CHAPTER XVIIIJACK AT SECONDHalf a mile beyond Warrener’s Grove, the wooded bluff at the end of Murdoch Street, the river makes in the shore an indentation which is known as the Cove. It is not an attractive body of water. At some time in the past there was a brick-yard there, and even yet the remains of two weather-beaten sheds and a couple of high troughs in which the clay was mixed may be seen. During a spring freshet the river went over its banks and flowed into the pits left by the excavations. Later, the water and the frost connected the stagnant pond with the river; rushes gained foothold in the clay bottom and the old quarry took on the appearance of a natural cove. Save in one or two places the depth is but slight, and, in consequence, the Cove offers warmer bathing in the spring than does the river. On the side nearest the railroad there is a stretch of gradually shallowing water that answers all the purposes of a beach. It was here, then, that Anthony andJack, during the latter part of May, came almost every morning, and, exchanging their clothes for gymnasium trunks, played the parts of teacher and pupil.The first time that Jack found the cold water lapping his knees he went pale with terror, and would have fled ignominiously had not Anthony seized and encouraged him. In the end, he allowed the other to persuade him to remain where he was and, after gingerly splashing himself with water, watch his teacher a few yards beyond illustrate the method of swimming. Anthony realized that he had a task before him that required a deal of diplomacy, and he carefully avoided saying or doing anything to increase Jack’s dread of the water.After four lessons Jack had gone the length of immersing himself and, held tightly by Anthony, had essayed a few wild strokes with arms and legs. Anthony strove to teach confidence first of all, and it was not until Jack could allow him away from his side that Anthony set about the easier part of his task. As soon as Jack could struggle for a few strokes through the water Anthony taught him to float. And it was not until Jack could float in every possible position that the swimming lessons were resumed. Then progress was rapid. By the middle of June Jack could swim out to a rush-covered raft which had beenanchored about a hundred feet from shore by enterprising duck-hunters. At first Anthony kept beside him; later, they had races in which Anthony left Jack half-way to the goal; in the end, Jack found courage to swim to the raft and back by himself. But, as I have said, that was not until June was half over, and before that other things had happened.It was on the fourth of the month, a Wednesday, that Jack, for the first time, played a game through as second-baseman. Erskine’s opponents were the Dexter nine, a hard-hitting aggregation of preparatory schoolboys, and to meet them Hanson and Perkins put in a team largely composed of substitutes. This team, in batting order, was as follows:Perkins, catcher.King, pitcher.Northup, right-field.Mears, first base.Weatherby, second base.Smith, third base.Clover, shortstop.Lowe, left-field.Riseman, center-field.The last six, with the exception of Lowe, were substitutes, and before the game was over Lowe, too, had been replaced, Showell going in for him. Jack’s playing that afternoon raised his stock fully a hundred per cent. He was in fine fettle—he had never felt better in his life than he had since he began his morning dips in the cold waters of the Cove—and covered the second of what Anthony had called the salt-bags in a mannerthat opened the eyes of his companions and caused “Wally” Styles much uneasiness. His batting, too, was as good as his fielding; he had the honor of making the first hit and the first run for Erskine, and was the only man on the team that afternoon, with the exception of Perkins, who knocked out a home run in the sixth, able to hit the Dexter pitcher for more than one base. In the fifth inning his three-bagger was clean and timely, bringing in two runs and placing him where he was able to score a minute after on a passed ball.Dexter made things extremely interesting for a while in the seventh inning, getting in two runs and filling the bases again directly afterward. It was Jack, then, who, in a measure, saved the day. With the bags all occupied, Dexter’s catcher went to bat and lined out a hot ball just to the right of King. There was one out. King got one hand on the ball, but failed to stop it. Jack, who had run forward to back him up, found the ball in the air and threw quickly and true to the