CHAPTER XIWITH THE SCRUBS
Dud speedily forgot all about Star Meyer, social aspirations and everything else except baseball, for they had their first practice game that afternoon and, although Dud wasn’t called on to work during the first three innings, he became vastly absorbed in the proceedings. Mr. Sargent made up one team of seasoned veterans of previous campaigns, with Gus Weston pitching and Gordon catching, and formed the opposing team of the newer candidates, giving the twirling job to Nate Leddy and letting Ed Brooks catch him. Since it was the first contest of the year both teams were on their toes and went into it hard. From the practice diamond Mr. Crowley’s second nine looked on enviously when the opportunity allowed.
Weston pitched nice ball for the regulars for two innings, mowing down the opposing batsmen impartially and even monotonously. But in the third, Ben Myatt, playing left field for the scrubs, landed on one of Gus’s offerings and drove it far into right center, where neither Star Meyer nor Gordon Parkercould reach it in time to prevent him from reaching third. That put the following batsmen on their mettle, and before the inning was over Gus Weston had yielded four hits for a total of seven bases and three runs had crossed the plate. As, however, the regulars had by that time scored thrice owing to two singles and as many errors of the scrub’s infield, the contest was far from decided. Weston managed to survive the fourth inning, although decidedly wobbly. He allowed two hits and passed Barnes, and the scrubs were yelling for a tally when Hugh Ordway fanned and made the last out, leaving an irate runner on third.
Brunswick went on the mound for the regulars in the fifth and Dud took Leddy’s place for the scrub. After that, as might have been expected, the fielders were much busier and runs began to trickle across quite frequently. Dud pitched three innings that afternoon and performed fairly creditably. Ed Brooks, fast rounding into form as a catcher, knew Dud’s failings and jockeyed him along with a lot of skill and wisdom. More than once Dud found himself in a hole, and if he escaped, as he generally did that day, it was more due to Brooks than to him. The catcher never hesitated to demand the third strike when it was due, leaving it to Dud to put on enough steam or to fool the batter with an unexpected slow ball, and it must be said to Dud’s creditthat he frequently delivered the goods. But at that he was hammered hard by the head of the opposing batting list, and could only find consolation in the fact that Brunswick fared but little better at the hands of the scrubs.
Brunswick gave way to Joe Kelly in the eighth, and in that half-inning the scrubs almost snatched the game away from their haughty opponents. Kelly was wild and ineffective and filled the bases with the first three men up. Jimmy Logan, who had never set the world on fire with his batting, bunted cannily down the first-base line, managed to get in the way of Kelly’s throw to the plate and not only saw two runners score but reached first in safety himself. Prentiss fouled out on the second delivery and Jimmy was caught going down to second. Dud, whose turn it was at bat, had but slight hope of turning in a hit. But Kelly had another ascension—or perhaps merely continued his first!—and got himself in the hole to the tune of one strike and three balls. Dud let another strike go by and then hit at the next delivery. Luck favored him, for Nick Blake, at short, made a miserable stop of a weak grounder and threw to first the fraction of a second too late, and the runner from third was safe. That run brought the scrubs’ score to 11 to the regulars’ 13 and, even with two down, the scrubs dreamed of tying it up. But Boynton dispelled the illusion by popping a weak fly toNeil Ayer at first, and, since the practice period was up, Mr. Sargent called the game. For the succeeding half-hour the scrubs busied themselves to a man telling just how they would have won the game had it gone nine innings!
Doubtless pitching four innings to the tune of nine hits and two passes isn’t anything remarkable, but Dud left the field that afternoon treading on air. If, he confided to himself, he had mixed a few hooks in with those straight ones and, perhaps, succeeded in getting a “floater” over nicely a few times, he would have cut those nine bingles down to three or four! And, anyway, Pete hadn’t taken him out, as he had Brunswick, which showed that at least the coach was fairly satisfied with him. And when, while he was pulling off his togs, Guy Murtha stopped an instant to say “Good work, Baker: I like your style,” the air under Dud’s feet became roseate clouds! He didn’t even recall Star Meyer’s existence until, on the way to the showers, he literally ran into that youth. And then, instead of falling back, abashed, he pushed past the other with a fine indifference and rattled the curtain along the rod in Star’s face!
