CHAPTER XVII
BILL’S PITCHING
Fora moment Bondy did not answer. On his face there was a sickly grin, and he seemed to turn a sort of greenish white.
“What are you doing with those glasses?” repeated Pete as he took a step forward.
“I—er—I just came in to see Bill,” stammered the rich lad. “He was out, and I—I—er I was looking at them. Queer lenses; aren’t they? One seems to be loose. I was going to tell Bill he ought to tighten it.”
No wonder it was loose, for the sneak had partly taken out the screw. The expression on Pete’s face changed. He had had a quick suspicion that all was not right, but he began to feel now that perhaps he was mistaken.
“See, here is the loose glass!” went on Bondy eagerly, for he was quick to notice the altered expression on the other’s countenance. “It ought to be tightened, or it might drop out during the game, and become broken. You can tighten it with a knife.”
He dared not offer his own screw driver.
“That’s right; it does need fixing,” admitted Pete. “Much obliged for noticing it, old man. Bill might not have seen it.”
“Yes, I just came in—er—to ask Bill how his arm was, and I noticed the glasses,” went on the visitor lamely.
“Why, what’s the matter with his arm?” asked Pete quickly, and in some alarm.
“Oh, nothing, I—I just wondered if it would hold out.”
“Oh, I guess it will. There, the glass is tight now,” and Pete, who had used his knife to set the screw, tapped the rubber frame to listen for any vibration. There was none.
“Well, I’ll be going,” announced Guilder, with an air of relief. “See you at the game. It’s most time to start,” and he slipped from the room, just before Bill returned.
“I wonder what he wanted?” mused Pete, looking after the retreating figure of the rich lad. “Mighty funny his getting friendly all of a sudden. I wonder what he wanted?”
Pete looked at his brother’s glasses. He glanced toward Bondy’s room, and pondered again. Just then Bill came in.
“Say, son, you ought to keep these locked up,” remarked Pete, handing the glasses to him.
“Why?”
“They might get broken if you leave them around so promiscuous. I just tightened a screw.”
“Thanks. Crimps! but I’ve got to hustle. I was showing Whistle-Breeches how to mend a rip in his stocking. He was for tying a string around it as if it was a bag he was closing up. Well, we’ll soon be slaughtering—or slaughtered; eh?”
“Yes, how about you?”
“Fit as a fiddle. I wish I had to pitch the whole game.”
“Maybe you won’t after you see the way they knock you out. They’ve got some hard hitters.”
“I’m not worrying. Is Cap on the job?”
“Yes, we’re all ready. What are you waiting for?”
“Just got to put a few more stitches in this jacket. I’ll be right over. Go ahead.”
“No, we’ll wait for you,” and Pete took a chair in his brother’s room. He was thinking of Bondy’s visit but he made up his mind to say nothing about it at present. After all he might be wrong in his suspicion, but he resolved to keep a sharp lookout.
Soon Bill had finished his sewing task, and went out with his brother. Cap joined them, and a little later they were on the diamond, indulging in some light practice.
Down the road came the sound of songs and cheers, mingled with indiscriminate yells. Then came the blast of horns.
“The cohorts of Tuckerton!” cried Cap. “Here they come!”
Several big stages swung into view, laden down with students and girls, for the boys had brought a lot of their young lady friends to see the game.
The vehicles were gay with colors—flags and banners waved from canes and long staffs. Horns adorned with the hues of Tuckerton were waved and blown. Then came more songs, more cheers, more wild yells, and more rioting of colors, as the banners, flags, ribbons and streamers were shaken at the crowds of Westfield students who poured out and greeted their rivals.
As the stage loads of spectators drew up and were emptied, another carryall swept along the road. It containedthe opposing nine, and in grim silence, like gladiators coming to the battle, they alighted.
“Three cheers for the best nine in the league!” called the leader of the Tuckerton cohorts, and the yells came in quick response.
“Now three cheers for the second beet nine—the one we’re going to wallop—Westfield!” called the same youth who was almost hidden behind a big bow of his school colors.
