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Title: Third Base Thatcher
Author: Everett (Deacon) Scott
Illustrator: Leslie Crump
Release Date: April 24, 2023 [eBook #70640]
Language: English
Produced by: Donald Cummings and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team at https://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THIRD BASE THATCHER ***
THIRD BASE THATCHER
THE BASEBALL BOOKS
PITCHER POLLOCK
CATCHER CRAIG
FIRST BASE FAULKNER
SECOND BASE SLOAN
THIRD BASE THATCHER
[Illustration: He leaned on the very first ball pitched]
THIRD BASE
THATCHER
BY
EVERETT (Deacon) SCOTT
SHORT STOP OF THE YANKEE BASEBALL TEAM
1922 CHAMPIONS OF THE AMERICAN LEAGUE
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
LESLIE CRUMP
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
1923
Copyright, 1923,
By DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, Inc.
PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. BY
The Quinn & Boden Company
BOOK MANUFACTURERS
RAHWAY NEW JERSEY
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I FOUL! 1
II THE FIGHT IN THE DARK 9
III FORCED OUT 18
IV ON HIS OWN 25
V THE CUB REPORTER 35
VI WITH THE WRECKERS 45
VII THE WRECK 49
VIII THE VICTIM 58
IX TO THE RESCUE 64
X ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS 70
XI BACK TO PENNINGTON 79
XII “ALL OUT FOR BASEBALL” 85
XIII “YOU, TOO, THATCHER” 94
XIV INDOOR PRACTICE 100
XV ALL OUT FOR BASEBALL 120
XVI THE SCRUB TEAM 131
XVII A STIFF SCHEDULE 148
XVIII ON THE BENCH 157
XIX GOULD IS SET DOWN 167
XX FIRE! 177
XXI THIRD BASE THATCHER 198
XXII TREACHERY? 210
XXIII VOICES 229
XXIV THE BIG GAME 250
ILLUSTRATIONS
He leaned on the very first ball pitched _Frontispiece_
FACING
PAGE
He rushed into another furious attack 16
“I――I――think he’s still alive,” Jeff answered 116
With a terrific jump Jeff shot up in the air 282
THIRD BASE THATCHER
CHAPTER I
FOUL!
It was the last minute of play. The score stood 14 to 14. The teams of
’25 and ’26, the Freshman and Sophomore classes of Pennington Institute,
were in a mad scramble on the gym. floor. It was the last game of the
interclass basketball tournament and on the victory hung the school
championship. Both teams had severely trounced the older teams of the
Junior and Senior classes in a series of three games each, and likewise
they had humbled each other, each class being credited with a game. This
one told the tale, and it had been madly fought from the first whistle,
as the score, chalked on the blackboard above the heads of the madly
cheering crowd of students who lined the gallery running track,
attested.
Suddenly, out of the mêlée of flying arms and legs, panting and
perspiring bodies and tense, almost grim, fighting faces on the gym.
floor, shot Thatcher, a Freshman forward, a clean-limbed, black-haired
boy of rather more than average height. As if by signal from somewhere
in the crowd of milling players the ball shot upward and forward and
thumped into his hands. Just a step behind him was Gould, the Sophomore
guard, slightly shorter, but stockier and as fast as an antelope. His
face was set with an unpleasant expression of anger; there was that
about him that suggested a determination to win whether by fair means
or foul.
Thatcher dribbled the ball once, then poised momentarily and lifted
it for an overhead shot at the basket for the winning two points.
Gould, in desperation, hurled himself forward, tried to stop the shot,
and, failing, fell to the floor with a crash. The ball was describing
a graceful arc toward the back board from which it caromed into the
basket.
“Foul! He tripped me!” cried Gould as he rolled over on the floor.
The referee’s whistle shrilled just as the ball slipped through the
basket, the cords playing a crisp tattoo on its bulging leather sides.
“Foul!” announced the referee. “Basket void. Free shot for the Sophs.”
Thatcher, astonished at the sudden turn of the incident, stood still
under the basket for a moment while Hoffman, the Sophomore captain,
swept down and gathered in the ball to take it to the other end of the
court for the free shot to which the foul entitled him. Suddenly the
Freshman forward snapped into angry action.
“Here! Wait! It’s a fake, Mr. Thomas. I didn’t trip him. He fell
purposely to make it look like a foul. It was a trick, I tell you. I
didn’t touch him.”
“He did. He lies. He tripped me!” yelled Gould, getting to his feet.
Thatcher looked at him coldly, and with the utmost self possession
spoke to him.
“You have the effrontery to stand there and say that, Gould, when you
know it isn’t true! I’m surprised at your sportsmanship.”
Gould’s face grew livid under the sting of the reproach.
“You lie,” he snorted, “you know you tripped me. Didn’t he, Mr.
Thomas?”
The referee, surprised himself at the turn of events, confessed:
“He fell, Thatcher, and it looked to me like an ugly foul. That’s my
decision.”
“I can’t blame you, Mr. Thomas, for he did make it look real. He’s a
good fakir. If I――”
Gould, enraged now, stepped in front of the Freshman forward, and
shaking his clenched fist under Thatcher’s nose, roared:
“I’ll smash your face if――”
“Stop! Enough of that. Get off the floor, both of you. You’re ruled out
of the game. Hoffman, shoot the basket,” snapped the referee, realizing
suddenly that he had already permitted matters to go too far.
Hoffman toed the foul line, coolly lifted the ball, took careful and
accurate aim and shot it upward and forward. The sphere went whirling
prettily through the air, thumped against the back board and dropped
neatly through the basket. The referee’s whistle sounded. He reached
for the ball to carry it to the center again when the timekeeper
sounded his whistle and the game was over. The score was 15 to 14 and
the Sophomores had won. Pandemonium reigned in the running track
gallery where crowds of second year men cheered and stamped and
whistled to the consternation of a big group of chagrined Freshmen.
Thatcher, who had lingered on the side line of the court long enough
to see Hoffman shoot the basket and win the game, was joined by the
four other freshman players and two substitutes and together they
made their way to the spiral stairway that led to the locker room in
the basement. No one spoke a word for some time until Buck Hart, the
captain and center, a second year man but taking some Freshman work in
class and thus eligible for the “fresh” team, crossed over to the bench
on which Thatcher was sitting and slipping an arm across his shoulder
affectionately, said:
“It’s a doggone shame, Jeff, but don’t you take it too hard. You were
playing to win, that’s all.”
“Yes, I was playing to win, but I wasn’t playing dirty, Buck. And the
worst of it is I believe Mr. Thomas still thinks I tripped him, the
dirty fakir that he is.”
“Well――er――ah――he sure fell hard, Jeff. Didn’t you have something to do
with it?” asked Buck.
“What! Why, Buck, you wouldn’t think that of me, would you?” exclaimed
Thatcher, a look of pained surprise on his face.
“Well――ah――it looked sort of rough to me. I saw him go down and he was
right in front of you. Looked bad to me and I was surprised to think
_you_ of any of us should foul so deliberately.”
“But, hang it, Buck, I didn’t. Oh, please believe me, I had nothing to
do with it. I never have played dirty in my life and believe me I’m
not beginning now. It was he who played dirty. It was a rotten trick.
When he saw he couldn’t stop the shot he threw himself down on the
floor――fell purposely and then howled that I had tripped him. It was
quick thinking on his part all right, but dirty work. He saw that if
he could get away with it he would spoil my basket and give his side a
chance for a free shot to win the game. And, thanks to his cleverness,
it worked out just the way he doped it.”
“Gee whizz, the dirty skate,” exclaimed Cas Gorham, a sub, who had
gathered around Jeff, with the rest of the members of the team.
“Gould is a hard loser, I’ve found out. They tell me last year
in baseball he pulled some shady trick and――say――gee whizz――I
forgot――this isn’t the last you’ll have to do with Gould. He played
third base on the scrub team last year and he’s got it doped out that
he is naturally going to inherit that position on the big team this
year since Squires graduated. And, by jingoes, that’s the job you
are going to try for.” It was Brownie Davis who was speaking, one of
the fellows who had been instrumental in getting Thatcher to come to
Pennington.
“That’s my regular job. The position I played best on the Y. M. C. A.
team last year, you know,” said Thatcher with a smile.
“Sure, we know. Don’t we all remember that was one of the best amateur
teams in the state?” said Rabbit Warren, slapping Thatcher on the back.
“Well, that will be your chance to square accounts with him if you
don’t get a chance before that,” said Buck Hart. Then he added, “But
look out for him, Jeff. If he pulls that sort of stuff he’s as crooked
as a cruller. Keep your eye on him. Coach Rice told me to-day he was
going to post notices for baseball candidates to report in the gym. for
cage practice in two or three weeks. We’ll be rooting for you, Jeff.”
“Well, maybe I can keep him on the bench or on the scrub team this
year. I’ll try mighty hard you bet. But even if I do win the job away
from him that won’t take the sting out of this defeat. Honestly,
fellows, I’m as sorry as the dickens that I should be the cause of
losing the game and the school championship, even though I didn’t play
dirty myself.”
“Tut-tut, little one, don’t take it so hard,” said Buck Hart sliding
into his trousers. But it was evident to Jeff that he was not the only
one of the team who took the defeat bitterly. All of the fellows had
played hard and clean to win and for Thatcher to know that he had had
the foul called on him, even though it was not his fault, made him
feel deeply chagrined. Indeed, it made him bitter toward Gould, who
had played so unsportsmanlike, and it made him so disconsolate and
discouraged that he had very little more to say in the locker room,
hurrying through the ceremony of a cold shower, and dressing as swiftly
as he could and seeking his own room in Carter Hall, where he flung
himself into a chair and gave over to bitter reflection.
CHAPTER II
THE FIGHT IN THE DARK
The mood lasted. Jeff Thatcher said very little as he went to the
coat-room adjoining the dining hall and discarded his street clothes
for the white coat of a waiter, for Thatcher earned a good portion of
his tuition expenses by waiting on one of the scores of tables in the
big student dining hall.
Usually he found a great deal of fun in his work at the tables, for
there was always a lot of good-natured badinage and joking passed
among the fellows. But somehow this evening, as the students filed
into the big hall, he felt quite different than ever before. It seemed
to him that most of them, and especially the Freshmen, looked at him
reproachfully, and about all of them there seemed to be a suggestion of
strained quietness as he approached.
At first Thatcher could not account for it. But suddenly he realized,
with a sense of shock, that they too believed that he had played
unfairly, that he had fouled Gould and that he had lost the game for
his team by trying unsportsmanlike tactics and being caught at it.
He was loath to think that this was true. He could not believe it at
first. But when in the lull between serving students and clearing off
the tables he stopped to realize that even Buck Hart, the captain of
the team, and the other players as well had thought that he was guilty
of the offense, he understood the rest of the fellows, some present as
spectators and hearing the referee’s decision, and others getting the
news by hearsay, could be of the same opinion.
This hurt Thatcher more than he believed was possible. Always he
had taken great pride in the fact that no one could question his
sportsmanship. He had played fair in the most desperate situations, and
he had preferred to lose rather than resort to fouling, cheating or
disobeying the rules of the game. And now to have the fellows believe
that he had committed this offense hurt him to the quick. How could
they believe it? he asked himself, how could they think that he would
do such a thing when they knew his record for clean sportsmanship?
Jeff Thatcher, like a tortoise, literally crawled into his shell; at
least his sunny disposition did. It vanished into the depths of his
soul and he became morose, almost sulky, which was far from his normal
attitude. Silently he served his table to the end of the meal. Then,
instead of joining the rest of the squad of waiters at their special
tables which were set in the dining hall after the rest of the students
had departed, he hurried away to the coat room and took off his white
coat.
Attired once more in his street clothes, he hurried to his room in
Carter Hall and put on his overcoat, determined to take a walk, he knew
not where, or do something to be alone with his unpleasant thoughts.
Brooding over his misfortunes, he left Carter Hall and started across
the hard, frozen ground of the campus. There was a suggestion of snow
in the air――a cold March snow, for the backbone of winter had not been
broken and for weeks bitter weather had lingered with them. Snow was
in the air now and no doubt of it. Indeed, as Jeff passed under an arc
light at the bend in the road that led behind the gymnasium building,
he noticed vagrant flakes floating down the shafts of light. But he
gave them small heed, and like a grumpy old turtle, which he felt he
resembled very much, he turned up the collar of his coat and tramped on
into the shadow of the gymnasium building.
Suddenly, out of the blackness, two figures loomed up. Thatcher, because
he was thinking and thinking hard, saw them only when he almost collided
with them. Not recognizing them he tried to avoid them by going around
them, but one, the bigger of the two, stepped in front of him again and
growled in an ugly voice:
“You tried to make a liar out of me this afternoon, didn’t you?”
Thatcher noted then that it was Gould, with a Sophomore companion known
as Birdie Pell. He knew too from the odor on the breath of Gould where
they had been and why. Both had been “out of bounds” to steal an after
dinner cigarette, a serious offense at Pennington and a particularly
serious offense in the case of Gould who was a basketball and baseball
man.
Thatcher stopped in his tracks and looked Gould squarely in the eyes.
His wrath was rising steadily but he knew that he had it well within
control.
“Gould, I don’t have to try to make a liar out of you. You are naturally
one of that breed. As for dirty playing, there isn’t anything dirtier
ever put on a basketball suit that has come to my notice.”
Stung by this retort, and angry at being ridiculed in front of Pell,
Gould lost his temper completely.
“What’s that? You eat those words, Kid, or I’ll jam ’em down your
throat.”
He stepped forward pugnaciously and shook his clenched fist under
Thatcher’s nose.
Still surprisingly calm, Thatcher maintained his position and calmly
pushing Gould’s hand aside, said coldly:
“Don’t wave that dirty thing in front of me that way. Put it where it
belongs. As for making me eat anything, you aren’t big enough or man
enough to do it.”
“Why, you――you rotten Freshman. That means fight,” said Gould, now
losing himself completely. He started to take off his overcoat.
Somehow Jeff Thatcher found great satisfaction in the turn of events.
The word _fight_ had a ring to it that brought joy to his soul.
Although he had not realized it, his mental condition was such that
nothing short of physical combat could present a safety valve of
sufficient capacity to give vent to his feeling. Almost eagerly he
threw off his overcoat and dropped it to the graveled drive.
It was a terrific fight while it lasted. All the wrath and ugliness of
Gould, the tricky one, the conceited one, was pitted against the anger
and resentment of Jeff Thatcher, and from the moment they squared off
in front of each other it was evident to frightened little Birdie Pell,
the sole witness to the historic affair, that it would be give and take
to the bitter end with no weakening of spirit and no quarter given.
Both boys were athletes in the best of condition, though Jeff Thatcher,
slightly younger than his antagonist, had taken better care of himself.
Both knew more than the rudiments of boxing, as was evident from the
start. Alert, eager, yet cautiously watchful, they stepped stealthily
around each other there in the darkness. Gould was the first to lead,
stepping in and flashing a vicious straight left to Thatcher’s face.
But Jeff countered with such amazing speed that Gould’s blow was made
harmless by a jolting left that he received full in the face.
It stung him like a whiplash, for with a grunt, half of pain and half
of anger, he stepped in again with both hands driving piston-like into
Thatcher’s face. The attack was so vicious and so strong that Jeff
could only stagger back, block and stall as best he could, watching
for an opening to cut in with a smashing blow that would break up the
attack. He found it. Gould, in his haste and rage, stumbled slightly
and with his loss of balance dropped his hands ever so little. Jeff,
alert and waiting for this, started an upper-cut from the hip that had
all the strength of his powerful back and arm in it. Like a striking
snake it darted in between Gould’s hands and landed with a sickening
smack on the point of Gould’s chin. His head snapped back and his body
sagged forward for the slightest fraction of a second, and Birdie Pell,
with a cry of alarm, stepped toward him, for the younger boy thought
that Gould had been knocked out.
The Sophomore went down to one knee, stayed there for a moment and
brushed his arm across his eyes as if to clear his whirling head.
Then suddenly with a roar of anger he leaped to his feet and rushed
into another furious attack. But he was in a towering rage now and his
efforts were far from the well-timed blows he had used before. Thatcher
saw this with a degree of satisfaction and it was with less difficulty
that he side-stepped and blocked each blow and shot home crashing lefts
and rights, each time an opening presented itself. He was hammering
Gould badly now and the Sophomore’s anger was mounting higher and
higher and his blows were becoming wilder and wilder with each passing
second.
[Illustration: He rushed into another furious attack]
Then suddenly a strange and astonishing thing happened. The darkness
in which they had been fighting was suddenly shattered and illuminated
by a flood of white light from two glaring searchlights, as a car,
approaching unheard by the three boys, swung swiftly around the corner
of the gymnasium building, and with squeaking brakes came suddenly to a
stop.
The two antagonists and Birdie Pell stood silhouetted against the
white glare, staring stupidly at each other and into the blinding
lights. Then Gould, coming to his senses, suddenly exclaimed: “Dr.
Livingston――beat it,” and rushing for his coat, which Birdie Pell held
in his arms, he and the smaller boy ran out of the shafts of light and
into the blackness of the night.
As for Jeff Thatcher, he realized with a sickening sensation that it
was Dr. Livingston’s car. He realized too that the Headmaster had
caught them in the act of fighting, a thing that was forbidden on the
school grounds――an offense that merited serious punishment.
With sinking heart he saw the big, overcoated figure of Dr. Livingston
step out of the car and come toward him.
“Well, Thatcher, what does this mean?”
Jeff could not think of an appropriate answer but evidently Dr.
Livingston did not expect any.
“Fighting, eh? This is serious. I’m sorry, Thatcher. Were the others
Gould and Pell?”
Jeff’s lips closed in a straight line. It was a question he could not
in honor answer.
“Never mind. I saw them and recognized them both. Go to your room,
Thatcher, and report to me at ten o’clock to-morrow morning. This, as
you know, warrants serious discipline.”
And Jeff, with the unpleasant feeling of a culprit caught in the act,
turned toward Carter Hall.
CHAPTER III
FORCED OUT
“This warrants serious discipline.”
Dr. Livingston’s words, with their uncomfortable portent kept racing
through Jeff Thatcher’s mind as he sat in his room in Carter Hall. He
knew all that this would mean to him. Not that, ordinarily, he was
afraid to face whatever punishment was due him, but in this case he
realized it would be far more serious to him than it would to almost
any other boy in school. And the unpleasant part of it was that
although Gould would receive the same disciplining, he would not suffer
half as much as Thatcher would. Disciplining to the Sophomore, and to
Pell for that matter, for he would unquestionably be implicated, would
mean nothing more than so much punishment to be endured until they had
paid the penalty, then they would be free to go on in their usual happy
routine at school.