plate in time to put out the runner. Then Perkins, without more than a second’s pause, returned it to Jack, who was again covering second, and Jack found the Dexter catcher two feet off base.The game ended with the score 5 to 2, and of those five tallies two were opposite Jack’s name. The otherthree belonged to Perkins and Northup. Jack’s record that day included four put-outs and five assists, and held no errors. Perhaps it was the consciousness of having done a good afternoon’s work that put him in such a state of elation that composing verse alone seemed to satisfy him. When half past seven arrived and he had not appeared in Anthony’s room, Anthony went in search of him and discovered him curled up in a ball on his bed, laboring with pencil and pad and flushed cheeks.“I’ve got it!” cried Jack.“Got what?” asked Anthony.“The song! Listen!” Jack squirmed about on the creaking cot until he had his back against the wall. Then he waved his pad triumphantly over his head. “It goes to the tune of ‘John Brown’s Body’; you suggested that, you know; and I didn’t have any trouble at all; and the rhymes are all right, too, I think! Now, then!” And Jack, beating time with his pencil, recited sonorously his verses:“Robinson is wavering, her pride’s about to fall;Robinson is wavering, she can not hit the ball;Erskine is the winner, for her team’s the best of all;Oh, poor old Robinson!Glory, glory to the Purple!Glory, glory to the Purple!Glory, glory to the Purple!And down with Robinson!“Purple is the color of the stalwart and the brave;Purple are the banners that the conq’ring heroes wave;Purple are the violets above the lonely graveOf poor old Robinson!Glory, glory to the Purple!Glory, glory to the Purple!Glory, glory to the Purple!And down with Robinson!”“Fine!” cried Anthony. “That’s the sort of thing! Let’s see it.” He took the paper and, turning it to the light, began to hum, then sing the words to the old marching song, nodding his head in time to the music. Anthony had about as much melody in his voice as a raven, but Jack, watching and listening eagerly from the bed, thought he sang beautifully, and was enormously pleased with the production. When the final refrain was reached he joined his own voice, rocking back and forth in ecstasy, and the concert ended in a final triumphant burst of mel— Well, no, not melody; let us say sound.“Do you like it?” Jack asked, as eager for praise of his lines as any poet.“Great!” Anthony answered. “And I should think it would do for a football song, too, wouldn’t it?”“Would it?” cried Jack. “Yes, I believe it would! That’s fine, isn’t it? Of course, I don’t want you to think I’m stuck up, Anthony, but I really thinkit’s better than any that the Purple has published yet. What do you say?”“Well, I haven’t read many of ’em; should think it might be, though. Better send it in right off, so it’ll be in time for the next issue, eh?”“Yes, I’m going to mail it to-night; as soon as I make a good copy.” Then, after a moment’s hesitation: “I say, Anthony, would you mind copying it off for me? I write such an awful fist, you know.”So they adjourned to Anthony’s room, and Jack leaned anxiously over his friend’s shoulder while the lines were copied in the most careful of copperplate chirography, folded, sealed, and addressed. Then Jack bought a one-cent stamp from Anthony and took the letter to the post-office, marching back through the warm June evening humming “Glory to the Purple,” and in imagination leading the cheering section at the Robinson game.After he had gone to sleep he dreamed that he had been appointed poet-laureate of Erskine College, and was being driven along Main Street in Gilberth’s automobile between serried ranks of applauding students and townfolk, his brow adorned with a golden fillet of laurel-leaves. The automobile was extremely spacious, since it held besides himself not only the faculty, but Anthony and Joe Perkins and the entirebaseball team. When he acknowledged the plaudits of the multitude he had to hold his laurel wreath on with one hand, which annoyed him a great deal. In the end the president solved the problem by tying it on with a red silk handkerchief. Then, at the moment of his greatest triumph, Showell arose from somewhere and shouted in a voice that drowned the cheers: “He didn’t compose it! The writing was Anthony Tidball’s! I saw it!” Jack tried to deny the awful slander, but none would listen to him, and he awoke breathless and despairing, to find the sunlight streaming in the end window and the robins singing matins to the early day.