Westfield was appropriately serenaded, and then they returned the compliment. The grand stands and bleachers were now beginning to fill, for a game of baseball between these two schools was worth coming a long distance to see.
“Gee! what a lot of pretty girls!” exclaimed Pete as he stood with his brothers near home plate after some sharp warm-up practice.
“You let the girls alone—until after the game,” advised Cap.
“Thereisa big crowd,” remarked Bill.
“Don’t let it fuss you,” suggested his older brother, for Bill was likely to get a bit nervous, and he had never played in such a big and important game before. “Come over here and we’ll try a few balls. Better wear your glasses to get more used to them.”
“Gee! maybe it’s a good thing I got caught as I did,” mused Bondy as he saw Bill putting on the goggles before the game had started, as he was practicing with Cap. “He’d have found it out by now, and the game would have been all up. But I’ll get him yet! I wonder why Mersfeld doesn’t come around. He acts afraid.”
The other pitcher was afraid—horribly so. His heart misgave him for consenting to the trick, and yet he let it be carried out. At least he supposed it had been, for he took pains to keep out of the way of Bondy. And when he saw Bill in the goggles pitching a few preliminary balls to his brother, he wondered what sort of balls they were.
“How long will he last—how long?” he murmured, for he thought the plot had been carried out.
The crowds increased. The Tuckerton nine and substitutes trotted out for practice, and good snappy practice it was. Captain Graydon shook his head as he watched.
“They’ll come pretty near having our numbers,” he remarked.
“Nonsense!” exclaimed the coach. “They play fast and snappy, that’s a fact, but we can do the same.”
“No, that’s just where our men fall down,” went on Graydon. “They’re good stickers, and can pull a game out of the fire in the last few innings, but they don’t wake up quickly enough. That’s what I’m afraid of. I wish we had decided to let Smith pitch the last half instead of the first innings.”
“Say, that’s what we’ll do!” suddenly exclaimed the coach. “This is the first chance I’ve had to get a line on the Tuckerton boys, and I believe it will be policy to put Mersfeld in at the opening. He’s feeling sore, and he hasn’t as good lasting qualities as I’d like. We’ll put him up first, and if he can’t hold ’em down we can change at any time. I’ll tell Smith.”
Bill felt a sense of disappointment that he was not to open the game, but he knew better than to dispute withthe coach. Cap looked as though he could not quite understand it, and he wondered if it was a sample of what would happen in other games.
“We’ve got to save you two for a pinch,” explained Graydon to the catcher, just before the game was called. “Begin to warm-up again after the third inning.”
The preliminaries were over, and the Tuckerton men took their places on the bench, the home team having last chance at the bat. The Westfield nine walked to the field, and Bill and Cap took their places with the other substitutes.
“I wonder what’s up?” mused Mersfeld as he was told to go to the box. “He must have the changed glasses and Mindam and Graydon have seen how punk he is even in practice. Here’s where I get my chance!”
The game began, and the first crack out of the box netted a two-bagger for the initial hitter of the Tuckerton nine. Mersfeld smiled a sickly smile as the ball came back to him.
“It’s all right,” called Denby reassuringly from behind the bat. “We’ll get this fellow.”
Mersfeld did strike him out, after the man had made two foul strikes, and, feeling a trifle nervous the twirler issued walking papers to the next hitter, who had a high average for stick work.
“Work for this man,” signalled the catcher to the pitcher, but Mersfeld, as he was about to throw was aware that the first hitter was stealing to third. He shot to the baseman quickly—but wildly. It went over his head, in among a crowd of spectators, and before the ball could be fielded in the man was home with the first run of the game, and with only one out.
What a wild burst of songs and cries of gladness came from the stands where the visitors were! Flags and banners waved, and the shrill voices of the girls seemed to mock the Westfield players.
“Starting in bad,” murmured Bill to Cap.
“Oh, well, all our fellows are a trifle nervous. I guess we’ll make good.”
Mersfeld redeemed himself a few seconds later by striking out the next man up, and with two down, the last man knocked a little pop fly. It looked good but Pete got under it, and had it safely in his hands when the runner was ten feet from first.