But for Thatcher it meant a great deal more. It meant disaster. It
meant the sacrificing of an opportunity to play baseball on the best
school team in the state; it meant that he would have to forego the
happiness of school life, and most of all, it meant sacrificing his
opportunities for an education. Thatcher realized that all this was
in the balance and there is little wonder that he regretted his rash
actions in getting into a fight with Gould on the school ground. It
would have been far better if he had passed on, or if it had to be
a fight, he should have refused to fight except out of bounds where
school laws did not reach; across the bridge over Wading River, or on
the other side of the town.
“What a fool I was,” he muttered as he sat on the edge of his bed, his
elbows on his knees and his face buried in his hands.
Footsteps sounded in the hall outside his door, and presently it was
pushed open, then shut with a bang.
Thatcher raised his head just long enough to see that it was Wade
Grenville, his roommate, who had entered.
“Hello, Wade,” he mumbled, scarcely rousing himself from his
disconsolate attitude.
“’Lo, Jeff. For the love of Pete, what’s the matter with you? Still
feeling sore over Gould’s dirty trick? Cut it, Jeff, cut it. Don’t take
it so blamed hard. The rest of the fellows have forgotten it already;
passed it up as a mucker’s trick and figure to get square on Gould and
the Sophs some other time. That’s the way you want to take it. Buck
up,” and he flung his cap on his own bed across the room and went over
and clapped his hands affectionately on Jeff’s shoulder.
Jeff looked up and smiled ruefully.
“I’m square, I guess, or nearly so, but――”
“What? Say, Jeff, what’s that cut on your cheek? and――and――say, by
jingoes, you’ve been fighting. Jiminy, was it with Gould? Did you lick
him? Good stuff, old Kid, only why didn’t you tip a fellow off. I’d
like to have seen you clout him one just for luck and the rest of the
fellows would have enjoyed it too. Where did you pull it off?”
“Why――why――it wasn’t prearranged. It just happened. We ran into each
other out back of the gym. and had it out and――and――well, we got
caught.”
“Great cats, you don’t say!”
“Yes. It’s true. Wish it wasn’t.”
“Jiminy. Who caught you?” Wade looked at Jeff admiringly as he asked
the question.
“The old man himself, of course. Who should it be but Dr. Livingston,”
Jeff replied bitterly.
“Jingoes, that’s rough, Jeff.”
“Worse than that.”
“Aw, never mind. You’ll be out of trouble by baseball time, though.
Buck up.”
“Out of trouble by baseball time? Yes, I guess I will. And out of
Pennington, too.”
“Aw, he won’t fire you out. He’s not a stickler like that. He’d only
take away your special privileges and――Jiminy, you’ll lose your table
job, won’t you?” Wade began to look concerned.
“Yes, and my newspaper and magazine privilege, and my laundry business
and that will be the finish.”
“Finish?”
“Yes, finish.”
“Why, what do you mean, Jeff?”
“Hang it, man, don’t you see, if I lose all my special privileges I
won’t be able to stay in school. Those jobs pay my way here. I haven’t
a cent otherwise and if they are taken away from me I’ll have to quit
school and go to work. I haven’t a cent coming in from home――haven’t
any home, really. I lived with my uncle, you know, and he can’t
contribute anything. I’ve been hustling for my own living ever since
Dad died, and that’s three years ago. So you see, if I lose my jobs
here, I’m a goner. I’ll have to leave school and go to work to support
myself.”
“Jingoes, that’s tough, Jeff. But maybe Dr. Livingston will take all
those things into consideration and――and――”
“’Fraid not, Wade. You know what a stickler he is for rules and
obedience. Fighting on the school grounds is a serious offense, as he
said, and the penalty is only one thing,――all special privileges are
withdrawn and the unfortunate chap has to spend two weeks in bounds.
Of course it doesn’t make a bit of difference with Gould or Pell, they
both have rich fathers to foot their bills――Gould has, at least――and
they have been too lazy to work up jobs the way I’ve had to. The only
special privileges that will be taken away from them will be the
privilege of leaving the school grounds, going to the basketball games
and attending whatever ‘spreads’ and ‘hops’ that might take place in
the next couple of weeks. The worst privation they’ll suffer is that
of going without their cigarettes; they won’t be able to go across
the bridge to steal a smoke. At that they’ll probably take a chance
and sneak their smokes in their rooms. Wish that was all I’d have to
suffer, believe me, smokes don’t mean a single thing to me, but leaving
Pennington means the whole world, right now. Gee, it’s going to be
tough.” And Jeff slumped back into the attitude of dejection that Wade
had seen him in when he entered the room.
Wade sat down on his bed, too, and was glumly silent for a long time.
He knew that Jeff had spoken the truth. There was small hope that Dr.
Livingston would waive rules even in the case of Jeff Thatcher, and
Wade thought of all that Jeff’s going would mean to him. They had been
roommates and pals for months now; since the beginning of the school
term in September. It was going to be a hard ordeal to part with
Jeff,――life at Pennington was not going to be the same for him; at
least that was how he felt at the moment.
“Jiminy, it’s going to be rough on the both of us, Jeff,” he said
finally, “but it’s going to be especially tough for you.”
“Well,” said Jeff with a forced smile, “the worst is yet to come. Come
on to bed. I don’t much feel like trying to digest Cæsar and his Gaelic
Wars to-night, and anyhow I guess it won’t make much difference whether
I’m prepared in Latin to-morrow or not. Come on, turn in.”
CHAPTER IV
ON HIS OWN
Both Jeff and Wade spent a restless night. Jeff lay awake until long
after the clock in the Congregational church tower across the river in
New City boomed the hour of midnight, so overwrought were his nerves
over the day’s occurrences and the interview with Dr. Livingston and
what it would bring forth on the morrow. And as he lay there tossing
between the blankets he realized more and more how hopeless his case
was and how cheerless the outlook for his own future was.
What was he to do? Where was he to turn? He could not go back to live
with his uncle without finding employment for himself, and where would
he turn to find this? Where――
A thought occurred to him that kept him awake for nearly an hour
longer. One of the privileges that would be taken away from him as a
result of his disobedience to the school rules was the privilege of
acting as school correspondent for the New City _Daily Freeman_. He had
secured the position by bearding “Boss” Russell, the city editor of
the _Freeman_, in his office and making application for the job almost
before his predecessor, Harold Hall, was graduated from Pennington. And
ever since he had been contributing paragraphs of school news to the
paper, stories of the football and basketball games, and various other
“write ups” for which he had been paid space rates, and had in that
way earned a neat sum each week which managed to keep him in clothes
and buy some of his books. His work had been acceptable to the paper,
he knew, and he wondered, now that he was going to be thrown out on
his own, why it wouldn’t be possible for him to join the staff of the
_Freeman_ as a cub reporter. It was a great idea. He would try.
And then, thinking of the romance of being a reporter, some time
between midnight and daylight he fell asleep and dreamed that he
had suddenly become a newspaper man, indeed the only employee his
particular dream newspaper had. He was reporter, city editor,
typesetter, printer and pressman all in one, and he had a wild
nightmare of a career that ended when he got into an altercation with a
big printing press and the iron monster stood up on its hind legs and
began clawing the air, finally grabbing him in its teeth and, like some
prehistoric monster, it shook him back and forth until he woke up with
a yell to find Wade Grenville standing over his bed and pulling him out
from between the blankets by the slack of his pajamas.
“For the love of Pete, turn out. It’s seven-thirty. You haven’t a
dickens of a lot of time to get cleaned and report for chapel. Come on,
Jeff, shake a leg. You’ve got a tough day ahead of you, you poor kid.”
“Aw, don’t remind me of it, Wade. I hate to face the Old Man and hear
sentence pronounced.”
“Well, you’ve got to face the music. I hope he gives it to Gould and
Pell as stiff as he can. Blast ’em! If it hadn’t been for that dirty
trick Gould pulled you wouldn’t be in this peck of trouble. Go ahead.
Wash up.”
Jeff made little ceremony of his morning toilet. He turned on the
water in the wash basin until it gushed out with such a splash that
it spattered the walls and slopped over onto the floor. Then, in his
undershirt and trousers, he plunged his head and arms into the basin
and wallowed around like a seal, puffing and snorting and blowing and
adding a great deal more to the water that was already on the floor,
until presently there seemed to be more there than there was in the
bowl. Then he came up for air, and with eyes squeezed tight shut and
his face distorted, he began feeling around for a towel, which Wade
obligingly wadded up into a ball and threw at him, shouting at the same
time:
“There, you blamed hippopotamus; there’s your towel. Why in the dickens
do you have to have the floor knee deep in water before you feel you
are properly washed. Now I’ve got to put on my rubber boots or my
bathing suit before I can cross the room to get my necktie. Every
time you take a wash this room looks like that painting of Washington
crossing the Delaware, only more so.”
“Aw, let me alone. You’ll be sorry when I’m not around to muss up your
old floor. You wait and see.”
“Jingoes, you’re right I will, Jeff. I―― Great guns, there goes the
first bell. Grab your things and get ’em on. Come on quick.”
A mad scramble followed and both fellows only just squeezed into the
last of their clothing as the final bell rang and they dashed for the
hall and the chapel door.
But Jeff’s thoughts were far from being on the services and the
announcements. Indeed, when he was thrown back among the boys again he
realized once more with an aching heart how hard it was going to be to
leave all this behind, and the prospects of a position on the _Freeman_
did not seem half as alluring as it had the night before.
Somehow news of the fight had got through the school and Jeff found
himself the object of admiring glances from the Freshmen and glowering
looks from the Sophomores, and when the boys filed out from chapel Buck
Hart, Rabbit Warren, Cas Gorham and Brownie Davis, got him aside and
congratulated him.
“Great stuff, old fellow. Wish you’d have given him a black eye for me.
That’s a fine lump he has on his cheek and his nose will never be the
same,” said Buck.
“He sure looked cut up this morning. I had a good look at him,” said
Rabbit Warren, slapping Jeff on the shoulder.
To all this Jeff smiled ruefully. It was on his tongue to tell them
too that in reality he had got the worst of it, but he glanced up in
time to see Dr. Livingston coming down the hall. The principal caught
his eye and motioned to him to follow, and Jeff broke away from his
admirers and hurried to the Doctor’s office.
Gould and Pell were already there, and Jeff was surprised to see how
many scars of battle the former bore. His nose was in an unpleasant
state of redness and abnormally swollen and there was just the
suggestion of blackness about his right eye. There was a slight cut on
his right cheek, too.
Dr. Livingston sat down in his chair and swung around to look at all
three. They were silent for several minutes while he looked at them
frowningly. Finally he spoke in a sharp, crisp voice.
“You three boys know the rules of the school as well as I do. I am very
much put out with you. Gould, you and Pell stay in bounds for a month.
No privileges whatever, and report to Professor Battel for an extra
hour’s Latin every day during the period. And mind you, if there is one
complaint against you from any quarter out you go, dismissed from the
school. I’ll not have boys of your stamp around here. You are both on
probation, so mind your conduct. Go to your class. Thatcher, I want to
see you alone a moment.”
Jeff’s heart seemed to drop into his shoes as Gould and Pell departed.
“Why does he want to see me alone?” he asked himself.
Dr. Livingston looked at him in silence for some time after the two
boys had gone. Finally he spoke, and to Jeff it seemed as if his tone
was a little more fatherly than it had been to Gould or Pell.
“Thatcher,” he said, “this is the most unpleasant task I have had in
all my career with boys. I have laid awake most of the night thinking
of just what this was going to mean to you but I can see no way out.
Rules are rules, and you know it as well as I do. That holds not
only in school but in life generally, and the quicker you find it
out the better off you’ll be. Rules are rules, laws are laws, and
when you break either of them you must be punished. I have come to
the conclusion that I cannot make an exception even of you, and I
realize in making this decision just how disastrous it is going to be
for you. My only hope is that somehow you will find a way out of the
difficulty. I will have to suspend all your privileges for the rest of
the term, and you will have to remain in bounds for two weeks at least.
That is the minimum penalty, as you know. I’m very, very sorry.”
In spite of his best efforts at self-control tears welled up in
Jeff Thatcher’s eyes and a great lump gathered in his throat as Dr.
Livingston talked. It was several seconds before he could speak without
breaking down completely.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he finally gulped, “but I guess it means the end of
my career at Pennington. I can’t stay if my privileges are taken away.
I――I――” Jeff gulped and turned away, starting tear-blind for the door.
“I’m sorry too, son. I only hope you’ll find a way out of the
difficulty. I’d help you if I could but there is no way I can grant you
special privileges under the circumstances. Go to your class now and
see if there isn’t some way you can work the situation out.”
But to Jeff there was no way out. He puzzled over it all day in his
classes and all evening in the privacy of his room, for Wade had gone
to a concert in town with several other fellows and Jeff was left
alone with his unpleasant problem. He pondered over every phase of
it until he became so discouraged and unhappy that he realized in
desperation that he would have to quit Pennington forthwith, leave
while yet he had a few dollars in his pockets with which to take care
of himself while trying to find a position.
He listened. The big clock over in New City was booming the hour. He
counted the strokes. It was nine o’clock. Why not leave now? Leave
while Wade and the rest of the fellows were away. He knew that he did
not have the courage to stay and bid them all good-by. He realized he
would break down and probably make a chump of himself. Now was the
time to go. And besides, he realized, now was the time when he could
best get at Boss Russell, the city editor of the _Daily Freeman_, and
perhaps secure the position he so much needed. He would go.
Hastily, almost eagerly, he packed up his few belongings and put
them in his suitcase. Several little personal things he purposely
overlooked, for he wanted to leave them for Wade to remember him by. In
twenty minutes he had completed his task. Then he sat down at his desk
in the corner and hastily scribbled Wade a note telling him of his
plans. He read this over once, tucked it into an envelope, and dropped
it on Wade’s bed. Then he picked up his suitcase, snapped out the light
and stepped out into the broad hall and tiptoed his way to the big side
door of the building, fearful lest he should disturb Dr. Hornby, the
professor in charge of the house.
Out on the campus, he paused a moment in the shadow of the building and
looked about. It was a hard pull to leave. It made his throat and eyes
fill up once more, and it was only with the utmost self-control that he
kept from breaking down as he finally stepped out among the tall elms
on the campus and hurried toward the big gate and the street where a
trolley to New City stood waiting at the end of the line.
CHAPTER V
THE CUB REPORTER
Fortune and Boss Russell favored Jeff Thatcher. When he appeared at
half past ten that night in the _Freeman_ office the city editor was
in a quandary over the illness of two members of his staff and the
resignation of a third, and when he peered over his glasses at Jeff
Thatcher as he stood in front of his desk, he realized that here was
part of the solution to the unpleasant situation of finding himself
short-handed.
“You are young,” he told Jeff, “but your school stuff has been mighty
good for a beginner, and I’ll take you on as a cub, if you want to take
Mulvaney’s place. I’ve moved Mull up as special assignment man and you
can run his obits and cover the hospitals for accident cases.” And so
Jeff became a member of the _Freeman_ staff with surprising quickness.
Indeed, he started out forthwith to make what was to be his nightly
rounds of undertaking establishments and hospitals even at that late
hour, and at first he took a keen delight in the work.
There was no such thing as an assignment book in the office of the New
City _Daily Freeman_. That method was far too slow for city editor,
Boss Russell. He preferred to give out assignments over the city desk
just as fast as they developed. He would hand them over with a few
penciled notes, or a newspaper clipping or so, and some terse, snappy
instructions that usually were enough to inspire any one of his staff
of reporters to write the best story of his career. If he did not he
stood a good chance of being fired. Boss Russell wanted the best that
was in a man all the time. And he usually got it.
Jeff Thatcher watched this nightly distribution of assignments for
two weeks. He watched it at first eagerly, hopefully speculating
on what his would be. But as nights went on he watched it none the
less eagerly, but far from hopeful. He soon grew to know what his
assignments would be. Boss Russell had a method all his own of breaking
in cub reporters. Jeff began to realize that it was a method that
treated said cub as if he were a machine. He had already begun to feel
like the cogs in a watch or the gears in an automobile. Life became a
constant succession of visits to certain undertaking establishments
for obituaries of the people who had died that day, a nightly trip to
police headquarters to copy the unimportant police slips of accidents,
a visit to the Memorial Hospital, after which he would return to the
_Freeman_ office, there to sit down in front of a typewriter and
laboriously grind out paragraph after paragraph of names, dates and
ages of people who had been injured and who had died during the past
twenty-four hours. Jeff began to feel like a dead one himself.
Night after night he watched the line of reporters file by Boss
Russell’s desk to get their assignment and fare forth on some
interesting news quest, but always when he, usually last, arrived at
the desk, the city editor would wearily pass over to him a cryptic
note “undertakers, headquarters, Memorial Hospital, Jones wedding,”
or perhaps the last would be varied with such notations as “see Dr.
Bisbee on Brinkerhoff accident,” or “Look in at Æolian Hall, Plumber’s
Association dance.” It was always the same. Jeff had come to the
conclusion that he never would get a real news story to write. He
wondered why cleaning streets or delivering milk would not be just as
interesting and perhaps a lot more remunerative.
The night of March 15 was no different than all the rest. As on
a succession of nights previous, he got the same terse notation.
With very little enthusiasm he ran his eyes over the slip of paper.
“Undertakers, Memorial Hospital and drop in at Erie Railroad Yards
and find Tim Crowley. He had a three-legged calf born on his farm
yesterday.” Jeff looked at the last notation twice and smiled grimly.
“Three-legged calf. Huh, it’s a little different than a hod carrier’s
dance, but I won’t set the town on fire with the story I might write
about that,” and, with a grunt of dissatisfaction, Jeff buttoned up
his overcoat and turned up his collar and fared forth into a near
zero night, and started on his monotonous rounds of undertaking
establishments, meanwhile wondering vaguely what the fellows were doing
over in Pennington, and wishing mightily that he might be sent out on a
story across the river to Montvale, where the old school was located.
Goodness knows the town was full of good news stories; why couldn’t
Boss Russell trust him with one of them. There was the prolonged
street car strike in Montvale. Why couldn’t he get an assignment to
go over there and write a story of one of their frequent riots. Then
he would have a chance to look in at Pennington, anyhow, and tell
some of the fellows what he was doing. Why couldn’t he get sent out
on a good fire story such as the warehouse fire on the east side two
nights ago. That would have been a story worth writing. Spectacular
stuff about bursting gasoline barrels, heroic firemen and all that.
There was a murder mystery in town, too. That Italian banker who had
been found dead in his own doorway with the Mafia death sign on his
forehead. Why didn’t Boss Russell turn him loose on that story, and
see if he had ingenuity enough to find Joe Gattiano, the suspected
murderer who had mysteriously disappeared from town. Other reporters
had tried and failed and the story was old now. Why not let him try
his hand? Goodness knows he couldn’t spoil the story or fare any worse
than the other _Freeman_ reporters had. Even the moth-eaten and written
out Third National Bank theft would be a relief. Perhaps he could
find some clew of the absconding paying teller, Roderick Hammond, who
nearly a month ago had disappeared from the bank at the same time that
a hundred thousand dollars worth of Liberty Bonds were discovered to
be missing. Nothing had been heard of Hammond or the bonds since, and
now after columns of speculative stories had been printed the case was
dropped and forgotten. Jeff wished that Boss Russell would give him a
chance to revive even that case again. But no, it was “undertakers,
Memorial Hospital and――and――plumbers’ dances, or three-legged calves
or――or――beans.” Jeff snorted the last in disgust as he turned into the
first mortuary chapel on his list.