Afterwards, going across the Green in the early twilight, he overtook a group of fellows and, contrary to his usual custom of passing them with a muttered and doubtful greeting, he fell into step withBert Winslow, much to that youth’s surprise, and carelessly offered an observation to the effect that it had been a dandy game. Bert agreed unenthusiastically, shot a curious side-glance at the other, felt some of his antipathy toward him vanish and remarked quite cordially: “You’re more of a pitcher than I thought, Baker. Where’d you learn it?”
“I haven’t learned it yet,” answered Dud, conquering his shyness with an effort that left him almost breathless. “Anyway,youdidn’t have much trouble hitting me, Winslow.”
Bert accepted the compliment as merited, which it was, and thought better of the other’s discernment and modesty, and while he was beginning a reply Nick Blake, walking a few steps ahead, turned and regarded Dud gravely and remarked sadly: “I’ll give you a quarter next time, Baker, if you’ll tip me off when you’re going to pitch one of those slow ones. I don’t mind hitting the air, but I hate to break my back. Besides, I’m extremely sensitive to ridicule, Baker.”
The others laughed and Dud was spared the necessity of a reply by Bert Winslow. “If you were really sensitive to ridicule, Nick, you wouldn’t try to play,” he observed crushingly. Nick resented the insult promptly and battle ensued. Dud left the adversaries rolling on the turf, applauded by severalspectators, and made his way on to Trow, feeling much embarrassed and extremely happy.
The happiness was reflected in the letter which he wrote home the next afternoon, for that was Sunday, and Dud, while he sometimes dashed off a hurried note on a weekday, made it a practice to always fill four pages with his somewhat scrawly writing on Sundays. His epistles invariably commenced the same way:
Dear Mother, Father and Sisters[there were two of the latter]:I am well and getting on nicely. I hope you are all well when this reaches you.
Dear Mother, Father and Sisters[there were two of the latter]:
I am well and getting on nicely. I hope you are all well when this reaches you.
After that he might change the rest of the contents from week to week, but Mrs. Baker, who read the letters aloud to a more or less attentive audience, could get through the first two sentences while she was still fixing her reading glasses on her nose. Today Dud’s letter was far more cheerful than usual. In fact, it started right out being cheerful, and the weather, generally dwelt on at length, was utterly neglected.
A good deal has happened since I wrote last and things are getting pretty busy here. Something doing every minute in the big tent, like Jimmy says. Yesterday I pitched four whole innings in the first practice game we have had and did pretty well take everything in consideration. Dad will sayI’m boasting but I’m not because if I hadn’t done pretty well Mr. Sargent would have canned me quick, I guess. They only got nine hits off me and Guy Murtha who is captain and a peach of a whanger only got one real hit off me and one that was mighty scratchy. I guess I did as well as Brunswick and I know I did better than Joe Kelly because Joe had an ascension and handed out passes to beat the band. Well, we’re getting down to business here now all right, everybody’s doing something, the Track Team has been out about a fortnight and so have we, nearly, and the tennis cracks are out on the courts and some of the fellows who play golf go over to the Mt. Grafton links. They let the school fellows play there for nothing, but I guess Charley pays them something for the privilege by the year. I’d like to try my hand at golf, but I guess it wouldn’t be good for my pitching. I’m still sticking to straight balls, like I told you last week, but if I can get my control back pretty soon I’m going to try hooking them again. I guess you’ll begin to think I don’t do anything here at School but play baseball, but that isn’t so because ever since mid-year exams most of us have been digging like anything. I’m all square again with Mr. Gring, but I told you that last week. He says if I could write English as well as I talk it I’d be all right but just the same I got Good on my last comp and would have got Excellent only for punctuation. Jimmy says I’m a punk punctuater. I guess I am, all right, too.We play our first game the 25th with the second team and then we play Portsmouth Grammar the 28th. I’ll send a card with the schedule on it so you will know when we play and whom. We have sixteen dates this spring but some of them aren’t filled yet. It’s very hard to get teams around here to play us because we usually beat them badly and they don’t like it. I had a row with Starling Meyer in the FieldHouse the other day and he slapped me and Davy, he’s the trainer, butted in. I was going to make Star fight but faculty got wise and J. P. came up and said if I did I’d get in trouble, so I didn’t. But I’ll fix him some other way. Jimmy is well and as crazy as ever. He is out for the first too and I guess he will make it, anyway he has more chance than I have, but I feel very much more encouraged since Pete let me pitch all through the last of the game yesterday like I told you. I didn’t get your letter until Friday last week so I guess dad forgot to post it again. You ask him if he didn’t. He will say Pooh, Pooh, but I’ll bet anything he did. I’m getting on fine. I’ve met some more fellows who are on the nine and everything’s fine and dandy. Please tell dad that I’d like it if I could have my allowance a little before the first this month because I have to dig down for the track team assessment. They voted to tax all of us fifty cents apiece, which is O.K. only I haven’t got it to spare. Love to you all,Your aff. Son,Dudley.
