CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER IX

BILL IS HIT

“Well,” asked Mr. Windam, as Cap stood before him. “What name?”

“Smith—John.”

“Um. Spell it with a ‘Y’”

“Not much. Just plain Smith.”

“Good; and the position?”

“Catcher.”

“We’ve got three, but never mind. Accidents will happen. Next!”

“Smith,” said Bill laconically. “Plain Bill.”

“I see. And you’d like to be—”

“Pitcher.”

“Good again, as Mr. Pumblechook would say. Do you know Mr. Pumblechook?”

“Slightly,” answered Bill, as he recalled his Dickens.

“Pitcher; eh?” mused the coach, as he jotted Bill’s name down. “We’ve got about seven candidates, but the more the merrier. Glass arms are catching. Next!”

“Smith—Peter,” and the third member of the well-known family stood forth.

“Great Scott! Any more? What is this anyhow, a family affair?”

There was a laugh, and Mr. Windam wrote Pete’s name down with “shortstop” opposite it.

“Not so bad,” the coach murmured. “We need a good man at short, and you look as if you’d fill the bill.”

Sawed-off smiled in a gratified manner, and the taking of names proceeded. There was a large number of candidates, and they appeared promising, the coach, captain and manager agreed as they looked them over later. Then, announcing that work in the cage would start in two days, and admonishing the lads to be on hand, and do their best, the meeting was called to a close.

“Think we’ll make it?” asked Bill anxiously as he and his brothers, together with Whistle-Breeches, walked to their rooms, to at least make a pretense of reading and studying.

“We will if work is going to count for anything,” declared Cap.

The work soon began, and within the next few days there was a considerable weeding-out.

Our heroes were lucky, or, rather their former good playing stood them in excellent stead, and they, together with their friend of the former corduroy trousers, were among the fit survivors. True they were not assured of any particular positions on the team, but they realized that they would be fortunate if they made the Varsity at all. In batting Pete did better than either of his brothers, and he received some compliments from the coach.

Cap was on the anxious seat regarding his position behind the bat, and it was not until on one occasion he did some fearless work, and demonstrated a good throwing ability that he drew from the coach and captain a word of praise that meant much.

“I guess you’ll do, ‘Plain’ Smith,” said the coach witha reassuring smile. “Of course I can’t tell until I see you out of doors, but you look good to me.”

“How about Bill?” asked Cap anxiously, for he wanted to see his brother fill the twirling box, and he knew that the control Bill had of the ball, his curving ability, and his lasting qualities would win him a place if he had a fair try-out.

“Well, I don’t know,” was the somewhat dubious answer. “Alex Mersfeld pitched all last season, and naturally he’s entitled to it again. He’s our star man, but of course if your brother is better—well, we’ve got to have the best—that’s all. I don’t play any favorites.”

And with this Cap had to be content.

Spring came with a rush, the ground dried up, and two weeks after the applications for the team were all in out-of-door practice was ordered. Then the ranks were further thinned, but our heroes and Whistle-Breeches still held their own.

Cap was slated as first substitute catcher, and Pete was honored with a firm place on the Varsity as shortstop. But with Bill it was different. Mersfeld held his old position, and there was no denying that he had a good arm.

Still, when Bill got a chance to show what he could do he opened the eyes of the coach and captain.

“If we ever need to take Mersfeld out there’s a chap who can fill the box to perfection,” declared Mr. Windam. “I almost wish we could play him regularly.”

“But he’s only a Fresh,” objected the captain, “and if we put the three Smith boys on the team, it’ll be said we are trying to make a family affair of it.”

“Can’t help it—we want to win.”

And, as the days went on the Smith boys further demonstrated their abilities. Practice was now held regularly and there were games between the Varsity and scrub nines, Bill pitching on the latter team. His curves were a source of wonder and delight to his team mates, and chagrin to his opponents, and on one occasion, when they did not get a hit off him in five innings, the coach shook his head in doubt.

“I don’t know about it,” he murmured. “If he keeps on improving as he has he’ll displace Mersfeld.”

“Nonsense!” said the captain easily.

It was one afternoon toward the close of a practice game, when the scrub was one run ahead, and the coach was exhorting the Varsity lads to “perk up,” and put some ginger into the contest. Bill was in the box, and had been doing some excellent work for the scrub when Graydon, of the Varsity, came up to the bat.