Jeff Thatcher was a cub reporter. But he was not the cubbiest cub
reporter that had ever tried to break in on the _Freeman_. He was a
born newspaper man. He loved the work. Ever since he had shed knee
trousers he had been enthusiastic about journalism, and about the
next best thing to finishing out his course at Pennington, in Jeff’s
estimation, was serving as a reporter under Boss Russell. The _Freeman_
was a morning paper. It came onto the news stands and street corners
in the dark hours before dawn so that newsboys could deliver it in
time to have it read over breakfast tables or in the street cars while
New City’s business men were on their way to office, store or shop.
And to get a newspaper out at that time of day meant that reporters,
typesetters and pressmen must work all night. Jeff came into the
editorial rooms at six o’clock at night just when other young business
men were going home to their evening meal and rest. And Jeff, with
others of the staff, worked on through the night until two or three
o’clock in the morning gathering news of the day’s happenings and
writing stories that were read by Boss Russell and his trained copy
readers and sent upstairs to the composing room to be set in type to be
printed in the morning editions.
It was a hard life, for Jeff had to reverse his whole method of
living, working nights and tumbling into bed at four or five o’clock
in the morning to sleep until noontime or later. But if it was hard
it was also fascinating and Jeff realized that it could be made more
fascinating if he could only get a chance to work on some of the
really big news stories of the day instead of plugging along writing
obituaries and paragraphs of but little consequence.
Grumbling inwardly and feeling more or less discouraged, Jeff left
the Memorial Hospital, where he had looked over the book of the day’s
arrival and departure of patients, and talked with the intern. He
turned in the direction of the big Erie Railroad yards located west of
the city, where he hoped to find Tim Crowley, and learn the details of
this bovine prodigy that had been born out on Tim’s little farm a mile
or so from New City.
The railroad’s yards covered several acres of ground and included a big
station, a dispatcher’s office, roundhouse, freight yard, and machine
shop, and myriads of switch towers, semaphores and block signals, the
red and green lights of which blinked and winked at him in the cold
winter night as Jeff picked his way across the network of tracks to the
building in which the dispatcher’s office was located. It was mighty
cold and growing colder. Wind whipped the steam and smoke from the
roundhouse gustily across the yard, icicles of huge proportions hung
from the dripping spouts of the crane-like nozzles of the water tanks,
and the few switch engines that sputtered about the yards, shunting
cars here and there,――coughed hoarsely as if the cold had somehow
gotten into their iron chests and made them a bit asthmatic.
Jeff pushed open the door of the dispatcher’s office, to be greeted with
a rattling fusillade from a score of clicking telegraph instruments that
were spattering the air full of, to Jeff, unintelligible dots and
dashes. It was warm and cheerful in there and he made for a bulky steam
radiator that was hissing comfortably, as he pulled off his gloves and
breathed on the tips of his fingers.
Tom Kelly, the big, good-natured chief dispatcher, in shirt sleeves and
vest, got up from his desk and came over to greet him.
“Hello, Jeff. Ain’t seen you in a week. What gust of wind blew you over
in this direction?” said Kelly.
“Came over to see Tim Crowley. Where is he and what is there to the
story about his――”
“Oh, that three-legged calf. Funny blamed thing, isn’t it? But it’s
facts. Some of the fellows saw it. Tim’s the wrecking boss. You’ll
find him on the wrecking train over on track sixteen. It’s warm and
cheerful over there and the whole wrecking crew are probably playing
cards in the ‘hack.’ If you get over you might be just in time to have
a midnight snack with them. They eat about this time,” said Kelly,
looking at his watch.
“Thanks. So long. See you again some time,” said Jeff, buttoning up his
coat once more and going out into the night.
CHAPTER VI
WITH THE WRECKERS
Jeff knew where track sixteen was and it did not take him long to find
the wrecking train. There it was on a siding with a clear way to the
main track. It was a train of caboose and six flat cars, two of which
were equipped with tremendously powerful, but squatty and flat-looking
derricks. The others were loaded with boxes of tools, and all sorts
of emergency equipment. The train reminded Jeff of an engine or hook
and ladder truck of the city fire department ready to get away at a
moment’s notice.
A warm glow of light came from the cupola and the more or less smudged
windows of the “hack,” as Kelly had called the caboose, and Jeff knew
that the wrecking crew, who lived in the train, in shifts day and
night, week in and week out the whole year through, were inside card
playing or reading or amusing themselves as husky railroad men do while
awaiting word of trouble or a wreck that calls them out to clear the
line.
Jeff stamped his way up the steps of the hack, shoved open the door
and stepped inside. Gathered around a table in the yellow glare of
a big electric light, that hurt Jeff’s eyes momentarily, were the
wreckers, big broad-chested, broad-shouldered, experienced railroad men
who seemed to Jeff the impersonation of courage, resourcefulness and
reliability. They were the men who were responsible for keeping the
line open so that trains could run uninterruptedly no matter how grave
the catastrophe or how serious the damages. And they were good-natured
and hearty men, as was evident from the greeting that the boss of them
all, big Tim Crowley, gave him, when he introduced himself and began to
ask questions about the three-legged calf.
But Jeff had scarcely got well started on his catechizing when the
door of the caboose was flung open and banged closed again and a man
from the dispatcher’s office, still in his shirt sleeves despite the
cold and with his green eye shade on his forehead, burst in upon them.
In his hand he held a piece of flimsy yellow paper, a dispatcher’s
telegraph blank, on which was typed a brief but evidently important
message.
“Tim, No. 89, fast freight out of New City is piled up at Granville
cross-over. Ten cars off the track and some of them smashed to pieces.
Both tracks are blocked. Tracy, the conductor, says it’s a bad mess.
Engine 1107 with Ed Dixon is backing down to pick you up. Cold night
for a wreck, ain’t it? Wish you luck,” and passing the yellow slip to
Tim he slammed his way out and raced back to the dispatcher’s office.
For a moment Jeff did not realize what was happening. But as he heard
the hoarse blasts of an engine not far off and felt the jarring clank
as it backed against the wrecking train and coupled up he understood it
all.
“You best beat it if you don’t want to take a lively ride,” said Tim
with a smile, as the men put their cards away and got up from the table.
“Beat it! What? With a wreck on the line and me on board the wrecking
train ready to roll. Not on your life; that is, of course, if you will
let me go along,” said Jeff, looking eagerly at Tim.
“As a reporter there ain’t no rules against it, I guess,” said Tim,
sliding into his heavy coat. “Go along if you want to. Tumble out, men.”
It took a remarkably short time for the crew, swarming over the train
of flat cars, to get everything ready for the run, and by the time
the engine was coupled on everything was “ship shape,” to quote the
wrecking boss, and the men were back in the hack.
With several deep-toned, almost arrogant blasts big, panting 1107 got
under way and began clanking over frogs and switches, making toward the
tracks of the main line. Jeff crawled up into the cupola of the hack
where Tim and three other husky wreckers sat, looking out above the
flat cars toward the engine ahead.
“You’ll have a ride this night,” said Tim to Jeff, smiling as he spoke.
“Ol’ eleven-o-seven is a speed boy, an’ with Ed Dixon in the cab we’ll
be yanked along somethin’ fierce. Sixty mile an hour won’t be a patch
to what we’ll make. The dispatchers have cleared the track from here to
the wreck. They always do for the wrecking train. Ain’t only one train
that can have the right o’ way over us and that would be a hospital
train with nurses and doctors aboard which they’d send out if this was
a passenger wreck. But t’ track’s clear to-night with everything in
sidings, so ol’ Ed Dixon will burn up the rails.”
CHAPTER VII
THE WRECK
Jeff noticed that “Ol’ Ed” was proceeding to fulfill Tim’s predictions
with a will. The wrecking train was gathering speed with every passing
second. The clank of rail joints as the wheels passed over them
developed from a measured beat to a steady hum. Jeff had never moved
so fast in all his life. Up and down grades they roared, around curves
they snapped with a vengeance that threatened to send the caboose off
the tracks and whizzing through the air like the snapper of a whip.
“Ol’ Eleven-o-seven’s” whistle seemed never to stop shrieking for grade
crossings, and Jeff wondered what would happen to a luckless automobile
or team of horses that might get caught on one of the crossings as the
wrecking train plunged down upon them.
Mile after mile was clicked off with measured regularity and in
twenty-two minutes by Jeff’s watch the thirty-five miles to the wreck
were covered and the monster engine began to slow down as grinding,
spark-flinging brake shoes were applied.
Jeff and big Tim and the rest knew that they were approaching the wreck
long before the train began to come to its crunching stop, for far
ahead on the tracks, far beyond the stabbing white ray of the engine’s
searching headlight, they could make out a pink glow in the sky and a
blotch of lurid red behind some trees.
“There it is and it’s caught fire, too,” said Tim, letting himself
down from the cupola and slipping off his heavy coat again. “Come on,
men. Tumble out. We got a job to do. The line must be open before the
commutation trains start to come down to-morrow morning. Lively now.
Snap to it.”
And snap to it they did. Jeff marveled at the enthusiasm with which
they prepared to go out into the near zero weather and do battle with a
stubborn wreck that was on fire in the bargain.
By the time the train had come to a halt and the wreckers had tumbled
out, Jeff could see by the rays of the searching headlight, in all its
stark unpleasantness, a huge mass of twisted iron and steel, up-ended
cars, overturned trucks and splintered ties and débris through which
licked red-tongued flames. Here was the wreck that was blocking the
line, the wreck that these men must clear away before daylight. It was
a sight almost horrible to behold. Part way down the embankment and
turned on its side was the locomotive, steam and smoke still curling
about it. It looked like some prehistoric giant wounded and dying. A
smoke pall hung over the entire scene, into which the wreckers, armed
with axes and crowbars plunged, looking more like gnomes than human
beings in that weird setting.
Keyed up with the excitement of it all, Jeff, also armed with an ax
that he had hastily seized from an open tool box on one of the flat
cars, followed them, and soon he found himself in the thick of things.
Piled up across the right of way and down the embankment on either side
were what an hour ago had been ten big red and yellow freight cars. Now
they were junk; just a mass of terribly twisted, splintered and crushed
wood and iron, all mixed up with railroad ties and corkscrew-looking
rails that had been torn from the roadbed by the force of the
catastrophe.
Tim, the boss wrecker, stopped a moment and looked the mess over. In
particular he looked at the fire that was raging at the other end of
the wreck.
“Looks like that fire was going to help us some in getting this thing
clear. But we can’t wait for that. Hello, Tracy,” the last was said to
a railroad man who came out of the smoke, followed by two others. He
was the conductor of the luckless freight.
“Hello, Tim. Rotten mess, ain’t it?”
“You said it. Any one hurt? How’s the engineer and fireman?”
“Both back in our hack. Pretty well shaken up but outside of a slight
burn that Norton got they are both all right. They’ll be out to lend a
hand as soon as they get some of the cinders picked out o’ their hides.”
“Fine. All right, men. We clear the eastbound track first. You, Casey,
take your men and get that No. 1 derrick up here. You, Saunders, start
to cut away and move that stuff so we can get the derrick up to the
first car. Come on, men, snap to it. Casey, tell that biscuit-shooter
of ours to get that hot coffee and sandwiches on the job in a hurry. We
want a snack before the cold gets into us. Shake a leg. Shake both of
’em.”
The wreckers went into action. The engine’s big headlight illuminated
the scene and made the night as light as day. Men with crowbars and
axes fell to clearing the wreckage that might obstruct the movement of
the derrick. Another crew attended to the laying of temporary tracks by
means of which the engine could be shunted from the front to the rear
of the wrecking train so that the first of the big derricks could be
moved slowly up into place close to the wreck.
All this was accomplished in a remarkably short time considering the
work involved, and while Jeff worked and sweated with the rest of the
men and gulped down innumerable cups of steaming coffee and ate all the
sandwiches he could consume as they were brought up by the grinning
negro cook of the wrecking train, the first big derrick was moved up
into place and like a giant elephant began to slowly nose its way into
the wreck.
Then didn’t the men work! With this giant helper the task of clearing
one track seemed to simplify. The men burrowed into the wreckage like
so many field mice, carrying the chains of the derrick with them. These
they snapped around heavy trucks, backed away and gave the signal, and
the derrick would slowly lift the obstruction out of the way and swing
it around onto one of the flat cars or off onto the embankment where
it was deposited for the time being. Whole sections of freight cars
were lifted by this mastodontic machine, as slowly it crept further and
further into the heart of the wreckage foot by foot, clearing one track
so that the line would be partially opened as soon as possible.
Jeff left off toiling when this big thing came into action, for it
was the first time that he had ever seen one of the machines at work
and he could not do other than stand and marvel at its power. But the
wreckers kept right on working. They had all stripped themselves of
their heavy coats and now worked in sweaters, and many of them even in
shirt sleeves, despite the zero weather. And Jeff could see that most
of them were sweating with the terrific exertion that the work called
for. Indeed he could hardly believe that human beings could keep right
on laboring the way they did and not drop from exhaustion. Already he
was so tired that he could scarcely swing the ax he had been wielding
and yet he realized that he had not done one-tenth part of the work any
one of the wreckers had. The realization made him feel almost ashamed
of himself, and gritting his teeth, he spat on his hands and prepared
once more to wade into the wreckage with the rest of them.
But before he bent to his task, Big Tim Crowley, who had been climbing
over the wreckage, jumped down from the slanting roof of a partly
crushed car almost alongside of him. Jeff noticed that there was a
strange look on the face of the big boss, as he spoke to Tracy, the
conductor, who was prying at a stubborn mass with a crowbar.
“Tracy, you sure none o’ your crew was caught in this?”
“Yep, they’re all accounted for. Why?”
“Well, there’s some poor devil pinned down in under that mass toward
the other end and the fire’s movin’ up on him fast. I heard him
groaning and I located him. He’s pinned down under an up-ended truck
with almost a whole freight car piled on top of him. And t’ fire’s
creepin’ in there, too. T’ worst of it is he’s too far into the wreck
for us to reach him with t’ derrick, before t’ fire gets to him, and if
we go digging for him we’ll bring a whole pile of wreckage down on top
of him.”
“Great Scott, you don’t say so,” said Tracy, standing up and looking
troubled. “I know he ain’t one of my train crew but he might be a hobo.
Kahalan said he thought there was a ’bo tryin’ t’ hop aboard when we
left t’ yard at New City, but he said it was too danged cold to go out
and drive him off t’ bumpers if he did get aboard. Poor devil. I’ll bet
that’s who it is an’ he got nipped.”
Others, including Jeff, had stopped working now and were listening.
Jeff looked off toward the other end of the wreck where the fire,
undiminished in its fury, was eating into the mass of splintered
woodwork that had been perfectly good freight cars a few hours since,
and shuddered as he realized the horrible position the man was in; as
he realized the horrible death that he was facing, pinned in there
waiting for the flames to reach him.
“Well, hobo or not, we got to get him out if we can,” snapped Tim.
“But t’ worst of it is he’s in about the nastiest place in t’ whole
wreck. We can’t cut our way down to him because there’s a truck and
twisted brake beams and like of that in the way, an’ if we go pryin’
around tryin’ to clear things out to get at him we’re liable to bring
the whole mass slidin’ down on top o’ him and crush him to death.
Anyhow, come on, fellows, we’ll see what we can do.”
CHAPTER VIII
THE VICTIM
A half dozen men swarmed over the wreck in the wake of the burly boss
and Jeff went along with them. It was rough going over the mass of
débris, and the tangle of iron and wood seemed to grow thicker as they
approached the point where the fire was raging.
So close to the flames that their faces felt scorched, Tim Crowley
stopped and got down on his hands and knees, and with his face to an
opening between some timber that seemed to reach down into the heart of
the mass of wreckage, he shouted:
“Hello, down there!”
Jeff heard a groan, and then a far-off voice call:
“For God’s sake, get me out of here or I’ll be burned alive.”
“How are you caught?”
“I’m lying flat. Just pinned in by wreckage but my legs are both
broken, I think.”
“Legs both broke,” repeated Tim looking up at the rest. “How are we
goin’ t’ get him out o’ here? We got to do it in twenty minutes or the
fire will drive us away and roast him alive. Come on, some o’ you men,
cut this opening larger if you can, but be blamed careful because it’s
like a lot of kindling wood an’ if you get too rough the whole thing
will slide down on top o’ him and crush him. See how that car door
wabbles there an’ that hunk o’ timber is just held in by the end. It
will crush him flat if it all goes down.”
Two men started to cut away at the opening and Jeff watched them for a
moment. Presently one stopped as his ax clanked on metal and sent out
sparks.
“Ain’t no use here, Boss. There’s an iron bumper underneath wedged
in so tight that there ain’t but a foot or so of room between it and
that truck that’s standing on end. And if we try to move the bumper
the truck will fall right down the hole through the wood and smash
everything under it.”
Tim looked at the situation and shook his head.
“That’s right. We don’t dare disturb that or the whole thing will go to
pieces. An’ that hole ain’t large enough for a man t’ git down into
unless――” he paused and looked at Jeff. And Jeff at the same moment got
the same idea. He stepped closer and looked at the hole.
“I’m smaller than the rest of you. Perhaps――perhaps――maybe I could get
down and work my way into where he is if――if the whole thing don’t cave
in on me before I get there.”
“Bully for you. That’s nerve all right,” said Tim, beaming with almost
fatherly pride on Jeff, “on’y you got to make it in a hurry and git out
again before the fire gets much closer.”
Jeff paused a moment to consider.
“Suppose he’s a big man. Then what’ll I do? Can’t get him through that
hole if he’s as big as you fellows are,” he said.
“Well, let’s hope he ain’t. Anyhow if you can get him up near that hole
and climb out yourself, we’ll grab hold of him and try and pry that
truck and bumper apart long enough to yank him through. Then the whole
thing can go to pot after that. It’s a chance all the way ’round but
it’s better than letting t’ poor chap be burned to death down in there,
which he will be in a mighty few minutes.”
That thought moved Jeff to action. He took off his heavy coat and
his lighter one underneath. Thus stripped for action he stepped down
into the narrow opening between the up-ended truck and the heavy steel
bumper, and slowly, cautiously let himself down until presently he
found himself standing on something solid directly underneath the
almost tottering truck. In the semi-darkness of the wreckage he took a
survey of the situation, then shouted:
“Hello, down there! where are you! I’m coming down to get you.”
A groan and a feeble attempt at a call sounded beneath him and to his
right.