A good deal has happened since I wrote last and things are getting pretty busy here. Something doing every minute in the big tent, like Jimmy says. Yesterday I pitched four whole innings in the first practice game we have had and did pretty well take everything in consideration. Dad will sayI’m boasting but I’m not because if I hadn’t done pretty well Mr. Sargent would have canned me quick, I guess. They only got nine hits off me and Guy Murtha who is captain and a peach of a whanger only got one real hit off me and one that was mighty scratchy. I guess I did as well as Brunswick and I know I did better than Joe Kelly because Joe had an ascension and handed out passes to beat the band. Well, we’re getting down to business here now all right, everybody’s doing something, the Track Team has been out about a fortnight and so have we, nearly, and the tennis cracks are out on the courts and some of the fellows who play golf go over to the Mt. Grafton links. They let the school fellows play there for nothing, but I guess Charley pays them something for the privilege by the year. I’d like to try my hand at golf, but I guess it wouldn’t be good for my pitching. I’m still sticking to straight balls, like I told you last week, but if I can get my control back pretty soon I’m going to try hooking them again. I guess you’ll begin to think I don’t do anything here at School but play baseball, but that isn’t so because ever since mid-year exams most of us have been digging like anything. I’m all square again with Mr. Gring, but I told you that last week. He says if I could write English as well as I talk it I’d be all right but just the same I got Good on my last comp and would have got Excellent only for punctuation. Jimmy says I’m a punk punctuater. I guess I am, all right, too.
We play our first game the 25th with the second team and then we play Portsmouth Grammar the 28th. I’ll send a card with the schedule on it so you will know when we play and whom. We have sixteen dates this spring but some of them aren’t filled yet. It’s very hard to get teams around here to play us because we usually beat them badly and they don’t like it. I had a row with Starling Meyer in the FieldHouse the other day and he slapped me and Davy, he’s the trainer, butted in. I was going to make Star fight but faculty got wise and J. P. came up and said if I did I’d get in trouble, so I didn’t. But I’ll fix him some other way. Jimmy is well and as crazy as ever. He is out for the first too and I guess he will make it, anyway he has more chance than I have, but I feel very much more encouraged since Pete let me pitch all through the last of the game yesterday like I told you. I didn’t get your letter until Friday last week so I guess dad forgot to post it again. You ask him if he didn’t. He will say Pooh, Pooh, but I’ll bet anything he did. I’m getting on fine. I’ve met some more fellows who are on the nine and everything’s fine and dandy. Please tell dad that I’d like it if I could have my allowance a little before the first this month because I have to dig down for the track team assessment. They voted to tax all of us fifty cents apiece, which is O.K. only I haven’t got it to spare. Love to you all,
Your aff. Son,
Dudley.
Dud was highly pleased with that letter, for he discovered that he had bettered his usual four pages by two more. There was besides, he decided, a literary flavor to it that most of his epistles lacked; and he was certain that his father would chuckle about forgetting to post that letter; and maybe he would send the allowance right away!
After it was finished he and Jimmy went down to the Beach and, since they had no canoe of their own and the punts belonging to the school were hard torow and likely to prove leaky, borrowed one of the many that reposed under the trees along the Cove. They were in doubt for a while as to which particular craft to requisition, since it was distinctly advisable to select one whose owner was not likely to want it that day. The difficulty was finally solved by Dud, who recalled the fact that young Twining was in the infirmary with German measles. Twining was only a junior, anyway, and juniors had few rights even when perfectly well, and still fewer when they weren’t! So Dud blithely led the way to a gorgeous light blue Old Town, and together they bore it to the muddy water of the Cove and clambered in.