Half a mile beyond Warrener’s Grove, the wooded bluff at the end of Murdoch Street, the river makes in the shore an indentation which is known as the Cove. It is not an attractive body of water. At some time in the past there was a brick-yard there, and even yet the remains of two weather-beaten sheds and a couple of high troughs in which the clay was mixed may be seen. During a spring freshet the river went over its banks and flowed into the pits left by the excavations. Later, the water and the frost connected the stagnant pond with the river; rushes gained foothold in the clay bottom and the old quarry took on the appearance of a natural cove. Save in one or two places the depth is but slight, and, in consequence, the Cove offers warmer bathing in the spring than does the river. On the side nearest the railroad there is a stretch of gradually shallowing water that answers all the purposes of a beach. It was here, then, that Anthony andJack, during the latter part of May, came almost every morning, and, exchanging their clothes for gymnasium trunks, played the parts of teacher and pupil.
The first time that Jack found the cold water lapping his knees he went pale with terror, and would have fled ignominiously had not Anthony seized and encouraged him. In the end, he allowed the other to persuade him to remain where he was and, after gingerly splashing himself with water, watch his teacher a few yards beyond illustrate the method of swimming. Anthony realized that he had a task before him that required a deal of diplomacy, and he carefully avoided saying or doing anything to increase Jack’s dread of the water.
After four lessons Jack had gone the length of immersing himself and, held tightly by Anthony, had essayed a few wild strokes with arms and legs. Anthony strove to teach confidence first of all, and it was not until Jack could allow him away from his side that Anthony set about the easier part of his task. As soon as Jack could struggle for a few strokes through the water Anthony taught him to float. And it was not until Jack could float in every possible position that the swimming lessons were resumed. Then progress was rapid. By the middle of June Jack could swim out to a rush-covered raft which had beenanchored about a hundred feet from shore by enterprising duck-hunters. At first Anthony kept beside him; later, they had races in which Anthony left Jack half-way to the goal; in the end, Jack found courage to swim to the raft and back by himself. But, as I have said, that was not until June was half over, and before that other things had happened.
It was on the fourth of the month, a Wednesday, that Jack, for the first time, played a game through as second-baseman. Erskine’s opponents were the Dexter nine, a hard-hitting aggregation of preparatory schoolboys, and to meet them Hanson and Perkins put in a team largely composed of substitutes. This team, in batting order, was as follows:
Perkins, catcher.King, pitcher.Northup, right-field.Mears, first base.Weatherby, second base.Smith, third base.Clover, shortstop.Lowe, left-field.Riseman, center-field.
Perkins, catcher.King, pitcher.Northup, right-field.Mears, first base.Weatherby, second base.Smith, third base.Clover, shortstop.Lowe, left-field.Riseman, center-field.
The last six, with the exception of Lowe, were substitutes, and before the game was over Lowe, too, had been replaced, Showell going in for him. Jack’s playing that afternoon raised his stock fully a hundred per cent. He was in fine fettle—he had never felt better in his life than he had since he began his morning dips in the cold waters of the Cove—and covered the second of what Anthony had called the salt-bags in a mannerthat opened the eyes of his companions and caused “Wally” Styles much uneasiness. His batting, too, was as good as his fielding; he had the honor of making the first hit and the first run for Erskine, and was the only man on the team that afternoon, with the exception of Perkins, who knocked out a home run in the sixth, able to hit the Dexter pitcher for more than one base. In the fifth inning his three-bagger was clean and timely, bringing in two runs and placing him where he was able to score a minute after on a passed ball.
Dexter made things extremely interesting for a while in the seventh inning, getting in two runs and filling the bases again directly afterward. It was Jack, then, who, in a measure, saved the day. With the bags all occupied, Dexter’s catcher went to bat and lined out a hot ball just to the right of King. There was one out. King got one hand on the ball, but failed to stop it. Jack, who had run forward to back him up, found the ball in the air and threw quickly and true to the plate in time to put out the runner. Then Perkins, without more than a second’s pause, returned it to Jack, who was again covering second, and Jack found the Dexter catcher two feet off base.
The game ended with the score 5 to 2, and of those five tallies two were opposite Jack’s name. The otherthree belonged to Perkins and Northup. Jack’s record that day included four put-outs and five assists, and held no errors. Perhaps it was the consciousness of having done a good afternoon’s work that put him in such a state of elation that composing verse alone seemed to satisfy him. When half past seven arrived and he had not appeared in Anthony’s room, Anthony went in search of him and discovered him curled up in a ball on his bed, laboring with pencil and pad and flushed cheeks.