Slowly, cautiously, Jeff began to feel his way downward through the
débris, half crawling, half climbing, but always feeling first for a
secure footing for he knew that to step on anything insecure might
cause him to fall and his weight precipitated violently against the
wreckage on either side might cause the pile to collapse and send the
teetering truck and the heavy bumper down on top of him and the poor
victim of the wreck below.
It was almost painful progress, he moved so slowly, and it was a
journey made hideous by the perils that were imminent. Already smoke
curls were being drawn through the wreckage by the draughts down here,
and the semi-darkness now became shadowy with sinister flickering light
that showed between the jagged pieces of timber. Jeff knew that the
fast moving fire was not so very far off. It would be terrible to be
pinned in down there himself and burned to death along with the man he
hoped to rescue. The very thought made cold chills creep down his back
and perspiration stand out on his forehead. And added to this was the
terrible horror of being crushed to death under some piece of timber or
steel work that a slip of his foot might dislodge. Jeff had to exert
all the will power he possessed to keep himself from any hurried action
or any suggestion of panic, for he knew that the slightest error in
judgment on his part might prove fatal to himself and the helpless man
somewhere down there below him.
Foot by foot he climbed downward. Twice he paused to shout and each
time the groan and feeble voice that answered him was nearer. A third
time he paused and called. Then he waited. But no answer came. Again
and again he called, and then with a shock it was borne in upon him
that the man he was after had either become unconscious or had passed
out while he was trying to get to him. Jeff came nearer panic then
than ever before. He looked frantically about him and groped with
outstretched hands hoping to come in contact with the man.
Suddenly from above a flood of light filled the wreckage. Jeff looked
up hastily to discover that the wreckers had brought an electric
battery lamp and were shining the rays down through the hole through
which he had come. Eagerly Jeff looked about him, searching, hoping.
Then with a start he discovered a hand protruding from beneath a board
just below him. Beyond the board he could make out the outlines of a
painfully twisted body, inert and apparently lifeless.
With a shout to the men up above, Jeff began to climb down again and
presently he crouched beside the man. Hastily, eagerly he felt inside a
flannel shirt. He was still alive but breathing heavily. As carefully
as the limited space would permit Jeff picked up the limp form and
gathered it in his arms. Then he started to climb once more.
CHAPTER IX
TO THE RESCUE
But if the journey downward called for caution, the climb back made
care even more imperative. Jeff had to hope that each timber he stepped
upon would bear double his own weight. He had literally to feel every
step of the way.
And to add to the terrors of the situation, smoke was drawing through
the wreckage now in veritable gusts, and Jeff could hear the roaring
crackle of the fire close at hand. Indeed the atmosphere down there
between the timbers was hot and choking with gas and smoke. He was
tired, too. Almost exhausted. Every step upward was an effort. His head
bothered him. It seemed too heavy for his shoulders, and there was a
strange buzzing sound inside. He wondered vaguely whether he was going
to collapse himself. He realized with a sense of horror that if he did
he would be burned to death in ten minutes. That thought seemed to
clear his head for a moment, and he climbed more hastily and with less
caution, trusting entirely to good fortune that he did not dislodge
any of the wreckage. Upward he struggled. Presently he found himself
once more directly underneath the tottering truck with its heavy iron
wheels. The opening was just above him. He saw eager hands reaching
downward through it. He wondered vaguely, whether the man he carried
was too big to get through the opening. He hoped not.
Somehow he stood upright and lifted the limp form toward the hands that
grasped through the hole. Then his burden was lifted out of his arms
and he saw the apparently lifeless body with its grotesquely dangling
legs moved slowly upward through the hole and disappear from view. The
hands reached downward again and he reached up to meet them. A moment
he stood there, and tried to master himself. His head was spinning, his
eyes hurt and his lungs seemed bursting for the want of fresh air. He
tried to think that the ordeal was nearly over; that in just a minute
he would be out into the cool night once more where he could gulp down
great lungfuls of pure air. He exerted every bit of will power he had
to master himself, for somehow he knew he was slipping, that he was
fainting, that he was on the verge of collapse down there underneath
the heavy up-ended railroad truck. And he knew that if he did collapse
no help could save him from a certain and horrible death.
In a frantic effort he reached still higher toward the opening. Cold
hands touched his, slipped off, then touched again. One clamped heavily
about his wrist, another reached downward and fastened onto his sleeve.
He felt himself lifted upward. Then he knew no more.
* * * * *
Jeff Thatcher came to with the feeling that there was something urgent
he wanted to do, something he must do before he could rest quietly. He
opened his eyes and looked about and after a moment he realized that he
was lying on one of the bunks in the wrecking train caboose.
Hastily he sat up and looked about. Across the car in another bunk he
saw another man lying under blankets, his white face turned toward him
and heavy eyes watching him. There was something hauntingly familiar
about the face.
The stranger spoke.
“You all right now? Feeling better?”
“I’m all right, thank you. And you?”
“I’m done for, I guess. It’s too bad you went to the trouble and risk
of saving me. I’m going to pass out anyway. Something wrong inside my
chest. But I’d rather die here than be burned to death down there. It
was a heroic thing you did, boy. They told me all about it.”
“It was nothing. I mean I――I――just had to do it. It was my job. Say,
haven’t I seen you before? Haven’t I――say, I know who you are. You’re
Roderick Hammond, the――the――cashier of the First National.”
“Know me, ’eh, in spite of my week’s growth of whiskers and my attempt
to look like a hobo. Well, you’re right, old boy. I’m the absconding
bank cashier, and the bonds are right here inside the lining of my
coat. You better take them and return them to the bank for me, will
you? And if there’s any reward you take it. I played in good luck up
until to-night. I’ve been hiding right under the nose of the police and
newspaper reporters in New City for a month. Why I chose to-night to
try and get away I don’t know, and why I decided to ride the bumpers
of that particular fast freight I can’t guess. I suppose it’s one of
Fate’s little jokers. Let me go just so far and then――bing, and it’s
all off. I won’t be alive in twenty-four hours from now, boy. I think a
rib or two has punctured my lungs, so I want you to have all the glory
of returning the bonds and telling the story. I――”
Jeff jumped down from the bunk with a start. Now he knew what the
urgent thing was he had to do. Find a telephone and call up Boss
Russell.
“Wait a while. I’ll be back. Got to find a ’phone and get this all in
to the _Freeman_,” he said to Hammond. Then, finding his overcoat which
had been thrown over him as he lay in the bunk, he slipped into it and
hurried out of the deserted caboose.
The first person he met was Tracy, the conductor of the wrecked freight.
“There’s a signal tower about a mile down the track. That’s where I
telephoned about the wreck from,” he answered to Jeff’s query and Jeff,
fatigue forgotten, started on a run down the track toward the blinking
red and green light which he knew was the tower.
“Where in time have you been? It’s three o’clock and the first edition
is on the press,” roared Boss Russell when he recognized Jeff’s voice
over the telephone.
“I――I――why――” and then Jeff told him everything in a wild burst of
language.
“Great guns! You don’t mean it. Wait――wait till I stop the presses.
Here, you give that dope to Sullivan, the rewrite man. He’ll put it in
type. What?”
“Why――why――Aw say, Boss, can’t I write the story?” asked Jeff.
“Write the story! Why, boy, that story will be in type and on the
street before you get started back from the wreck. You write the yarn
about the three-legged calf if you have time, but stick on the job at
the wreck there and come home with the crew. And to-morrow night I’ll
give you the choice of any assignment you want. That’s a good kid.
Good-night.”
CHAPTER X
ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS
It was long after daylight when Jeff, heavy eyed and weary to the
point of exhaustion, staggered out of the Erie terminal at New City
and stumbled toward a trolley car that would take him home. He was
happy though, in spite of his exhaustion. He had covered his first
big story. He had gathered all the details and turned them into the
office by means of the telephone, in such shape that Sullivan, the
rewrite man had been able to grind out three columns of story. Indeed,
as Jeff glanced at the headlines of the copy of the morning _Freeman_
he had bought from the terminal news stand he realized that he had
really covered two stories, for Sullivan in addition to writing the
story of the wreck had written a second story on the rescue of the
absconding Third National Bank paying teller, his subsequent death and
the recovery of the one hundred thousand dollars in stolen bonds, which
Jeff had turned in for safe keeping at the Treasurer’s office of the
railroad and asked that they be put in the company’s safe until word of
their return was passed on to Mr. Davidson, the president of the Third
National, who would doubtless send a messenger to bring them safely
back to the bank.
Jeff had only ambition enough to just glance at the first page of the
_Freeman_ as the trolley car carried him jerkily toward home and the
bed he so much yearned for, and as a result it was not until hours
later that he discovered how Sullivan, at the instigation of Boss
Russell, had told all the details of the daring rescue of the dying
Roderick Hammond; how a cub reporter of the _Freeman_ staff, with the
wreckers, had the courage to climb down into the perils of the mass
of débris and carry out the unconscious man; how he identified him,
and recovered the bonds, and how in spite of these achievements he had
stayed on at the wreck all night long, sending in reports every half
hour until all the editions had gone to press.
In truth, when Jeff woke up, considerably refreshed at three o’clock
that afternoon, and then for the first time read the front page of the
_Freeman_ closely he was surprised and embarrassed to discover how
much of a hero Sullivan had made him. His name seemed to appear in
almost every paragraph of the story and before he had read half way
through it he paused to mention to no one in particular that
“The blamed story seems to be more about me and my fool stunt than it
does about Hammond and the bonds.”
But the real surprise of the whole situation occurred when Jeff read
the last paragraph of the story. It seemed to hit him a little harder
than all the rest and burn into his memory. It ran something like this:
“――and the dying man in almost his last breath told Thatcher
that the ten $10,000 bonds were sewed in the lining of his
coat, and that he wanted Thatcher to return them to the Third
National Bank from which he had stolen them and claim whatever
reward was due him.
“Enoch Davidson, president of the Third National, when informed
by telephone from the _Freeman_ office of the recovery of the
bonds at an early hour this morning, announced that a reward
of two thousand dollars had been offered for the return of the
securities and this would go to the heroic young reporter of
the _Freeman_ staff just as soon as the bonds were back in the
bank’s vault.”
“Gee whizz. I plumb forgot about that. Poor Hammond did say that there
was a reward for the return of the bonds and that he wanted me to
get it, but I guess I forgot about it right away in my hurry to get
the story over. Jiminy, I wonder if that can be true. Two thousand
dollars. Oh, my goodness. Never heard of so much money except in a bank
statement. It can’t be true. I――I――can’t take it. It belongs to the
wrecking crew more than it does to me. I just happened to be handy,
that’s all. Anyhow, I can’t return the bonds in person and get the
reward. Left them with the treasurer’s chief clerk in the railroad
office and asked them to get in touch with the bank. Gee, maybe I
shouldn’t have done that. Maybe I should have hung onto them. But I was
so doggone tired that I couldn’t take the responsibility for them any
longer, so I did the best thing I could. I wonder if they got back to
the bank or――or――gosh, I wonder.”
It suddenly occurred to Jeff that perhaps he had not finished all of
last night’s work after all. Perhaps he should not have been so eager
to get to bed. Perhaps he should have gone right up to Mr. Davidson’s
house and given the bonds to him, and then gone home and to bed. He
was not thinking of the reward as these thoughts teemed through his
mind. He was thinking rather of responsibilities that had been his and
that he had not seen through to the end as he should have done.
“I’m a poor dub――I am,” he muttered as he jumped out of bed and began
to crawl into his clothes. “Of course, everything is probably all right
about the bloomin’ old securities, but just the same it was my job to
see that they got back into the proper hands instead of leaving them
to some one else to take care of while I drifted off home and went
blissfully to bed. I am a fool. One hundred thousand dollars and I
treat it as if it were a lead half dollar. Oh, my, what a dub. Now what
shall I do?”
Jeff sat down on the edge of the bed and thought the situation over.
Obviously the only thing for him to do was to call up the bank and find
out whether the securities did get back to them. His telephone was at
the head of his bed. He picked it up and called the bank number. The
girl at the switchboard of the bank wanted to know who was calling
Mr. Davidson, but when Jeff said “Thatcher of the _Freeman_,” she
exclaimed, “Oh, all right. Hold the line. He wants to speak to you.”
“Wants to speak to me,” said Jeff to himself as he held the wire. “I’ll
bet he does. Probably wants to know where I’ve been with those fool
bonds and what I did with ’em. Oh, my gosh. Why didn’t I take them up
to his house instead of leaving some one else to take care of them,”
and Jeff experienced a sickly sensation in the vicinity of his stomach
as he stood there nervously waiting for the bank president to come onto
the telephone.
“Hello,” boomed a voice at the other end.
Jeff jumped, moistened his lips and tried to speak. The words came with
an effort.
“Mr.――Mmmm――er――Davidson, this is Thatcher, _Freeman_――you know.
Say, did――did――are the――have you got those bonds? I left them in
the――huh――what――you have? Oh, great. Gosh, I’ve spent a terrible ten
minutes. I just woke up to the fact that I had not done my whole job
last night, but I was so doggone tired that I guess my brain wasn’t
working full time. You see, Hammond gave me the bonds before he
died,――had me cut the lining out of his coat and take out the ten
bonds all in a neat little package. Say, I never knew before that one
hundred thousand dollars could be in so small a bundle. Well, I slipped
them into my inside pocket, and I am afraid I was so busy after that
that I didn’t pay as much attention to them as I should have, but on
my way back on the wrecking train (poor Hammond was dead by that time
I guess. A doctor from Granville took him to the Fieldborough Hospital
about four o’clock this morning but he said he wouldn’t live an hour) I
thought of the bonds again. I realized that it was a heap of money for
me to be carrying around in my inside coat pocket, so I spoke to Kelly,
the chief dispatcher, about them when I got into the terminal, and he
took me over to the treasurer’s office and introduced me to the chief
clerk who was reporting for work. He said he would put them in the safe
and notify you, and I thought that would be all right because I was so
dog tired I was afraid I might fall asleep in the trolley and have my
pockets picked. If I’d have been a little brighter I would have thought
of taking a taxi up to your house and giving them to you. But I guess
my nut was a little fogged for sleep.”
“Fine. That’s all right, my boy. You did a good job. I think you acted
wisely. The Treasurer of the railroad, Mr. Anson, called me up himself
about nine o’clock this morning and we got the bonds all right. Of
course, you know there is a reward waiting for you down here amounting
to $2,000. Come down and get it.”
“Oh, about that,” said Jeff, suddenly becoming embarrassed again, “I
didn’t call up for that. I――er――you see, I don’t think I can take that.
I just happened to be the fellow small enough to get through the hole,
that was all. And if I hadn’t been along one of the railroad men would
have got him out and earned the money, so I think it really should be
divided among Tim Crowley’s men.”
“Tut, tut, my boy. No such thing. You earned it. Anyhow, come down and
see me just as soon as you can. Come down now, I want to talk with you.
About Pennington, you know. I’m very much interested in the school.
It’s my old school, and I had a talk with Dr. Livingston over the
telephone this morning. So come down as soon as you can.”
“Gee, I’ll come down for that. You bet I will. I’ll get my lunch and
be down in half an hour. Good-by.”
Jeff was out of breath with nervousness and excitement as he hung up
the receiver.
“Jiminy, I guess I was long winded with him over the telephone, and
he’s a bank president, too. But I had to tell him all about it. And
he wants to talk to me about Pennington. Jingoes――wonder what’s in
the wind. Maybe Dr. Livingston has decided to give me another chance.
Whoops! I’ll get some lunch and go right down to the Third National.”
And grabbing hat and overcoat he hurried downstairs to greet his aunt,
a tiny thin little woman whose face seemed always troubled to Jeff, but
whose disposition was always sunshine in spite of the fact that she and
her husband, Jeff’s Uncle Frank, had to struggle constantly to make
ends meet. She had kept his lunch warm in the oven and when Jeff told
her all the news that had developed and she saw quite readily that he
was in a hurry, she made haste to put the food on the table for him.
And Jeff fell to with a will, for this was lunch and breakfast combined
for him.
CHAPTER XI
BACK TO PENNINGTON
Jeff had often seen Mr. Davidson on the streets of New City and on the
few occasions when he had been in the Third National Bank for some
reason or another, but except for the talk he had had with him over
the telephone that afternoon he had never really had any personal
contact with him. Somehow he had always gone on assuming that he was a
crotchety sort of an individual, dyspeptic and irritable and perhaps
close fisted and stingy. In truth, he subconsciously had that opinion
of all bank officials, and the result was that he was very nervous and
ill at ease when he entered the waiting room behind the glass paneled
door marked President and gave his name to the girl who occupied the
room, and who, he correctly concluded, was Mr. Davidson’s secretary.
She disappeared into the inner office to reappear after a moment.
“He’ll see you in just a moment, Mr. Thatcher. Take a chair, please,”
she said in such a formal way that Jeff, fingering his hat brim
nervously, sat down on the very edge of one of the big mahogany chairs
lined up against the wall, wondering the while just how he was going to
get on with the town’s most important banker.
Fortunate for the state of his nerves he did not have long to wait,
for presently a buzzer, somewhere in the room, sounded sharply, and
reminded Jeff of the noise an angry hornet makes just before it is
ready to sting. The girl at the desk looked up at him and smiled.
“All right. You may go in now,” and Jeff mechanically got to his feet,
opened another glass paneled door and discovered himself facing Mr.
Davidson.
The banker looked at him coldly for a moment over the rims of his
glasses and Jeff stood awkwardly in the doorway, hardly knowing just
what to say or do.
Then a strange transformation took place on the countenance of
Mr. Davidson. He smiled, and in his smile was all the warmth and
good-fellowship Jeff could ask for. Immediately he felt at ease in the
banker’s presence.
“Hello, young man. So you are Thatcher, the chap the _Freeman_ printed
so much about this morning, eh?” he said.
“Yes, sir,” admitted Jeff, “but you see I am on the staff and I guess
that Sullivan, he’s the man who wrote the story, felt obliged to
develop a hero so he picked on me. I didn’t do a thing that any other
chap wouldn’t have done under the same circumstances, so I don’t
deserve much credit,” and Jeff’s sincerity concerning his modesty made
Mr. Davidson smile broader than ever.
“That’s a fine way to feel about it, my boy. But my inquiries, and I
have made a number of them to-day, reveal to me that you are not fully
aware of what you have done. The facts remain, Thatcher, that you saved
a poor unfortunate from being burned to death and you recovered one
hundred thousand dollars in Liberty Bonds. It seems to me that these
things speak for themselves and speak rather plainly.” Again he smiled
and Jeff felt decidedly self-conscious and embarrassed.
“You legitimately won a reward of $2,000, my boy,” went on the banker,
“and it is yours if you care to claim it. You see――”
Jeff interrupted him.
“No, no. I can’t. It is not my place to take that money. Give it to Tim
Crowley who was the one to discover Hammond pinned down there in the
wreckage. Or, better still, divide it among the men of the wrecking
crew. They earned it. If they had not come to the scene of the trouble
the bonds and Hammond would have been destroyed in the fire and no one
would have known a thing about them beyond the fact that a poor hobo
had been caught in the wreck.”