“Well, now to see what we can do,” remarked Graydon as he came in from first with his men eager to get a chance at the sticks.
They did not do so much, for there was an excellent battery against them, and one run was all they could tally. But it tied the score, and gave the home rooters something to shout for.
Whether it was nervousness or whether his conscience troubled him was not made known, but Mersfeld seemed to get worse as the game progressed. His throws to the basemen were wild, and he practically lost control of the ball, while his curves broke too late, and the opposing team readily got on to them.
“Oh, we’ve got the pitcher’s ‘Angora’ all right!” chanted the visiting rooters, that being the classical term for “goat” or nerve.
“And I believe they have,” admitted the coach, when the fourth inning opened with the score eight to one in favor of Tuckerton. They had garnered two in the secondframe, three in the third, and a brace in their half of the fourth. The one lone tally was all Westfield had when they came to bat in the ending of the fourth, and though they worked fiercely not a man got over the rubber.
“Smith and Smith is the new battery for the Westfield team!” announced the umpire as Graydon’s men went out to the field at the opening of the fifth. Mersfeld had not said a word when ordered from the box. He knew he had been doing poor work, but with a bitter feeling in his heart he watched to see how Bill would make out with, as he supposed, the changed glasses.
“Now watch the celebrated Smith brothers work!” cried a Tuckerton wag, as Cap and Bill took their places.
“Yes, and theywillwork, too!” murmured Pete.
“At least if we can’t get any more runs, I hope we can keep the score down,” thought the coach, to whom the game, thus far was a bitter disappointment. All his work so far that season seemed to have gone for naught.
Bill was smiling confidently, as he took his place in the box. The crowd which had not before had a good look at him, caught sight of the goggles, and instantly there was a chorus of cries.
“Foureyes! Foureyes!”
It was what Cap and Pete had feared would happen. Would it bother their brother?
Bill showed no signs of it. He did not appear to resent the name, but smiled back at his tormentors in an easy fashion.
“I wear these so I can strike out more men!” he called.
“I guess he’ll do,” murmured the anxious captain on first base, and the embittered coach took heart.
Cap and Bill exchanged a few preliminaries, and then signalled for the batter to take his place. The man up was a terrific hitter and Bill used all his wiles on him. First he purposely gave him a ball, and then sent in a slow teaser which the man did not strike at, but which the umpire counted.
“Here’s where he fans!” thought Bill, as he tried an up shoot. It made good, and the bat passed under it cleanly. There was a murmur of chagrin from the stick-wielder’s fellows and he resolved to knock the cover off the next ball.
But alas for hopes! Once more he swung wildly—and missed.
“Out!” howled the umpire gleefully, for his sympathy was with Westfield, as much as he dared show it.
And when the next two men never even touched the ball there was joy unbounded in the ranks of the home team, for now they saw a chance for victory.
“I don’t see that you did anything,” whispered Mersfeld to Bondy as the change was made for the ending of the fifth.
“Didn’t get the chance,” whispered back the plotter. “I was nearly caught. But this isn’t the only game. There’ll be other opportunities.”
Westfield was at the bat, and it must have been the effect of Bill’s pitching for every man up made a hit, and the bases were soon filled. But only two runs came in, for the opposing team took a brace at an opportune time for themselves, and in season to prevent too heavy scoring by the Westfield lads.
“Now only six runs to beat ’em!” called Captain Graydoncheerfully, as though that was a mere trifle. “Keep up the good work, Bill, and we’ll dedicate a chapel window to you.”
Bill did. He surpassed even his own previous pitching records, and did not allow a hit in that inning, while in their half of it Westfield got one, making the score four to eight in their opponents’ favor.
“Now for the lucky seventh!” called the coach, when that inning started. “Don’t let them get a run, Bill, and help our fellows to pull in about a dozen.”
