked away; but Wyndham rose to the emergency in the last half and got two, which let them out with a victory."
"If Clearport can play like that away from home," observed Sleuth Piper, "my deduction is that she will be a terror to beat on her own field."
Springer, dressed, stowed his playing clothes in a locker and walked out of the gymnasium unnoticed. This was the first time he had heard the particulars concerning that game, although on Saturday the surprising information had been telephoned to Oakdale that Wyndham had been barely able to squeeze out a precarious victory on her own grounds. As Eliot had stated, the Clearporters were batters to be feared, and Phil was now in no condition to be unruffled by this menace to his prowess.
Once more Springer sulked; not until Friday night did he again show himself for practice. Eliot, thoroughly disgusted, and realizing that it was the worst sort of policy to coax such a fellow, let him alone. He was given a chance to warm up and do a little pitching to the batters, but, following Eliot's example, no one tried to coddle him.
"Everybody be on time for the train to-morrow," urged Roger, as they were dressing. "Trains won't wait for people who are late."
But even when he went to bed that night Springer was undecided as to whether he would be on hand or not. Had he been urged, it is doubtful if he would have appeared; but, perceiving, in spite of his dudgeon, that he could gain nothing by remaining away, he arrived at the station just in time to board the train with his comrades.
The day was disagreeable, rain threatening, and, deep in his heart, Springer hoped it would pour all the afternoon. The menacing storm holding off, however, at the appointed hour the two teams were on the field ready for the clash.
Phil, still agitated by poorly hidden alarm, could not fail to observe the all too evident confidence of the Clearport players. The local crowd was likewise confident, something indicated by their encouragement of and cheering for their players.
"If I'm batted out to-day it's my finish," thought the unhappy Oakdale pitcher.
"Cheer up," said a Clearporter, trotting past him. "We won't do a thing to you. If you're sick and need some medicine, we'll hand you some of the same kind we gave Newbert and Crowell."
"Aw, go on!" growled Phil. "You're nothing but a lot of wind-bags."
While the locals were practicing Eliot called Grant and Springer aside, giving each a ball.
"Warm up, both of you," he directed. "I'll catch you."
So these rivals, who had only a short time before been friends, stood off at the proper distance and pitched alternately to Eliot. Grant was steady and serene, with good control and in command of some curves, of which the drop taught him by Springer led Roger to nod his head approvingly; seeing which, Phil, who had not been right to start with, grew very wild indeed.
Practice over, the Clearport captain trotted up to Roger, saying:
"We're all ready. We'll take the field. Let's get to playing before it begins raining."
Phil sat down on the bench, throwing his sweater over his arm for protection. The umpire called, "Play," and Nelson, cheered by the little crowd from Oakdale, stepped out with his bat.
The Oakdale captain found a place at Springer's side. "Phil," he said in a low tone, "I want you to be ready to go in any time. I've decided to start the game with Grant, but we may need you any moment."