“That’s all true enough and good reasoning, Thatcher. Somehow it
pleases me to hear you speak that. I am going to see that Crowley and
his men are properly rewarded for their part in it. But you,――what am I
to do about you? Here is $2,000. It’s yours.”
Jeff hesitated a moment. Then shook his head.
“No, I can’t take it. Somehow it doesn’t seem right. I went down in
that hole to save a man’s life if I could, not to earn $2,000.”
“Oh, fine. That’s just what I wanted to hear,――hoped you would say,”
exclaimed Mr. Davidson jumping to his feet and coming over to Jeff’s
side. He went on:
“I don’t want you to take the $2,000. Not now. That is too much money
to give to an eighteen-year-old boy and the fact that you refuse
to take it leaves the way open for me to help you the way I would
prefer to help you,――the way I had planned to help you ever since Dr.
Livingston called me up this morning. Thatcher, I want to send you back
to Pennington at my expense,――or rather at the expense of the bank. I
will see that your tuition is paid and your room and board cared for.
Whatever money you need outside of that you will have to earn yourself
as soon as you are permitted the privilege. Dr. Livingston assures me
you are perfectly capable of doing that too after this term. Until that
time comes I’ll advance you a little to help out. Will you let me――let
the bank rather, do that for you?”
Just why a strange mistiness gathered before his eyes and why a
lump should rise in his throat as Mr. Davidson spoke Jeff could not
understand. Nor could he comprehend why he found it so difficult to say
anything without gulping hard to keep from crying. Somehow the banker’s
kindness simply overwhelmed him. It was the one thing in the world he
wanted most and now to have it possible seemed too good to be true.
Mr. Davidson saw how it affected him and pressed his shoulder kindly,
almost fatherly.
“There I knew you would let us do it. That’s fine. It pleases me a lot
to be able to help you, Thatcher. I guess I told you over the telephone
that I am an old Pennington boy myself. I worked my way through the
same as you were doing until――until that mess you got into sort of
killed your chances of staying on for the rest of the term. I know all
about it, Thatcher. Dr. Livingston told me and how he regretted the
necessity of making you live up to the rules of the institution. Of
course, you realize he really had no alternative. Rules and laws are
rigid things, my boy. I hope you never have to feel the seriousness of
them any more than you have already.”
He was silent for a moment after that and so was Jeff. Then, suddenly,
he exclaimed:
“They tell me you are a baseball man, Thatcher. That’s fine. I used to
pitch for Pennington in my day. I want you to go back there and make
the team this year and I’ll be out to see you play often. That’s all,
boy. Take care of yourself and write to me the same as you would to
your father.”
CHAPTER XII
“ALL OUT FOR BASEBALL”
“Boss” Russell was waiting for Jeff when, a little later than his
usual hour for reporting, he appeared in the editorial rooms of the
_Freeman_. There was a smile on the usually grim face of the editor.
“Hello, my boy. Been waiting to see you. Want to congratulate you and
thank you for last night’s work. We beat the town on both stories. The
first editions of the _Sun_ and the _Call_ were out without a line of
it and when we bloomed forth with the news about the wreck and Hammond
and the bonds, they tumbled all over themselves to rewrite our stories
to run in the second editions. It was great work and I’m ready to do
almost anything within reason for you, Thatcher,――that is, if you want
me to. Mr. Davidson called me up at my home this noon, however, and
told me that he had a plan for you that sounds better than anything I
can do for you. Have you been to see him yet?”
“You bet I have, Boss,” said Jeff, still jubilant over the result of
his interview with the bank president.
“Good. Are you going to accept his proposition?” asked the editor.
“Why――er――I want to. That is, if it is all right with you, sir.”
“Boy, I wouldn’t stand in your way a bit. Indeed, I’ll help you. You
can be school reporter again when――er――I understand there’s a reason
why you can’t handle the job this term.”
“There is,” said Jeff ruefully. “All special privileges have been
denied me and I suppose I’ll have to sweat out my punishment when I go
back. But I’ll take my medicine the same as I always have.”
“That’s the boy, Thatcher. And remember, if you ever want to come back
into newspaper work and I’m still boss here, why just you come and
knock on my office door. But go back to Pennington now by all means.
I’m interested in that old school, too. Had a son who graduated from
there back in 1910. You don’t remember him, of course. He played
baseball; was captain in his senior year.”
“Oh, is that so. Bud Russell, wasn’t he? Shucks, I’ve seen his name on
the list of captains any number of times. Played catcher, didn’t he?
Sure. Gee, I want to make that team this year. I’m going out for it and
try mighty hard.”
“Good, and if you make it, I’m going over to Montvale and see you play.
When are you getting through here?”
“As soon as possible, Boss. I don’t want to waste a day’s time. I’ll
have to plug like the dickens to catch up with my classes now. I’ve
been out nearly three weeks and it’s getting close to the end of March
now.”
“Well, my boy, you can get through now. No, work to-night. Dig out that
list of obits, run in on the hospital and――er――yes, look in at the Pipe
Fitters’ Association Ball at Concordia Hall. Then you can get through.
I’ll have a new man on the job to-morrow.”
“Very good, sir,” said Jeff smiling for the first time as Boss called
off the list of his assignments.
And so Jeff made his last rounds of the undertaking establishments,
visited Memorial Hospital for the last time, looked in at Concordia
Hall, and came back to the editorial rooms, to pound the old
typewriter for the last time.
After his copy had been turned in he purposely stayed around the noisy
editorial rooms for some time, for despite the fact that he was glad to
be going back to Pennington in the morning, he was loath to leave that
noisy, paper-littered room with its many busy typewriters, its array of
desks, its battery of clicking telegraph instruments and the many busy
men who were working feverishly to get out the first morning edition.
But when a lull came in the press of work he said good-by to his
friends on the staff and shook hands again with Boss Russell.
“Good-by, my boy. Be a good kid and make the team. Stop in at the
cashier’s office and get your envelope. There will be ten dollars extra
in it for your part in last night’s scoop――shush――not a word――you
earned it.” He held up his hand in protest as Jeff thanked him.
Then he gripped Jeff’s hand again, very heartily.
“So long, my boy. Don’t let any one put anything over on you.” And
Jeff left the editorial rooms with Boss Russell’s last words for some
reason reoccurring in his mind.
“Don’t let any one put anything over on you,” he mused. “Well, now, I
wonder if any one will try. Shouldn’t be surprised if Gould and Pell
tried to get back at me for a certain unpleasant affair, but I don’t
think they can put much over on me if I keep my eyes open. Then, again,
maybe I’m too suspicious. Bet they are both good fellows when you know
’em.” And dismissing the idea he hurried home and to bed so as to be up
and abroad early in the morning.
It was not a long trip by trolley from New City, across Wading River
bridge and out to the suburbs of Montvale where Pennington Institute
was located, but Jeff Thatcher, all eagerness to go back to the old
school, was up betimes and off on an early trolley car. He arrived
while chapel was still in session, and waited patiently in Dr.
Livingston’s office until the Headmaster returned to his desk.
“Hello, Thatcher,” was the cheery greeting when he saw Jeff as he
entered his office. “Heard you were coming back. That’s simply bully
of Mr. Davidson. Fine work you did, too, Thatcher. Er――of course, you
realize that you still have a penalty hanging over you. No special
privileges this term and you cannot leave the school grounds for two
weeks without special permission.”
“Yes, sir, I realize it. I’ll take my medicine, sir,” said Jeff.
“Good. That’s a fine chap. Well, let’s forget the late unpleasantness.
Go back to your class. Take your old room, and no more fighting. I
think Wade Grenville will be glad to see you. I’ve noticed he hasn’t
been in the best of spirits since you left.”
Wade was glad to see him. So was Buck Hart and Cas Gorham and Brownie
Davis and Rabbit Warren and all the rest of the fellows, when he met
them at Freshman’s corner, the northeast corner of the building where
for school generations members of the Freshman class at Pennington
gathered at odd times.
“Whoops, he’s back. He’s here again. Dr. Livingston told us about
it yesterday,” cried Wade, rushing up to him and pouncing on him
good-naturedly.
“Oh, boy, our young hero has returned,” affectionately shouted Buck
Hart.
“Rah for the hundred thousand dollar bond hero,” yelled Rabbit Warren
enthusiastically.
A dozen boys had gathered around Thatcher by that time, all celebrating
his return gleefully and all wanting to know the details of his brief
adventure in the business world and his thrilling experiences with the
wrecking crew.
And while he was in the midst of this hub-bub two Sophomores turned
the northeast corner and strolled past the group. Thatcher looked
up in time to look full into the face of Gould. For a moment he was
slightly embarrassed. Then he smiled and nodded cordially to his former
antagonist indicating very plainly that any malice he might have
harbored had disappeared.
But Gould refused to meet him half way. He did not return the nodded
greeting. Instead he turned to little Birdie Pell, who still followed
him like a shadow, and remarked with the utmost sarcasm in his voice.
“Well, well, I see our young movie hero has returned. The school is
saved from certain disaster.”
And Birdie, not always an appreciative audience for his older companion,
refused to laugh.
“The dirty mucker,” exclaimed Wade Grenville indignantly.
“Oh, let him wait. Jeff fixed him once. He’ll fix him again when they
go out for baseball. Jeff, you’ve simply got to win the job of holding
down third and cut him out of it,” said Rabbit.
“I’m going to try blamed hard you can bet on that. When is Mr. Rice
going to call for candidates?”
“Very soon. I think they are fixing up the cage in the gym. for indoor
practice now. That means that notices should be posted for candidates
to report mighty soon,” said Buck.
Just at that moment Brownie Davis joined the group coming from the
direction of the gym.
“All out for baseball, fellows. Coach Rice is just sticking a notice
on the bulletin board for candidates to report in the gym. to-morrow
afternoon,” he said with a great show of importance at being the first
to deliver the welcome news.
“Wow, that listens good,” exclaimed Thatcher enthusiastically. “Come
on, let’s have a look at it,” and the group rushed over toward the
gym. and gathered around the bulletin board where Mr. Rice was just
putting the last thumb tack into his very important announcement.
CHAPTER XIII
“YOU, TOO, THATCHER”
First call for baseball material at Pennington Institute brought out a
strange and interesting group of boys all eager to make the team. They
ranged all the way from sub-freshmen and members of the junior high
school to seniors and members of last year’s squad. They presented a
weird sight too, for the call had emphasized the fact that there were
no uniforms available that early in the season and that each candidate
would be expected to furnish his own clothes.
The result was a motley array of baseball clothing, some of it strange
enough to make a seasoned player split his sides with laughter. Some of
the sub-freshmen and junior school candidates appeared with trousers
that were miles too large and shirts that had to be rolled to elbow
length in order to give their hands the necessary freedom. They wore
caps of various periods of baseball history, and one chap appeared in
football pants and jersey as a fitting substitute for a real uniform.
There were many among the group, however, who wore the regulation
uniform of the school, buff trousers and shirt with blue under jerseys
and buff and blue striped stockings. They were the members of last
year’s squad of regulars and substitutes who had not been graduated.
Among the latter was Gould. He wore the uniform of the junior team of
the year before on which he had played third base, and he assumed an
attitude of strutting importance as he elbowed his way through the
crowd of students onto the gym. floor. It was very evident that he felt
himself very much a part of the little group of last year’s veterans
who would compose the foundation and main support upon which Coach Rice
hoped to build a winning team this year.
Jeff Thatcher appeared with the first call for candidates and he wore
a snappy gray and blue uniform of the New City Y. M. C. A. team, the
state championship “Y” team of the year before. His appearance in this
outfit made a distinct impression among the younger candidates on the
floor. It made an impression on Gould, too, who for a moment, upon
seeing him, appeared surprised. But he passed this off with a remark to
one of the older players, which Jeff could not help but hear, to the
effect that:
“Our young million dollar bond hero is all dressed up with no place to
go.”
But it happened that Buck Hart was within hearing distance and he
turned on Gould with a sharp retort:
“Don’t you worry about his not having any place to go. He’s going after
the job of third base and believe me, there’s one fresh young Soph who
will know all about how fast he’s going.”
And Gould, not having courage enough to talk back to Hart, who was one
of the best athletes in the school, discreetly turned his back and
sauntered over to inspect the batter’s cage.
Coach Rice called the fellows to order and lined them up the long way
of the gym. floor.
“My, what a whale of a lot of candidates,” he exclaimed as he counted
them and looked them over. “Too big a crowd for me to handle in here.
Guess some of you fellows will have to wait until I call for outdoor
practice. For the present I am going to take all of your names. Then
I’m going to ask only the old fellows and a few of the others to report
in the gym. The rest of you will have to wait until outdoor practice
begins.”
A wave of disappointed groans went up and down the line and Mr. Rice
smiled.
“Sorry. Wish I could push the four walls of the gym. out far enough to
accommodate all of you. Then we’d all be happy. Mr. Clarkson, will you
take their names?”
Mr. Clarkson was the assistant coach in charge of the scrub team and as
he went down the line taking the name of each boy he questioned them as
to their previous playing experience.
When he came to Jeff he looked at the New City Y. M. C. A. insignia on
his shirt and asked:
“Did you play with the New City ‘Y’ team last year?”
“Yes, sir. Third base,” said Jeff.
“Good,” he exclaimed. “We’ll need a third baseman this year. But you’ll
have to work hard for the job. Wish you luck.”
“Thank you,” said Jeff cheerfully.
Finished with the list, he and Mr. Rice went into conference over it
for a few minutes, then the head coach, the list in his hand, walked
to the floor and announced:
“I want only the following boys to report here every afternoon for
indoor practice. The rest of you, I am sorry to say, will have to wait
until the outdoor practice begins, which I hope will be about the
tenth of April. But cheer up, fellows, that’s only a little more than
three weeks away. These fellows remain――the rest are dismissed for the
time being――Blackwell, Stone, Daily, Wiggins, Hart, Gordon, Simmons,
Gammage, Sloan, Hecht, Stafford, Runyon, Daws, Gleason, Dixon and
Gould. That’s all――er――no――you, too, Thatcher, you stay, please. That’s
all.”
Coach Rice paused so perceptibly after Gould’s name that Jeff Thatcher’s
heart sank. For a moment he felt that he was going to be denied the
privilege of getting the indoor training with the candidates, which he
knew was of the utmost importance to men who would have to fight for
positions on the team.
Coach Rice had read off the names of all of the older men on the
squad,――the men who had been out for the team the year before, and
had not intended to add any more new material to the indoor squad.
Thatcher was evidently an after thought and Jeff realized that his
“Y” uniform and the record his team had made the summer before were
entirely responsible for the addition of his name to the list.
Evidently Coach Rice expected something of him or he would not have
been willing to make him a member of his already large group of indoor
candidates.
And as Jeff walked over to join the squad of former players who
gathered at one end of the gym. while the rest of the boys disconsolately
filed out-of-doors or climbed into the running track balcony to watch
the start of indoor training, he wondered vaguely whether he was going
to be able to justify the confidence that his uniform had inspired in
the veteran coach of the Pennington squad.
Mentally he resolved to do his utmost to make the team, and as he
made the resolution he could not help but glance toward Gould, whom
he detected looking at him with an unpleasant expression on his dark
countenance.
CHAPTER XIV
INDOOR PRACTICE
Indoor practice was not new to Jeff Thatcher. He had had a great deal
of it for two successive seasons with the New City Y. M. C. A. team and
he knew all about its limitations and its fun as well. The Pennington
Institute gym. was not a large one as gymnasiums go and Jeff felt that
Mr. Rice had picked a rather large squad for indoor work. There were
sixteen husky youngsters capering about the gym. floor, all in baseball
togs, save of course the cleated shoes which were tabooed. Instead they
all wore rubber-soled basketball shoes to the immediate benefit of both
themselves and the gym. floor.
Coach Rice and his assistant let them amuse themselves as they chose
for ten minutes while they opened dusty lockers and brought out a
variety of gloves and balls and several bats. When these made their
appearance there was a wild yell from the squad and they all stampeded
in the coach’s direction and made a wild scramble for gloves and
balls. Fortunately there were enough to go around or else those who
were slow in a scrimmage or the least bit diffident about crowding
themselves forward would surely have been left out of the distribution.
Jeff scrambled with the rest and emerged from the mêlée with a seasoned
fielder’s mitt that had seen enough service to be as flexible and as
well broken in as the most fastidious ball player could desire. Indeed,
as he slipped it on, he exclaimed:
“Oh, boy! Look what I drew. That’s a regular one. Just my size, too,
and――”
“Hi, Freshman, that’s my glove,” cut in an unpleasant voice, and Jeff
looked up to find Gould bearing down on him, his hand stretched out to
seize the glove that Jeff was examining.
Thatcher looked him over coldly.
“Oh, is it?” he said evenly. “How do you get that way?”
“Don’t get lippy to me, freshie. That’s my glove. I used it all last
year. I was looking for it in the pile,” said Gould, with a show of
authority.
“Oh, were you? So was I, and I found it first,” said Thatcher.
“What d’you mean?” snapped Gould, crowding close to Thatcher, with an
ugly look in his dark eyes.
“What do I mean? Why, I mean to keep it. And if you don’t like it let
me see you get it, you――”
“Here, cut that, Gould,” said some one, and Buck Hart crowded his big
body in between the two of them.
“Cut what?” stormed Gould.
“Oh, hush. Don’t try to get away with anything with me. You want that
glove Thatcher got because you got an old rag. Cut it or I’ll put the
argument up to Mr. Rice. You know where you’ll come off then. The glove
belongs to the man who gets it first, if he wants it. If you don’t want
the hunk of leather you’ve got, go over and pick another one from the
pile. Don’t try to take anything away from some one else; especially
Thatcher,” he added with a grin, “because Thatcher can just about smear
your nose all over your face if he wants to, and you know it. You’re
just trying to make it uncomfortable for him because you know he isn’t
anxious to fight again. His first fight with you cost him too much.”
Gould glowered at Hart and Thatcher alternately and grumbled something
about people who butted into other people’s business, but he did not
have the courage to continue the argument after that.
“He’s a nasty kid,” said Buck to Thatcher as he fell in beside Jeff and
walked across the gym. to where Coach Rice was talking to a group of
candidates.
“――and remember,” he was saying, “don’t any of you be foolish and try
to use speed or curves or anything else. This is just to limber up the
throwing muscles that have been dormant all winter and are probably
stiff and clumsy. I don’t want any tendons pulled or any cases of
Charley horse or glass arms to start the season with. If you’ll take my
advice you just toss ’em about a little. All ready, fellows. Come on.
Line up eight men at the south end and eight men at the north end. Snap
to it. That’s right. Now go to it.”