“Now’s a chance to strike me out!” he called good-naturedly. “If you don’t I’m going to make a home run.”

“Then you’d better go sit down now,” replied Bill, as he wound up for a swift out. It went from his hand with a speedy whizz, and the batter caught it squarely on his stick. There was a resounding whack, and the ball came straight for Bill, at about the level of his head.

He put up his hands for it, instinctively, but so swift was the horsehide sphere traveling that it broke through and hit him on the head, just over the left eye. He dropped like a stone, and Graydon, tossing aside his bat, raced for the fallen lad.

“By Jove old man!” he cried contritely, all thoughts ofthe game forgotten. “I’m sorry for that. Wow! But that’s a nasty bump!”

Poor Bill was lying in Graydon’s arms, unconscious, while a big lump was swelling up on the pitcher’s head.

“Some water!” cried Graydon, and they brought the pail. Pete and Cap hastened up, as did Mr. Windam.

“Now don’t cut off all the air,” said the coach. “Harris, perhaps you’d better ask Dr. Blasdell to step down,” there being a physician on the school’s staff of teachers.

But Bill opened his eyes as the cold water trickled down his face, and murmured:

“I’m—I’m all right. I’m not hurt—just a little dizzy.”

“Take it easy, old man,” advised the coach. “A little more water. Here, Snyder, mix a little of that aromatic spirits of ammonia. You’ll find the bottle in my valise,” for Mr. Windam kept a few simple remedies in readiness for first aid to the injured.

Soon Bill was much better, and there was no need for the services of Dr. Blasdell, who came hurrying down at the summons. He found that there was no apparent injury to Bill’s skull, and the plucky pitcher wanted to go on with the game, but they would not hear of it, and put another man in, while our hero was taken to his room to lie down. The Varsity won the game, but took little credit for it, and when the contest was over there were many inquiries for Bill.

“Well, how do you feel?” asked Pete the next day, as his brother got up and looked in the glass at the strip of plaster over the big bump, for the skin was broken.

“I feel as though I tried to stop a taxicab with my head. Dizzy, you know. But I guess it will pass over.”

He felt much better as the day passed, and wanted to get into practice that afternoon, but the coach would not let him.

However, on the following afternoon, Bill insisted so strenuously that he was allowed to get into a uniform, and take his place on the diamond. There was no game, but he and Cap did some work together.

The first few balls Bill pitched went a bit wild, and his brother did not pay much attention to them, but when, after he had delivered about the seventh one, and it went wide of the plate, Cap called:

“Get ’em over, Bill. They’re a bit too far out.”

“Too wide! What’s the matter? That cut off as big a corner of the plate as you’d want.”

“What? It was four inches out.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Bill. “You can’t see straight. Here, how’s this?”

The ball shot from his hand, but Bill had to step some distance out to gather it into his big mitt.

“Worser and worser,” he said with a smile. “Guess your vacation didn’t do you any good.”

“Say, what’s the matter?” demanded Bill somewhat peevishly. “I’m getting those over all right.”

“Then there’s something the matter with your eyes,” declared his brother seriously, and he looked anxiously at the younger lad.

“Watch this!” called Bill.

He threw very carefully but he seemed to lose control of the ball, which ability was one of his best features. It again went wide, and Cap had to reach out for the sphere.

The catcher shook his head.

“How are your eyes, Bill?” he asked kindly, walking toward his brother. “Maybe the jar they got when you were hit, sort of put them on the blink for a few days. Don’t you think so?”

“I don’t see how it could be. Just try a few more.”

They did, but Cap only shook his head. Other players were noticing something wrong, and as soon as Cap saw this he called the practice off.

“We’ve had enough for to-day,” he declared, as though it was of no consequence, but Bill knew that his brother’s light tone covered a deeper meaning. There was a vague alarm in the heart of the lad who aspired to be the Varsity pitcher.

Was his eyesight going back on him? Was he losing his control? What ailed him?

He hardly dared answer, yet he resolved to put it to the test soon.

“My head does feel a little queer,” he admitted to himself, and much against his will. “And my eyes—my eyes—I wonder if there can be anything wrong?” and he walked moodily off the diamond, while Cap and Pete gazed apprehensively after him.

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