“It’s the best canoe here, too,” observed Jimmy contentedly, as he dipped his paddle at the bow. (Jimmy took the bow paddle because, or so he declared, there was more responsibility connected with that position. Dud, while not deceived in the least, never objected, for he had a notion that stern paddling would develop his arm muscles.) “They say that little bounder has heaps of money, millions and millions; that is, his dad has. Did I ever tell you about the old darkey woman who used to work for us? She was telling mother about some man who was terribly rich, you know, and mother said, ‘I suspect he’s a millionaire, Dorah.’ ‘A millionaire, Mis’ Logan!’ says she. ‘Bless yo’ heart, honey, thatman’s got sev’ral millions of airs!’ Guess that’s the way with Twining’s dad, eh?”
“That’s a peach of a canoe that Ordway’s got,” said Dud, after he had laughed at Jimmy’s story.
“Too fancy,” replied the other as they left the Cove and headed down the river. “He has about everything in it except a grand piano!”
“I suppose it cost a lot,” said Dud.
“I’ll bet it did. I told him the other day that it was too pretty to use, and he said he thought it was, too. Seems he didn’t know much about canoes and let Bert Winslow order it, and Bert got all the trimmings the law allows. That’s like Bert. I guess it’s too heavy to handle well. Here comes Brew Longley and Foster Tray. Don’t forget to speak now!”
A battered green canoe occupied by two youths passed and salutations were exchanged. For once Dud managed to get just the proper amount of mixed hauteur and friendliness in his greeting. Somehow, since yesterday, it wasn’t so hard to do things like that. Tray, a football player and track team member, laughed as the canoes passed. “See you got a canoe now, Jimmy,” he called.
Jimmy waved his paddle nonchalantly. “Yes, it’s a poor thing but mine own. I’ll let you use it, Tray, any time you like. I believe in lending to them as hasn’t.”
“You believe in borrowing, too, don’t you?” laughed Longley.
“Anything but trouble,” responded Jimmy, over his shoulder.
They paused near the old wooden bridge beyond the boathouse to watch an automobile dash by at some forty miles an hour, and Jimmy sighed as he began to paddle again. “I always think every time that the old affair will fall into the river, but it never does. I never do have any luck!” Beyond the bridge, where the river widened as it wound through the marshes, they met a canoe at about every turn. Many were drawn to the bank, and their crews were usually lying at ease above. About two miles beyond the bridge and within view of Needham Falls they overtook a white canoe, or a canoe that had been white at one time, apparently empty, since at a little distance nothing showed but an idle paddle and the backs of the seats.
“That,” mused Dud, “looks like Ordway’s. It must have got away from him somewhere further back. We’d better tow it home, hadn’t we?”
“I guess so. Got anything we can tie it up with?” Jimmy altered the direction of his craft to run alongside the derelict.
“Maybe we can use my belt,” Dud suggested. But at that moment they came near enough to see into the white canoe and discovered that it was farfrom empty, since two forms were stretched out flat on the bottom. One had the colored pages of a Sunday paper over his face and was consequently unrecognizable, but the other was unmistakably Nick Blake himself. Jimmy signaled to stop paddling and the canoe floated silently alongside.
“Asleep!” whispered Jimmy. Dud nodded. Their eyes questioned. Here, plainly, was a Heaven-sent opportunity to perpetrate a joke, but what form the joke was to take was not easily decided. Dud watched Jimmy expectantly, and Jimmy frowned thoughtfully, benignantly down on the recumbent forms. If, he pondered, there was some way of fixing a line to the white canoe without waking the occupants it would be a lark to tow it down to the Falls and tie it up there in plain sight of the trolley bridge. But Nick or his companion would probably wake before they had accomplished that deed. And, besides, there was no rope handy. Jimmy was for once at a loss. So, evidently, was Dud, for the latter returned Jimmy’s inquiring look blankly. The precious moments passed. And then, while Jimmy still racked his usually prolific brain, Nick’s lips opened, although not his eyes, and Nick’s voice murmured: “Hello, Jimmy! How well you’re looking. Isn’t he, ’Ighness?”
And from under the newspaper came the reply in dreamy accents: “Oh, rather! Perfectly ripping!”