The fellows lined up along the north end and spread out across the
gym. and presently a hearty game of catch was in progress in which
eight men from one end of the floor tossed to eight men at the other
end of the floor. But to the slight embarrassment of Thatcher and the
evident displeasure of Gould, both discovered that the formation of
the two lines of candidates brought them facing each other. They were
on the receiving end of each other’s throws. Jeff had the ball and
for a moment as he saw who his partner was he paused and smiled. He
appreciated the irony of the thing.
Gould, on the other hand, scowled unpleasantly and growled.
“Come on. Throw it, you.”
“All right. Here you are, old sour face,” said Thatcher, in no way awed
by his glowering looks, and he threw the ball smoothly and evenly down
to Gould.
It was returned with a snap, for Gould must needs find some vent for
the spleen that was in him. But this did not bother Thatcher. The ball
thumped pleasantly into his glove and the mere feeling of the sphere
and the sound of it as it smacked against the leather sent a thrill of
joy tingling up and down his spine. It was great once more to have on a
glove and feel the weight of the thumping ball. He enjoyed the game of
catch immensely, despite the fact that he did not like his partner, and
he returned throw for throw with enthusiasm.
The gymnasium presented an interesting spectacle then to the fellows
watching from the running track. The air seemed full of baseballs.
Eight snowy white spheres were weaving back and forth and plunking into
gloves with a rhythm that was blood stirring to the dyed-in-the-wool
baseball enthusiasts who were looking on and they waxed enthusiastic
despite the fact that they were not working with the candidates.
Despite the admonitions of Coach Rice the fusillade of baseballs became
hotter as muscles were limbered up and the candidates began to feel
their blood mounting. Again and again he had to shout at the top of his
voice:
“Ease up there. None of that speed stuff. Cut it down. Cut it down.
You, Hart, cut down on the steam. Daily, ease up there――EASE UP――don’t
you understand English? Gould, that’s enough. Any more of that burning
them in and off the floor you go. Don’t be so enthusiastic. You’ve got
the whole spring and summer to burn up the air.”
Thatcher smiled as the coach called Gould down. He knew that it was
not through enthusiasm alone that he was “burning up the air.” There
was the sting of malice about each snappy throw that Gould put over
and Thatcher realized that his partner would be perfectly glad if he
should by chance let one of the throws slip through his glove. Indeed,
Gould made catching the throws as difficult as possible, and Jeff had
to be on the alert all the time to get them as they came speeding in.
But he found a certain degree of pleasure in that, too, for despite
some of the awkward positions that he was forced to get into to receive
the ball, he got them all and he was glad of the opportunity to show
Gould that he did know how to handle a glove, even on the first day of
practice.
For twenty minutes that game of catch kept up. Then suddenly Coach Rice
blew a whistle and stopped it.
“All right. That’s enough, fellows. No more baseball to-day. Form two
circles now. That’s it. Spread out. Mr. Clarkson, you take one group
and I’ll take the other. Get the medicine balls.”
Those big cumbersome pieces of gym. paraphernalia were rolled out onto
the floor, one for each group, and presently the fellows were engaged
in a lively game of passing the ball from one to another. There was no
restraint in this game and the passing became fast and furious, the
heavy ball going around the circles with lightning swiftness and the
fellows grunting each time they caught or passed the ball. So it kept
up, the pace of passing growing faster and faster and faster, until all
of the baseball candidates were perspiring freely. Indeed, the sweat
was running down Jeff Thatcher’s face in trickles and he was panting
with the exertion of the work-out.
Suddenly the coach’s whistle blew and the passing stopped.
“All right, fellows. Bully work-out. Great pep. Now for the showers and
the tank.”
“Let’s go,” yelled the panting Buck Hart as he started for the stairs
to the basement, taking off his shirt as he ran.
A wild yell followed and the rest of the sixteen candidates streamed
along in his wake, undressing as they ran. Indeed by the time most of
them reached the locker room they had but to peel off their trousers,
unlace and kick off shoes and stockings, and they were ready for the
showers.
Like a lot of porpoises they streamed inside the tiled shower room and
dashed under the hissing sprays, crowding, pushing and shoving for a
place under the cold streams of water so that they could close up their
perspiring pores and be ready for a plunge into the warmer water of the
tank.
With that horde of husky youngsters under the showers the tiled room
rang with the shouts, gulps, snorts, and screams of pure delight as
they splashed under the cold sprays of almost icy water. There were
spills on the slippery tile floor, but that did not count for much.
There were squabbles over the proprietorship of the remarkably few
pieces of soap that were in use; there were water fights and wrestling
matches, but none of them proved serious.
It was Buck Hart as usual who led the crowd.
“Last one into the tank is IT. Wow,” and he made a dash for the
swinging door that cut off the shower room from the long tiled room in
which was the swimming tank with its inviting blue-green water.
Like so many otters they went overboard and the splashes and yells
would have made a stranger believe that an army was taking a plunge
instead of less than a score of boys.
Jeff Thatcher was overboard with the first of the group. Diving and
fetching up half way across the tank he came up with a snort and a
shake of his head to clear the water out of his eyes; then, turning, he
watched to see who would be the last one in. But as he turned, a head
bobbed up out of the water just in front of him, and to his surprise he
saw that the swimmer was Birdie Pell.
“Hello, Thatcher,” said Pell, surprised and somewhat embarrassed to
discover his chum’s sworn enemy facing him.
“Hello, yourself,” said Thatcher, “how’d you get in?”
“Shush-s-h, I sneaked it. Only baseball candidates supposed to be in
this afternoon, but I felt like a swim, so I sneaked down.”
“Look out Rice doesn’t catch you,” said Jeff.
“Oh, I’ll keep under water while he’s around and he won’t be able to
find me among this bunch if he should come in.”
“Duck. Here he comes now,” said Jeff, for Mr. Rice shoved his way
through the swinging doors and came to the edge of the tank.
Pell submerged like a beaver and Jeff, not anxious to see him
discovered, began a prodigious splashing and milling about with the
rest of the fellows. Out of the tail of his eye, however, he could see
Pell’s form moving under water toward the spring board float at the far
end, and Jeff knew that the little Sophomore would come up under the
float and stay there until Mr. Rice had gone.
But the coach did not go. Instead he stood on the edge of the tank and
watched the fellows for about five minutes. Then he blew his whistle
for attention and shouted:
“That’s enough, fellows. Just a plunge. Turn out now.”
One by one the boys, with pink, glowing skin, climbed up the brass
ladder at the upper end of the pool and made for the locker room.
Jeff lingered as long as he dared, for he wanted to see if Pell would
reappear from under the spring board float. Indeed, he lingered so long
that he was the last one in the tank and Mr. Rice spoke to him.
“Come on, Thatcher, you water rat. Climb out. You’ll get another swim
to-morrow.”
There was nothing else for Jeff to do but to climb out then and follow
the coach into the locker room, leaving Pell alone in the tank and
hiding under the spring board float, where, Jeff knew, there was just
enough clearance between the bottom of the float and the surface of the
water for a swimmer to float flat on his back and keep his face out of
water.
For some reason it worried Thatcher to leave Pell hiding there. Twice
he looked back to see if he could see the boy, but he realized that if
Mr. Rice saw him glancing backward that he would suspect immediately
that some one was hiding under the float and then Pell would be caught.
This Jeff did not want to have happen, and so he went on into the
locker room and said nothing about the Sophomore, concluding of course
that as soon as Mr. Rice had left the basement Pell would make his
getaway.
In the scramble for towels and the general babble of the locker room,
Jeff forgot Pell for a little while until he saw Mr. Rice disappear up
the stairs toward the gym. floor. Then he went to the door of the tank
room to pass Pell the word.
The diminutive Sophomore was standing on the float poised for a back
dive.
“Hi, Pell, he’s gone,” called Thatcher guardedly, “you’d better come
out now.”
“Nix, not if he’s gone. I’m going to have a real swim.”
Thatcher looked at him in silence for a moment. He recalled the rules
of the school regarding the swimming pool. No student was permitted
under any circumstances to be alone in the pool. There must be some
other person in the pool at the time. This provision had been made
after the body of one boy had been found in the pool. He had gone in
swimming alone and something had happened, and because no one had
visited the tank the rest of that day or that night, his body was not
found until the following morning. After that a strict rule had been
instituted that no boy should enter the tank alone.
By staying there Pell was breaking this rule. Jeff wondered whether it
was his duty to stay in the tank room until Pell had finished.
“It is not,” he finally told himself. “If he wants to break the rule
let him. It’s his business. If he’s caught he can take his medicine.”
And he turned back into the locker room.
He started to dress, slipping into his underclothes. Then by some
strange freak he decided to brush his hair before dressing further. On
his way to the big mirror at the end of the room he had to pass the
tank room door, and out of idle curiosity he pushed it open and glanced
inside. Pell was not to be seen.
Jeff stood there a moment puzzled. There was no disturbance on the
surface of the water. Had Pell left the pool and come in to the locker
room to dress? Jeff did not recall seeing him enter but perhaps he had
come in while he had his back to the door. Perhaps――
Jeff gasped. As he stood there in the doorway he saw a hand break the
surface of the pool. There was something horrible, something ghastly
about that hand. It came up with clutching fingers. It seemed to be
reaching vainly for something. The fingers worked convulsively, closed
upon thin air, then disappeared beneath the surface again.
“Great goodness, it’s Pell! Something has happened to him. He is
drowning!” exclaimed Thatcher.
Frightened almost to panic for a moment, Jeff rushed through the door
and across the tiled floor of the tank room to the edge of the pool.
From the marble slabs that lined sides and top of the pool he could see
in the green-blue depths little Pell’s naked body twisting and turning
convulsively under the surface. He could see his arms outflung and
his clawing, grasping hands clutching and slipping at the smooth tile
at the bottom of the pool. He could see his horribly distorted face
upturned; his bulging eyes stared straight toward Jeff.
All signs of panic left Thatcher then. He realized that Pell’s
condition was very serious. And somehow the fact that he alone was
there to help the drowning Sophomore seemed suddenly to give him the
courage and cool-headedness that was necessary in the emergency.
For a fraction of a second he stood poised on the edge of the pool,
then in a beautiful deep dive he plunged under and with strong strokes
swept down to the bottom and seized Pell by the hair. The tank was
seven feet deep where Pell had been diving and so it was impossible
for Jeff to stand on bottom. He did however plant his feet firmly on
the tiles and shoved himself toward the surface, dragging Pell after
him and bringing his head above water, too.
But the half-conscious drowning Pell never knew what was taking place.
Instinct, however, moved his arms, and his grasping hands closed around
Jeff in a death grip, and before Thatcher realized it, he was being
strangled in a deadly grasp. Jeff had expected this, and as they both
went under again, he forced Pell’s head around, pushed his own hands
and arms up between the arms that were entwined about his neck, and
with a superhuman effort, broke the grip. And when they came to the
surface again Pell was so far gone that he made no further resistance.
On his back and holding Pell’s dragging body under the chin, Jeff swam
toward the brass ladder and climbed drippingly out. He dragged Pell up
onto the marble coping and then gathered his limp form into his arms
and hurried toward the locker room.
His appearance at the doorway of the locker room in dripping
underclothes with the white and bloodless form of the little Sophomore
in his arms caused consternation for a moment. The fellows who saw him
rushed toward him, exclaiming.
“I――I――think he’s still alive,” Jeff answered to the hasty questions
that were put to him, “but for Pete’s sake lend a hand here and hurry
up or he will pass out. He’s full of water.”
[Illustration: “I――I――think he’s still alive,” Jeff answered]
“Right,” exclaimed Buck Hart, lifting Pell out of Jeff’s arms and
laying him on a bench. “Here, fellows, a little pep now. Take hold.”
Eager hands grasped Pell and followed Buck’s directions.
First they stood the unconscious boy all but on his head while quarts
of water drained out of his nose and mouth.
This done they laid him flat on the floor and proceeded to administer
artificial respiration. Slowly and carefully, but with the necessary
vigor, they worked his arms while they inflated and deflated his chest
with the pressure of their hands. All of the boys were white and most
of them were very much frightened, and doubtless had it not been for
the cool-headed direction of Buck Hart and Jeff Thatcher, Pell would
not have fared so well as he did. But they had scarcely worked over
him five minutes when color began to come back into his ashen cheeks
and his eyelids began to flutter.
“His heart is getting stronger. Keep it up, fellows,” said Jeff, who
was working his chest up and down.
“Good. He’s breathing feebly. Keep up the good work,” added Buck Hart.
And this gave the fellows encouragement, for they worked with a will,
then, and in a remarkably short time Pell opened his eyes and stared
glassily at the lights overhead.
“Oh, boy, I guess we’ve saved him,” exclaimed Thatcher in a relieved
voice.
“I guess we have. But Birdie dear had a narrow squeak,” said Buck Hart.
“I’ll say he did. Suppose we should send for Mr. Rice?” asked Jeff,
thinking of the coach for the first time.
“That’s what we should have done in the first place instead of
monkeying around ourselves. But I don’t think we need to now. He’s
coming through, and if we get the coach here he’ll raise a pack of
trouble for Pell. Let’s not.”
Pell’s eyes were clearing. He was smiling now and he seemed to
understand what the fellows had been saying, although he did not
attempt to speak. Still they worked over him, and faster and faster
he regained strength and consciousness, until presently he began to
struggle feebly to sit up. They helped him into a rickety locker room
chair and began to rub him dry with towels. The friction of the rubbing
was as good as a stimulant to the boy and before long he raised his
head and said weakly:
“What happened? Last I remember I tried a back dive off the float and
my foot slipped. Must have cracked my head on something.” He felt of
the back of his head and brought his fingers away with a pink stain on
them.
“Guess you did crack your head,” said Buck Hart, examining the wound.
“There’s a lump there as big as a goose egg and a pretty bad bruise,
too. Believe me, you are lucky, Birdie. If Thatcher hadn’t dragged you
out when he did you’d be a dead one now.”
Pell looked at Thatcher gratefully.
“Did you save me, Thatcher? Thanks, old fellow.” And he held out a
trembling hand.
“Don’t think of it,” said Jeff, shaking hands; “here, get some clothes
on. You are shivering.”
Jeff and Buck somehow managed to get him into his clothes and to
get him over beside a sizzling steam radiator, where they made him
comfortable while they dressed themselves. And Jeff noticed with a
feeling of contempt for Gould that during all their efforts to bring
Pell around the older Sophomore had done nothing to be of service to
his supposed chum.
“Fine kind of a friend he is,” thought Jeff, as he was crawling into
a basketball uniform that he intended to use in lieu of the wet
underclothing that he hung over the steam radiator to dry.
CHAPTER XV
ALL OUT FOR BASEBALL
But in spite of the efforts of the fellows to keep Pell’s accident in
the pool a secret it became known throughout the school in a matter of
hours.
Every fellow in the locker room realized that Pell had been breaking
a rule,――a very strict rule, and while none of them approved of this
and in their hearts felt that he deserved punishment, they were not
willing to go back on him to the extent of making his misdemeanor and
the resulting accident known. Indeed, while there were few among them
who really cared very much for Pell they all felt that under similar
circumstances they would want the fellows to stand by them and they
tried to cover up the little Sophomore’s difficulties as much as
possible.
Thatcher and Buck Hart, along with Wiggins and Dixon, were the most
concerned about trying to get Pell out of the locker room and back to
his room in Newkirk Hall. The rest of the fellows of the baseball
squad left the gym. in twos and threes or larger groups and went to
their rooms, while these four lingered behind with Pell, who was still
weak and trembling from exhaustion. The accident had taken a greater
toll of his strength than most of them realized.
“Are you feeling all right now?” asked Buck Hart.
Pell forced a smile and tried to stand up. But his legs refused to obey
and he sat down weakly.
“Thought I was, but I guess I’d better rest a little longer,” he said,
a little ashamed of his weakness.
“All right. Rest a bit longer,” said Buck. Then turning to Honey
Wiggins and Dixon, he said: “Honey, you and George needn’t wait. Jeff
and I will get him over to Newkirk. Fact is, I don’t think you’d better
wait. Four of us helping him back will look mighty funny. I think Jeff
and I can get him over and be less conspicuous about it.”
“Well, maybe so,” said big George Dixon. “All right, Hon and I will
blow, then. Sure you don’t need us?”
“No, Buck and I can manage,” said Jeff.
Pell looked around the locker room and then back at Jeff and Buck.
“Where’s Gould?” he asked curiously.
“Gould? Oh, he went out with the bunch,” said Jeff, and in spite
of himself he could not repress all the scorn that he held for the
Sophomore for deserting his supposed chum.
“Huh,” grunted Pell, after a moment’s silence. He evidently intended to
say more but reconsidered. Still in that grunt Jeff detected the fact
that Pell’s eyes were opened to the value of Gould’s friendship.
“How about it now? Feeling any stronger?” asked Buck as he heard the
doors upstairs slam behind George Dixon and Honey Wiggins.
“Try to stand now,” urged Jeff; “we’ll support you between us and get
you over to Newkirk and to bed. You’ll get an hour’s rest before the
supper bell and that will brace you up.”
Pell got to his feet once more and walked slowly, but steadily, to his
locker, where he managed to get into his overcoat and hat. Then with
Jeff and Buck partly supporting him, yet not being conspicuous about
it, they helped him up the stairs and out of the building into a fast
gathering March twilight.
Across the campus they hurried, as fast as the weak and still trembling
Pell could move. And under the cover of the half light they managed to
reach Newkirk Hall and get Pell into his room without encountering any
one.
Pell’s teeth were chattering when they bundled him into his blankets
and turned on the steam radiator in his room. Jeff paused and looked at
him a minute.
“Jiminy, old fellow, you’re shivering so you shake the bed. Think we had
better call Dr. Stout?”
“No, don’t do that,” protested Pell; “I’ll be all right by supper time,
I think.”
But when Jeff and Buck left him they did not agree with him in that
respect.
“I’m afraid the shock and exposure and everything has just about done
him up,” said Jeff to Buck.
“I don’t like to see him have chills that way. Looks bad to me. But we
won’t call the Doctor unless he doesn’t show up for supper,” said Jeff.
Both boys went to their rooms and made themselves ready for the evening
meal. Wade Grenville burst into the room, late as usual, and began to
tumble into clean clothes.
“How’s Pell?” he asked, between splashes in the wash basin in the
corner of the room. “Get him to his room all right?”
“Yes, we got him there all right without any one seeing us, but I think
he’s a mighty sick kid. If he don’t show up for supper we’ll have to
call Dr. Stout,” said Jeff.
“Oh, nonsense; he’s a tough little rooster. He’ll show up, all right.
There goes the bell. Jiminy. Wait up, Jeff, till I put on my collar.”
Both boys made a wild, last minute dash down the hall toward the dining
room, only to almost bump into Dr. Livingston at the dining room door.
“Well, what’s the matter. Can’t you fellows shave time just a little
closer than this?” asked the Headmaster sarcastically, the humor of
which was not lost on both of them.
But as they stepped inside the big room, the door opened behind them
and Pell walked in. Dr. Livingston turned to see who the late comer was.