Bill smiled, and—struck out the first two men. Then one of the heavy hitters managed to get under a neat little up shoot, and sent it far out over the left fielder’s head. It was good for two bags, and the next man brought the runner in, to the anguish of Bill, who feared he was slumping, as there had been two hits off him in succession. But with a gritting of his teeth he held his nerves in check, and that ended the scoring for the first half of the seventh.
“Now, boys, eat ’em up!” pleaded coach and captain as Bill and his teammates came in. They did, to the extent of three runs, which seemed wonderful in view of what had previously been done, and there was a chance for wild yelling and cheering on the part of the home rooters.
With the score seven to nine, when the eighth opened, it looked better for Westfield’s chances, and when she further sweetened her tallies with another run, brought in by Pete, there was more joyful rioting.
“They mustn’t get another mark!” stipulated the captain when the final inning opened. “Not a run, Bill.”
“Not if I can help it!” the pitcher promised. From acorner Mersfeld watched his successful rival—watched him with envious eyes.
From the grandstand Bondy also watched, and muttered:
“I won’t fail next time. I’ll spoil your record if it’s possible!”
Amid a wild chorus of songs and school cries Bill faced his next opponent. He proved an easy victim, as did the lad following, but from the manner in which the third man began hitting fouls it seemed to argue that he would eventually make a hit. And a hit at this stage might mean anything. For Westfield needed two runs to beat, and they were going to be hard enough to secure—every member of the team knew that.
It was the fourth foul the batter had knocked. The others had been impossible to get, though Cap had tried for them. Now, as he tossed off his mask, and stared wildly up into the air to gage the ball he heard cries of:
“Can’t get it! Can’t get it!”
“I’m going to!” he thought fiercely. He ran for it, and was aware that he would have to almost run into the grand stand to reach it. The crowd made way for him. Into the stand he crashed, with a shock that jarred him considerably, but—he had the ball in his hands!
“Wow! Wow! Wow!” cheered the crowd, even some of the Tuckertons themselves. The side had been retired without a run, and they cheered Cap’s fine catch.
“Now for our last chance!” said Captain Graydon when his men came in. “We’ve justgotto get two runs. No tenth inning—do it in this!”
“Sure!” they all agreed.
Whistle-Breeches came up first, and when he had fanned out he went off by himself and thought bitter thoughts. For he had narrowed the team’s chances.
“Don’t worry, we may do it yet,” said the coach kindly but he hardly believed it.
Graydon made good in a two bagger, and got to third when Paul Armitage made a magnificent try, but was out at first. And that was the situation when Cap Smith came up. There were two out, a man on third, and two runs were needed. Only a home run it seemed could do the trick.
“And a home run it shall be!” declared Cap to himself.
But when he missed the first ball, and when, after two wild throws a strike was called on him, it looked as if the chances were all gone.
“He’ll walk you!” shouted some sympathizers, but the Tuckerton pitcher had no such intentions. He was going to strike Cap out, he felt.
“Whizz!” went the ball toward the catcher. Cap drew back his bat, and by some streak of luck managed to get it under squarely. He put all the force of his broad shoulders into the blow, and when he saw the ball sailing far and low, he knew it would go over the centre fielder’s head and into the deep grass beyond.
“It’s a home run or a broken leg!” murmured Cap, as he dashed away toward first.
“Oh you Cap!”
“Pretty! Pretty!”
“A lalapalooza!”
“Run! Run!”
“Keep on going!”
“Come on in, Graydon! Come home! Come home!”
Thus the frantic cries.
Graydon was speeding in from third, and desperate fielders were racing after the ball. It could not be located in the tall grass, and Cap was legging it for all he was worth.
“Run! Run! Run!” Thus they besought him. Graydon crossed the rubber with the tying run, and still the ball was not found. Then, as Cap passed second, a shout announced that a fielder had it. But he was far out, and the second baseman knew his teammate could never field it in from where he was. He ran out to intercept the ball, as Cap was legging it for home.
“Thud!” The second baseman had the horsehide. He turned to throw it home, and the catcher spread out his hands for it. But Cap dropped and slid over the plate in a cloud of dust, and was safe just a second before the ball arrived.
Westfield had won! And on the last chance!