“I’ve got it!” cried Jack.
“Got what?” asked Anthony.
“The song! Listen!” Jack squirmed about on the creaking cot until he had his back against the wall. Then he waved his pad triumphantly over his head. “It goes to the tune of ‘John Brown’s Body’; you suggested that, you know; and I didn’t have any trouble at all; and the rhymes are all right, too, I think! Now, then!” And Jack, beating time with his pencil, recited sonorously his verses:
“Robinson is wavering, her pride’s about to fall;Robinson is wavering, she can not hit the ball;Erskine is the winner, for her team’s the best of all;Oh, poor old Robinson!Glory, glory to the Purple!Glory, glory to the Purple!Glory, glory to the Purple!And down with Robinson!“Purple is the color of the stalwart and the brave;Purple are the banners that the conq’ring heroes wave;Purple are the violets above the lonely graveOf poor old Robinson!Glory, glory to the Purple!Glory, glory to the Purple!Glory, glory to the Purple!And down with Robinson!”
“Robinson is wavering, her pride’s about to fall;Robinson is wavering, she can not hit the ball;Erskine is the winner, for her team’s the best of all;Oh, poor old Robinson!Glory, glory to the Purple!Glory, glory to the Purple!Glory, glory to the Purple!And down with Robinson!
“Purple is the color of the stalwart and the brave;Purple are the banners that the conq’ring heroes wave;Purple are the violets above the lonely graveOf poor old Robinson!Glory, glory to the Purple!Glory, glory to the Purple!Glory, glory to the Purple!And down with Robinson!”
“Fine!” cried Anthony. “That’s the sort of thing! Let’s see it.” He took the paper and, turning it to the light, began to hum, then sing the words to the old marching song, nodding his head in time to the music. Anthony had about as much melody in his voice as a raven, but Jack, watching and listening eagerly from the bed, thought he sang beautifully, and was enormously pleased with the production. When the final refrain was reached he joined his own voice, rocking back and forth in ecstasy, and the concert ended in a final triumphant burst of mel— Well, no, not melody; let us say sound.
“Do you like it?” Jack asked, as eager for praise of his lines as any poet.
“Great!” Anthony answered. “And I should think it would do for a football song, too, wouldn’t it?”
“Would it?” cried Jack. “Yes, I believe it would! That’s fine, isn’t it? Of course, I don’t want you to think I’m stuck up, Anthony, but I really thinkit’s better than any that the Purple has published yet. What do you say?”
“Well, I haven’t read many of ’em; should think it might be, though. Better send it in right off, so it’ll be in time for the next issue, eh?”
“Yes, I’m going to mail it to-night; as soon as I make a good copy.” Then, after a moment’s hesitation: “I say, Anthony, would you mind copying it off for me? I write such an awful fist, you know.”
So they adjourned to Anthony’s room, and Jack leaned anxiously over his friend’s shoulder while the lines were copied in the most careful of copperplate chirography, folded, sealed, and addressed. Then Jack bought a one-cent stamp from Anthony and took the letter to the post-office, marching back through the warm June evening humming “Glory to the Purple,” and in imagination leading the cheering section at the Robinson game.
After he had gone to sleep he dreamed that he had been appointed poet-laureate of Erskine College, and was being driven along Main Street in Gilberth’s automobile between serried ranks of applauding students and townfolk, his brow adorned with a golden fillet of laurel-leaves. The automobile was extremely spacious, since it held besides himself not only the faculty, but Anthony and Joe Perkins and the entirebaseball team. When he acknowledged the plaudits of the multitude he had to hold his laurel wreath on with one hand, which annoyed him a great deal. In the end the president solved the problem by tying it on with a red silk handkerchief. Then, at the moment of his greatest triumph, Showell arose from somewhere and shouted in a voice that drowned the cheers: “He didn’t compose it! The writing was Anthony Tidball’s! I saw it!” Jack tried to deny the awful slander, but none would listen to him, and he awoke breathless and despairing, to find the sunlight streaming in the end window and the robins singing matins to the early day.