“Well, Pell,” he said, still with a suggestion of sarcasm, “you are
nearly as late as Thatcher and Grenville. Can’t you―― Why, what’s the
matter, boy?”
Pell had closed the dining room door behind him and started on
obviously unsteady legs toward his table. Two spots of color burned in
his cheeks and his eyes were strangely bright. As he started to step
past the Headmaster, he paused momentarily and tried to steady himself.
Then as he stepped out again he suddenly collapsed. His trembling legs
gave way under him and he dropped in a heap on the floor.
Dr. Livingston and Jeff reached down and lifted him to his feet. Then,
with the whole school looking at them, the Headmaster gathered the boy
up in his arms, exclaiming:
“Why, you’re sick, Pell――terribly sick, with a high fever. Thatcher,
call Dr. Stout.”
But there was not need for Jeff to call the physician. When the little
Sophomore collapsed, Dr. Stout had jumped up from his place at the head
of the junior school table and hurried through the crowd of boys to the
side of the Headmaster.
Together they carried the boy out of the building and across the
campus to the infirmary, while Professor Reisenberg brought order in
the dining room and made the students start on their meal.
Neither Dr. Stout nor the Headmaster returned to the dining room
while the students were eating, and when the boys left the hall the
conclusions they reached among themselves were that Birdie Pell was
very ill.
And such proved to be the case, for in the morning it was announced
from the chapel platform that the boy had developed a slight case of
pneumonia and that Dr. Stout had spent the night fighting to keep it
from getting any more serious. The shock of the accident along with the
exposure had proved too much for Pell.
For two weeks he lingered in the infirmary, with Jeff and Wade and
Buck Hart and many other boys frequent visitors to his room, when he
was permitted to receive them. Meanwhile, however, indoor practice had
continued with increasing enthusiasm among the members of the squad of
sixteen. Honey Wiggins, big George Dixon and Cy Gordon, the pitching
candidates, were warming up to their task of working out their arms,
and with Tad Sloan, the captain and regular catcher of last year, and
Al. Canner and Mickey Daily acting as substitutes, the three slabmen
were shooting balls across the gym. with real vigor, sometimes even
trying curves and shoots when Mr. Rice would permit them to unlimber
all they had for a brief period.
A batting cage, almost entirely surrounded by corded netting, was
installed at one end of the gym., too, and the fellows began to
discover how pleasant it was to swing a bat once more. With the
corded netting draped all around the room to enmesh a stray ball, the
candidates were permitted to slug as hard as they cared to, and they
went at the work of finding their batting eye with a will.
Jeff was particularly keen for this batting cage practice, for he had
long ago developed that co-ordination of eye, brain and muscle that
makes a three hundred batter, and there was nothing he enjoyed more
than proving to a pitcher that there were few curves or jumps that
could fool him. He noticed, too, with a certain eagerness, that Mr.
Rice had watched him while he occupied the batting cage, and he felt
certain that he saw approval in his eye as he watched his freedom of
swing and the way he put his shoulders and body behind some of the
smacks that sent the horse hide against the corded netting with a thump.
Indeed, the coach even went so far after one slashing wallop of the
ball as to remark his approval.
“That’s real stick work, Thatcher. Great stuff. Wish some of the rest
of the fellows would get the hang of the thing the way you have it. All
you need is to correct your feet a little more and you’ll be a three
hundred hitter some day.”
Jeff was thoroughly pleased to have won that much praise from the
coach and he could not help smiling with a sense of satisfaction as he
stepped out of the cage to give his place to another batter. He smiled
more, too, when he noted an expression of jealous hate on the face of
Gould.
“That sort of thing gets his goat, I guess,” he said to himself as he
walked over to relieve Mickey Daily of his catcher’s mitt and his job
of catching the curves of Honey Wiggins. Daily was next in line for
practice in the batting cage.
And so the indoor practice progressed satisfactorily enough through the
last week in March and the first week in April. The weather was fast
developing into an ideal spring. The cold weather that had lingered
all too long in March disappeared completely with the first day of
April and spring seemed to sweep down upon the country with a rush.
Budding trees began to show a fresh greenness, shrubbery about the
campus showed color that was a source of cheer after the bleakness of
winter. Robins appeared on the broad lawns of the campus and searched
diligently for worms that were crowding toward the surface in the damp
and rapidly warming loam, blue birds were awing and their soft, almost
delicate song could be heard from the maples and elms that lined the
driveway. Song sparrows were tuning up in the woods across the river
and the colony of barn swallows that nested under the eaves of the
library building returned in force.
“Oh, boy, this is swell baseball weather,” exclaimed Jeff one day as,
hurrying across the campus he encountered Coach Rice and Tad Sloan, the
captain, moving toward the baseball diamond.
“Great, isn’t it?” said Tad Sloan, who was a short, stocky chap of a
quiet but forceful type, and a senior at Pennington.
“I’ll say so,” said Jeff, wondering with interest why the captain and
the coach were walking toward the diamond.
Tad evidently noticed the look of inquiry Jeff shot at them, for he
smiled and spoke.
“We’re going over to see how wet the ground is. If the sun has dried
the diamond out sufficiently Mr. Rice says he will call for outdoor
practice beginning this afternoon.”
“Oh, boy, that will be swell,” exclaimed Jeff, delighted with the
prospects.
He hurried on to his classes then, eager to spread the glad
possibilities, and for the rest of the morning each time he and Wade
and several other baseball enthusiasts passed the bulletin board in the
hall they looked eagerly for the posting of a new notice there.
And at the end of the last period that morning they were not
disappointed. There it was in big letters.
“ALL OUT FOR BASEBALL! SQUAD AND NEW CANDIDATES WILL REPORT FOR
PRACTICE AT 3 O’CLOCK. NORTH FIELD.”
CHAPTER XVI
THE SCRUB TEAM
With the beginning of the outdoor season baseball practice at Pennington
took on an entirely different atmosphere. In the first place the squad
was increased to more than twice its regular size with the first day of
the season. To be sure it began to dwindle almost immediately for many
of the new candidates discovered that they were hopelessly outclassed by
the rest of the men, or else many of them who had just come out to “fool
around” with the squad soon realized that they were in the way of better
players and “cluttering up the field,” as Mr. Rice good-naturedly put
it, so one by one they dropped out of the practice and found more
pleasure in acting as spectators than in romping around the field.
So, by the third day of the outdoor work, the squad had again been
reduced by men dropping out, until there remained about thirty players;
enough to compose three teams with a couple of substitutes to spare.
Immediately this happened Mr. Rice and his assistant, and coach of
the scrub teams, Mr. Clarkson, proceeded to organize a first team,
a first scrub team and a second scrub team which amounted to a
junior team, composed of the younger boys of the squad, and after that
practice began in earnest.
Of course, the first team was picked entirely from among the sixteen
players who had taken part in the indoor practice for the previous
three weeks. Of the sixteen original players Coach Rice built up a
team composed, first of all, of Tad Sloan, captain and catcher, long
Lafe Gammage, last year’s first baseman still in his old position,
Mickey Daily at second, Buck Hart short stop, Gould, last year’s second
string man at third, Dave Gleason in right field, Jed Stafford center
field and Dutch Hecht in left garden. Big George Dixon, the holdover
pitcher from last year, was assigned as the first team pitcher. This
aggregation was called the Penningtons.
The second, or scrub team, called the Penguins, was built up of the
best material available of the remaining candidates. Al. Canner, the
substitute catcher, was behind the bat catching for Honey Wiggins or
Cy Gordon, both of them second string pitchers; Dick Runyon held down
first, Cas Gorham played second, Brownie Davis made the short field,
Jeff was picked to fill third, with Rabbit Warren at center field, Wade
Grenville, Jeff’s roommate, in right field and Fat Daws holding down
the job of left fielder.
Of course, all the fellows realized, and it was hardly necessary for
Coach Rice to announce to them, that all the positions were temporarily
filled, and it depended entirely upon the ability and the amount of
baseball brains displayed whether the men would hold onto the jobs they
were assigned to or whether they would move up to the first team or
down to the second team.
As they had been selected, however, both teams were mighty good
collections of baseball talent, and as it soon proved very evenly
matched for skill and baseball brains. Of course, the first team had
certain advantages because the fellows were generally older and a
little more experienced in baseball playing, but that did not count for
a great deal when all was said and done.
To be sure it was not the pleasantest thing possible for Jeff to be
classed as a second string man, but he realized that Gould, being a
scrub team man of the previous year had first call on the third base
position.
“I’m going to give him a rub for the place though,” he assured himself
secretly when the selection of teams had been announced and he found
Gould in the position he coveted.
North Field provided two diamonds, one at the extreme north end and
one at the south end, and the last named was considered the scrub
team’s home grounds, while the big diamond at the north end was the
home grounds of the first team. Every afternoon for the first week of
the outdoor practice the two teams turned out upon their respective
diamonds and proceeded to limber up in earnest. The first few days were
devoted to throwing and batting practice as in the gymnasium, but in
addition to this the coaches took the fellows for short jogs about the
field to stretch their legs and develop their lung power.
They devoted some of this early work to correcting individual faults.
Mr. Rice and Mr. Clarkson watched each player carefully, as he ran,
fielded or took his turn at the bat, and whenever they saw any of the
boys making errors or developing minor faults they were quick to take
them aside and give them careful and painstaking drilling until such
faults were corrected.
In that way every afternoon of the first week of the outdoor season was
taken up with preliminary work and it was not until Saturday that Mr.
Clarkson felt that the Penguins were ready for their first clash with
the Penningtons.
It was a five inning game and it was played on the Pennington’s home
grounds with the Penguins batting as the visiting team and it developed
into a real battle before the fifth inning finally closed,――a contest
in which Jeff Thatcher and Rabbit Warren stood out conspicuously among
the scrubs. It resulted disastrously for the first team not in the
matter of scores so much as in the loss of one of its capable group
of outfielders. Dave Gleason went to the bench with an injury to the
calf of his leg; a strained tendon which besides being very painful
threatened to keep him off the field indefinitely. This happened in
the very first inning and as a result Jeff’s roommate, Wade Grenville,
was the first player to be moved over from the scrub team to the first
team. He took Gleason’s place in right field and Tiny Drexel, a
diminutive Sophomore and substitute scrub team fielder was moved into
the line up.
Gleason’s injury resulted when he slid for the plate in the first
inning trying to squeeze over the first run on a close decision. He
tallied all right but when the dust had cleared away he could not get
up. Al. Canner, the scrub catcher, and Coach Rice, who was umpiring,
had to help him to his feet. He was lying with his right leg doubled up
under him in a position that told plainly enough that no boy could fall
that way and not suffer as a result.
“My golly, he’s broken his leg,” exclaimed Al. Canner throwing off his
catcher’s mitt and stooping over him.
“Fine slide, Gleason, but I’m afraid it’s going to cost you something,
poor kid,” said Mr. Rice lifting his body so that his leg could be
straightened out.
The coach felt of the member carefully while Dave’s face was distorted
with pain.
“Isn’t broken. Ankle isn’t even sprained. Where does it hurt you, Dave?
In there?” Mr. Rice dug his thumb deep into Dave’s calf and he groaned
with pain.
“Shucks, that’s too bad. I know what it is now. Pulled a tendon. That
means a mighty painful leg for you for weeks. Guess you’re on the bench
for a while. Here, you fellows, lend a hand. He can’t step down on his
right foot. It will hurt too much. Lift him. Put his arms around your
shoulders. That’s the way. Take him over to the bench and one of you
run over and call Dr. Stout.”
Dutch Hecht and Lafe Gammage came over from the bench and all but
carried Gleason back to the stand where they made him comfortable
while one of the boys on the side lines ran off to the administration
building to get Dr. Stout.
“Wade, you go out and play right field for Gleason. Clarkson, put
Drexel in for Grenville, will you, please? All right, everybody on your
toes now. I want my team on its toes every second of every minute of a
game.”
The run that Gleason brought over was the first run and the only
run that the Penningtons made in the first two innings. But it was
quite sufficient to keep the Penguins in second place, for none of
them seemed to be able to find big George Dixon for anything but the
scratchiest kind of a hit. He fanned the first two men up and while
Brownie Davis reached first on an infield hit and an error by Gould at
third, he stayed there because Dick Runyon’s best efforts at bat could
not help him any.
Jeff was the first man up in the second inning, and while he found the
third ball Dixon shot over for a slashing solid smack he did nothing
more than give Gould a chance to retrieve the error he had made in the
first inning. Jeff’s drive was a hot liner that shot across the diamond
about waist high and looked good for a single, but Gould somehow
managed to get his hands onto it and knock it down. Then with a snappy
throw he got the ball to Lafe Gammage about two-fifths of a second
ahead of Jeff, thus making the first out of the inning and smothering
Jeff’s chances to get on base.
Tiny Drexel, who followed Jeff, fanned after three balls had been
waited out, but Rabbit Warren who was next on the batting order laced
out a clean single between first and second and Fat Daws followed with
almost a duplicate of the same bingle and advanced Rabbit to third,
taking second himself on the throw to nip Warren which did not succeed
in its purpose.
With two on it began to look as if the Penguins would have a chance to
flap their wings and crow or utter whatever kind of a noise Penguins
are supposed to utter. But their triumph was short-lived for Honey
Wiggins, while he could handle a stick better than the average pitcher,
was not equal to the job of bringing in the necessary run to tie the
score. He knocked a long, sky scraping foul that lumbering Dutch Hecht
gathered in with that serene certainty that marked him as the most
reliable kind of a left fielder, and the inning closed with Rabbit and
Fat Daws still on. The score 1 to 0 in favor of the Penningtons.
The second inning closed with the big team unable to find Honey Wiggins
for more than one hit which Captain Tad laced out himself. But the
sturdy catcher was left on third after Lafe Gammage and Mickey Daily
on instructions from the coach had sacrificed him into the position
to score. Buck Hart was not able to get a hit beyond the infield and
he was easily thrown out at first by Cas Gorham who fielded his drive
with ease and threw the ball to Dick Runyon while Buck was still ten
feet from the first sack.
Again the Penguins met a stone wall defense in the beginning of the
third inning and could not get a man beyond second base. But when the
Penningtons came up for their half of the same inning it “looked as if
the old ball game was going up in smoke right there,” to quote Rabbit
Warren.
Wade Grenville led off the batting order that inning and as he stepped
to the plate his old team mates began to josh him.
“Hey, you Penguin, what are you doing in there?” yelled Cas Gorham.
“Oh, look at our first victim,” yelled Jeff. “Come on, Honey, put one
over for this boy. We’ve got to get him right off. On your toes now,
every one.”
Honey evidently did put one over with the first ball pitched but the
“victim” refused to be “got.” Wade leaned on the horsehide with a smash
that sent it cannon balling into left field and just out of reach of
Fat Daws, who made a good recovery and snapped over a throw that cut
Wade off from making more than one base on his drive.
“Wow, look at that for a starter,” yelled Buck Hart on the coaching
line. “Come on now, fellows, let’s all be the same kind of victims.
Let’s go!”
Jed Stafford was the next batter up and Honey Wiggins knew how
dangerous this port side stick artist was and he eased over two balls
before he sizzled across the first strike. He tried to slip strike two
over on the next ball but Jed liked incurves, which were outs to him
and he met the ball with the end of his bat for a neat little Texas
leaguer over Cas Gorham’s head and just out of his reach. Wade romped
down to second and Stafford was safe on first by a mile and a quarter.
The redoubtable Dutch Hecht was up next and Honey Wiggins knew that
Dutch was just as sure at the bat as he was in the field. For a while
it looked as if he intended to pass the fielder for he put over three
balls in succession. Of course, Dutch, with natural baseball brains,
waited out the next two just to see if he could draw another ball and
make first, thus filling the bases. But when it stood three and two it
was noticeable that he gripped the bat harder and dropped his shoulders
forward a little, ready to land on the next delivery.
Land he did, but, thanks to Honey Wiggin’s strategy, he did not land
as solid as he might have for Honey gave him a high one right at his
shoulder and Dutch cut under it enough to shoot a swift head high drive
straight for third base.
Jeff was right in line with it and he did not need to move to get his
glove on it. With a snappy throw he got the sphere over to Cas Gorham
before Wade could get back to his base and the result was a double play
with Stafford left on first. That made the Penguins breathe easier, but
they were not out of the woods yet, for big George Dixon was up for the
next man at bat and he promptly laced out a hit that got him on first
and advanced Stafford to second. Again the Penningtons had two men on
base and a dangerous hitter up. Captain Tad selected his bat and walked
to the plate.
“Two down, Honey, old boy. Play to this one,” coached Brownie Davis,
and Rabbit Warren from the field yelled, “You’ll pull out of this yet,
Old Stocking. Let’s go.”
“Let’s go is right. Play the batter. He can’t get anything by us,”
encouraged Jeff as he slapped his hand into his glove and moved out a
trifle.
Drexel, Daws and Warren were moving out, too, for when Captain Tad
leaned on it sometimes he leaned hard enough to make it interesting for
the fielders. He did this time.
Contrary to expectations Honey Wiggins shot over a swift ball that
grooved the plate, and contrary to expectations also Captain Tad swung
hard at the first ball pitched. There was a loud crack and Jeff started
backward. But the ball was still mounting when it passed over his
head. He turned and watched Rabbit Warren racing across the outfield.
Stafford and Dixon, running on anything for the third out, lumber past
and start for home. Captain Tad was streaking for second as fast as he
could go which was very fast indeed.
Back ran Warren, going as fast as he could travel and keeping his eyes
on the ball over his left shoulder. Back he ran into deep left field,
and he was still going when the ball started falling plummet like just
ahead of him. Rabbit made a wild lunge and a dive. The ball plunked
into his glove and he went down and rolled over and came up to his
feet, the ball still gripped in his mitt. It was the most spectacular
catch of the day and the Penguins and Penningtons went wild with
enthusiasm.
“Some ball playing for the first day of the season,” yelled Mr.
Clarkson enthusiastically, as the sides began to change. The score was
still 1 to 0 and the fourth inning had started.
And it remained 1 to 0 in spite of the best efforts of the Penguins,
for George Dixon, pitching in almost mid-season form, still held the
fighting scrubs down through the remainder of the game and Honey
Wiggins, with the fine support he was receiving from the rest of his
team, tightened up perceptibly and did not let the first team squeeze
in another tally. For the first game of the season it was a fine
exhibition of baseball and the eighteen players left the field bubbling
over with enthusiasm.
The locker room in the basement of the gym. was an interesting place
when the whole squad gathered there to change their dusty and sweaty
uniforms for more appropriate clothes for the dining hall.
“Jiminy, that was a great catch you made, Rabbit, old boy,” said Jeff
enthusiastically, slapping his friend on the shoulder.
“Well, I had to match that double play you pulled, didn’t I?” said
Warren grinning from ear to ear.
“Sure you did, you old Indian. I begin to think we’ve got a better
team than the first team at that. Notice how anxious Coach Rice was to
get Wade over on the other side just as soon as Dave Gleason pulled a
tendon. Poor Dave. Heard anything from Dr. Stout?”
“Yes,” yelled Buck Hart from another section of locker, “I passed him
coming in and he says Gleason has a mighty mean leg. He’ll have to use
a crutch for a week or two or perhaps longer.”
“Shucks, that’s too bad for Gleason. But the Penningtons needn’t
worry. We have lots of bright young men on the Penguins ready to step
into the breach. Look at Rabbit Warren, for instance. Why, he’s the
original skyscraper. When they won’t come down to him he flies up and
gets ’em. He’s been putting hair tonic on his shoulder blades, and
hanged if I don’t think he started to grow wings the way he climbed up
for that one to-day. Give him time and he’ll be――”
Further remarks of a similar nature were cut short from Jeff by a
sweater that came sailing through the air and wrapped neatly about his
head. When he unwound it Rabbit Warren was grinning at him.
“No more publicity this evening, Jeff. That’s a good job for one day.
You’ll talk me onto the first team yet.”
“Well, believe me, if Wade Grenville wasn’t rooming with me he wouldn’t
have made it to-day. See what I did for him. Why, Rabbit, you wouldn’t
believe it, but I make Wade stand on the bed every night and catch
glasses filled with water. If he spills any he has to sleep in a wet
bed. That’s why he’s such a good fielder. How about it, Wade?”
“Yes, you old sleeper, you. All the practice I ever get from you is
practice in how to snore in three languages. Fine lot of help you are
to me. I’m thinking of changing my room now that I have advanced to
real company. That Penguin outfit is some bunch of birds. They know
about as much about baseball as――”
Wade did not get any further before several members of the scrub team
began to bombard him with everything from catcher’s mitts to baseball
shoes and he had to beat a hasty retreat into the shower room.
CHAPTER XVII
A STIFF SCHEDULE
That Saturday afternoon game was the first of a series of five inning
games between the Penningtons and the Penguins that extended over
a period of just one week; the first week preceding the opening of
the season for the Pennington team with the game with Erasmus Hall
which was dated for April 21st. And it was during these games that
the Penguin players, Jeff Thatcher included, hoped to make sufficient
impression on Coach Rice to be allowed to play at least a part of the
first game.
The result was a veritable whirlwind series in which the Penningtons
and the Penguins fought it out from the first ball pitched to the last
batter up. And to give the scrub team credit, it was composed of such
high caliber material that in the seven games played they won and tied
three games, only permitting the first team a clean cut victory in the
first game of the series and in the fourth; that played on Wednesday
afternoon when the first team closed the fifth inning with a rally
that all but completely rattled Cy Gordon, the youngest of the three
pitchers, and caused him to let them pile up four runs in the one
inning drubbing the scrubs to the tune of 6 to 1, which was the worst
beating that either of the teams had suffered.
The Pennington schedule was a stiff one; according to Coach Rice the
hardest they had had in years, for it provided for two games a week and
in some weeks three games were scheduled. It began with the Erasmus
Hall game, which was not a big game but usually an interesting one for
the school from Flatbush brought down to Montvale an aggregation of
scrappy ball players who fought for every run and every out, and it was
generally considered an excellent game on which to test the mettle of
the team from the bigger institution. Following the Erasmus game came a
number of games of more or less importance ranging from the East Winton
and New City Y. M. C. A. teams to the game with the Princeton Freshmen
which occurred about the middle of May. That was the first of the
really big games and from then on the Pennington team was supposed to
keep going in full stride through the rest of May and on to the middle
of June when the climax of the baseball year was reached in the game
with Lawrencetown, an institution of about the same scholastic standing
as Pennington and jealous of annexing the State Championship each year.
It was generally a fight between the schools for this championship and
the game was rated of such great importance that although the ’varsity
P was awarded for baseball to a player who had played in seven games of
the season one of the seven must needs be the Lawrencetown contest. So,
of course, the objective of all the members of the Pennington baseball
squad was to become of so much importance to the team that the coach
would feel it quite necessary to include them in the batting order of
the team when it faced Lawrencetown.
And Jeff Thatcher was not the only one who realized that it was never
too early to begin fighting for that objective and that is the reason
why he and several others of the scrub team put everything they had
into the first five games of the practice season. Indeed, he and Rabbit
Warren played such heady baseball and handled their bats so well that
in the last game of the series on Friday afternoon, they were both
shifted to the first team as a temporary expedient by Coach Rice,
just by way of determining whether the Penningtons could be made any
stronger with them in the batting order.
Friday’s game proved to be a terrific contest, and for four innings
it went on a scoreless tie with both teams fighting a terrific battle
for supremacy. In the first half of the fifth inning Al. Canner,
the Penguin catcher, laced out a three-bagger from one of Dixon’s
deliveries and Cas Gorham followed him immediately with a single that
drove home the first run of the game. It looked to Jeff then that his
old friends of the Penguins were set up to win another game, and win it
without his help. But Dixon tightened up and struck out the next two
men and caused Gould, who was playing in Jeff Thatcher’s place on the
scrub team, and accepting his reversal with very bad grace, to raise
a high fly into Rabbit Warren’s hands. That retired the side and the
Penningtons came to the bat full of fight but one run behind their
juniors.
Lafe Gammage was the first man up and Long Lafe poled out a single
first crack out of the box, finding one of Honey Wiggins’ air tight
curves to his liking. Mickey Daily followed him with a bunt which
rolled down the third base line and was retrieved by Gould only just in
time to throw him out at first. But Lafe arrived safely on second. Buck
Hart was up and Jeff Thatcher was on deck. It was up to either one of
them to bring in that single run and tie the score, if they could not
do more.
Buck tried very hard indeed, but the best that he could do was send a
sizzling liner at Brownie Davis who almost succeeded in making a double
play of it, whipping the ball down to Dick Runyon so fast that Dick
had plenty of time to snap it back to Cas Gorham who narrowly missed
touching Lafe Gammage out as he slid back to second.
It was up to Jeff then. There were two out and a man on second and one
run needed to tie the score. Jeff weighed two bats methodically as he
walked to the plate. Outwardly he appeared very calm, but inwardly he
was as nervous as a cat. Could he do it? he kept asking himself as he
stepped up to the rubber. But the moment he squared away to face Honey
Wiggins the nervousness left him and he felt as calm and collected as
if he were about to recite a lesson in the class room.
“Get this baby, now,” he heard a mean voice coach from third base and
he turned his head to see Gould glowering at him. Jeff smiled then and
down in his heart he resolved to make good.
He watched Honey Wiggins as he squared away in the pitcher’s box and
took the signals from Al. Canner.
“Come on, Honey,” coached Canner. “This is the only one you have to put
away and the game is ours. Easy meat.”
Honey wound up. Jeff gripped the bat and moved his body slightly
forward. The ball came whistling toward him. It was a wide breaking
out curve and Jeff knew that it would shoot over the rubber for a
strike. He was not easily fooled with a wide out and he measured with
calculating eye and struck.
It was a beautiful line drive straight at Gould, and it had all the
force behind it that Jeff’s powerful arms and shoulders could muster.
Gould lunged for the ball. It hit his glove, bounced high and went on
into the outfield for a single. Big Lafe was making his long legs go
like a windmill as he raced down the third base line for home. He made
it standing up and Jeff was safely on second before Fat Daws could
throw in to Brownie Davis. The score was tied. Jeff had accomplished
his purpose.
It was well that he had, too, for Wade Grenville, who followed him
in the batting order got Honey Wiggins in a three and two hole and
then for some unaccountable reason reached for a wide one and sent a
grounder down first base line for the third and last out of the game.
“That was a bone head play of mine,” said Wade when both he and Jeff
reached their rooms.
“I can’t see why you reached for it,” confessed Jeff. “If you had
passed it up you would have walked.”
“I know it, Jeff, but somehow I thought I could pole out a safe single
over Dick Runyon’s head and perhaps get you home on it.”
“A laudable ambition, Old Scout, but I wish you’d played safe. Now if I
had pulled that, why――”
“Aw, cut it, Jeff. Quit kidding. Say, that was some smash that you shot
down to Gould. He handled it as if it was a hot potato and it looked
as if it might have been real hot at that.”
“I guess it was, Wade. I was afraid I was a goner at first. It headed
right for his mitt. I didn’t realize it had so much steam on it until I
saw it bounce off his glove. Jiminy, I’ll bet he’s so mad he could eat
nails and not notice it.”
“It’s great work, Jeff, old fellow. I’m mighty glad to see you get a
chance at the job. I think Coach Rice has got his eye on you for it at
that.”
“But Gould is pretty good,” confessed Jeff.
“Yes, he is. But I think you are just a shade better. And goodness
knows your disposition is――”
“Yes, but disposition don’t count so much in baseball,” said Jeff.
“Oh, don’t you fool yourself, Jeff. It counts a heap. I’ll bet a
doughnut hole that Gould can go up in the air and get mad quicker
than any man on the team when he’s losing. And when a man blows like
that, why he isn’t much good to the team until he gets his feet on the
ground. Now is he?”
“Well, perhaps you’re right, Wade.”
“Perhaps? I know I am, Jeff. Keep up the good work. I hope Mr. Rice
gives you a chance in the Erasmus Hall game to-morrow. Perhaps he
will. Hope he starts the game with you. Can’t tell. He might. My, but
wouldn’t Gould be peeved if he did? Anyhow, I’ll say you are a likely
substitute.”
CHAPTER XVIII
ON THE BENCH
But Wade’s hope was not realized. Jeff and Rabbit Warren and Cas Gorham
were among the substitutes whose names appeared on the bulletin board
with the regular team the next morning. Of course, Honey Wiggins and
Cy Gordon, the two extra pitchers, were also among the second string
men called into uniform, but their names along with those of Jeff,
Rabbit and Cas Gorham, appeared very definitely under the list of
“substitutes.” For some reason Jeff had a feeling of discouragement
when he realized that Coach Rice did not yet recognize him as having
first-team ability and for a few minutes he was inclined to grouch
and feel peeved about it. But his better sense soon dominated the
situation and made him realize that he, a Freshman, should be listed
as a substitute and Gould given the position at third if for no other
reason than that the Sophomore had devoted all the previous season
toward trying for the job, and evidently had been willing to play on
the scrubs for an extended period just to be in line for the job this
year.
“Gould is good,” he acknowledged to himself, as he stood in front of
the bulletin board and mentally disciplined himself. “Just because he
is hot tempered and ugly; just because I do not think so much of him
and most of the fellows of our bunch don’t like him is no reason why
he shouldn’t be playing third base. For a while the best I can expect,
I guess, is to be a sub on the big team and just hope to get a show
once in a while. I’ll bet just hanging around like that is going to get
Gould’s goat. Blame it, I want his job and, believe me, I’m going to
make myself so good that Coach Rice will have to give me more than a
substitute’s show. I’ll just――”
“Wow, I knew you’d get a chance, first shot,” said some one behind
Jeff, and turning he discovered Wade looking at the bulletin board.
“Knew I’d get a chance? What do you mean?” asked Jeff.
“Why, you poor fish, don’t you see your name on the list?”
“Yes, I see it there. But look just above it. See that word. It reads
s-u-b-s-t-i-t-u-t-e. Can’t you read?”
“Well, what does the young man want? Does he want to be crown prince or
emperor or what? My goodness, Jeff, it’s something to be in uniform and
on the bench. I think if you get that far you’ll get a chance in the
game. Anyhow, you are making progress.”
“I suppose I do want too much. But look at you, you lucky duck. Make
the first team right off.”
“Well, that’s a combination of luck and circumstances. If Dave Gleason
hadn’t pulled a tendon and if the rest of the fellows out for fielding
positions were just a little more lucky I’d be warming the bench this
afternoon myself. Just luck, old kid, and I’m afraid that it won’t
last any too long. Rabbit Warren is moving along too fast to make me
very happy. First thing I know they will bench me and shove him in. I
wouldn’t be surprised if it happened to-day. I bet you and Rabbit will
get a show before the game is over. So will Honey Wiggins.”
But Wade’s prediction was only partly right. Honey Wiggins did get a
chance. Coach Rice put him in in the seventh inning because he did not
want George Dixon to go the entire route and possibly strain his arm.
But Honey was the only one of the five substitutes who did get a chance.
Gould played an air-tight game, fielding one hundred per cent and
getting two hits out of five times up, and drawing a pass once. Whether
the presence of Jeff inspired him to do great deeds just to show the
aggressive Freshman that he hadn’t a chance in the world for the job,
or whether he was improving so steadily that he was fast reaching the
top of his form Jeff could not guess, but certainly he played brilliant
and heady ball in every inning but the ninth. His success seemed to
make him more cocky than ever then, and he all but started a fight
with the man on the Erasmus Hall coaching line. They exchanged words
that fairly made the air sizzle with their sharpness, and Gould was
all for fighting it out there and then until Umpire Stephens came over
and stopped the argument with a threat to put both Gould and the other
offending player off the field if they did not hold their tongues.
On the bench, beside Mr. Rice, Jeff could see that Gould’s nastiness
did not please the coach at all. He frowned and looked very much
displeased while the argument was taking place, and Jeff heard him
remark to Mr. Clarkson:
“That’s the worst of that boy. He’s mean clear through sometimes. If it
wasn’t that he deserved a chance, and that he is a fair enough third
baseman I’d throw him out of the squad. I’d yank him out now if the
game wasn’t so nearly finished, just to show him that I will not stand
for fresh players on a Pennington team.”
But the inning closed with the next out and that was the end of that,
and Jeff and Rabbit and Cas Gorham wended their way to the locker room
more or less discouraged with their luck.
On their way across the campus Jeff noticed a boy coming slowly out of
the infirmary door. He was bundled in a heavy coat despite the pleasant
spring warmth of the day, and he looked thin and hollow-eyed. Jeff had
to look at him twice before he recognized him.
“Well, hello,” he exclaimed, “if it isn’t Birdie Pell. Up and around
now, eh?”
“Yes, up, but not very much around. I feel as weak as the dickens and I
can’t go very far or do very much without getting disgustingly tired
out. I wanted to get over and see the game to-day but Dr. Stout would
not let me. Said I would have to be content with just strolling in the
sunshine for a week or so before I get on my feet again. How did the
game turn out?”
“Oh, we trimmed ’em, 8 to 5, but it was a good game at that. They have
a whale of a pitcher in Jack Sibley. Long, lean southpaw who can make
a ball do most anything. He had our fellows buffaloed for about four
innings. Then they got to him in the fifth and hammered out five runs
before he steadied down. I guess they did not have another man to put
in in his place or they would have derricked him. They have a good team
though. A little ragged in spots and that’s about the only reason why
we beat them. When they get in mid-season form they are going to be
some team, let me tell you. I believe they will be able to give the
Princeton Freshmen a rub. They play each other some time in May.”
“Did you play?” Pell asked, and there was something about the question
that made Jeff wonder just what the little Sophomore was thinking.
“No, I was on the bench. So was Rabbit and Cas here. Gould played third
and played a dandy game,” said Jeff, generously giving his rival full
credit.
Pell looked at Jeff quizzically for a moment. Then he said:
“Shucks, I’d love to have seen the game. But I may see the Sweetwater
game next Saturday if I am good and get back some strength.”
“Hope you do,” said Jeff moving on to catch up to Rabbit and Cas.
“Pell looks as if he had had a tough time of it, doesn’t he?” said Cas.
“Seems to have changed a heap, too,” said Rabbit Warren. “He used to
be a blamed fresh kid, always hanging out with Gould. They made a
fine pair. I think Pell has been flattered by the companionship of
Gould and, believe me, Gould has been just wise enough to work little
Birdie for all he is worth. I wonder if they are as thick as they were?
Haven’t noticed Gould wearing a path to the infirmary door visiting
Birdie, have you?”
“No,” admitted Cas Gorham, “and I think Birdie realizes, too, that
Gould isn’t such a great friend as he pretends to be. I think it sort
of hurts his pride or something or other. He seems different. Isn’t as
cocky or fresh as he used to be when he teamed up with Gould. Used to
be a regular blamed pest; fresh as they make ’em.”
“Oh, don’t fret, they’ll be back together again. Birds of a feather,
you know. Pell’s close call has taken some of the wind out of his
sails, but I’ll bet he’ll be just as fresh as ever once he gets on his
feet again and gets his running mate Gould along with him,” said Rabbit
Warren skeptically.
“Well, now I don’t know about that,” defended Jeff. “Gould didn’t even
lend a hand when Pell was in that pickle down in the locker room. Buck
Hart and I had most of the disagreeable work to do. Not that the rest
of you fellows didn’t want to lend a hand and didn’t offer to help out
all you could. That was all right. But why didn’t his good friend Gould
look after him? I think Pell, as sick as he was, noticed that Gould had
gone back on him and I’m inclined to think he’s through.”
“Oh, don’t you fret. You just wait and see if I’m not right. When Pell
gets around again his freshness will all come back, and when he gets
that way Gould is about the only fellow in school who will stand for
him.”
“I wonder if Pell is naturally a pest or whether his association with
Gould made him so. I mean by that, Gould is a fresh duck himself and
I’m half inclined to believe that Birdie Pell has just aped Gould all
the way. Tried to be as big and as boastful as his pal. I wouldn’t
wonder but that if Pell got to traveling in decent company he’d be a
fair sort of a fellow himself.”
“Well, maybe you are right,” said Rabbit, “but you’ll have to show me.
I can’t believe it until I see it work out that way. And one thing,
I won’t take the little pest under my wing to try and make a regular
fellow out of him. It would be too much of a contract, let me tell you.”
For some strange reason after he returned to his room that night Jeff
thought a great deal about Birdie Pell and what Rabbit Warren and Cas
Gorham had said concerning him. He wondered after all whether they
were right or whether he was right in thinking that perhaps Pell was
a likeable sort of fellow if he once got out of the company of Gould.
He was half inclined to believe that he was more right than either of
the other two boys, but he realized that he was hardly in a position
to provide the right sort of company for Pell since he was a Freshman
and Pell was a Sophomore. Pell would naturally chum with the Sophomore
bunch and probably held the same ideas about Freshmen that the rest of
the Sophs did. Jeff, however, decided to watch developments in Pell. He
even went so far as to contemplate approaching Dal Hoffman and several
other Sophomores whom he knew more or less intimately and liked because
they were good wholesome fellows, suggesting perhaps that if they
were willing to tolerate Pell’s company for a little while they might
develop him into a regular fellow and a worth-while sort of a chap.
CHAPTER XIX
GOULD IS SET DOWN
But Jeff never made the suggestion to Hoffman and the other Sophomore
friends he knew intimately, first of all because he thought it was a
rather delicate matter to handle without considerable deliberation.
And by the time he got through deliberating he discovered that the
prediction that was made by Rabbit Warren was in a fair way toward
being fulfilled. Birdie Pell and Gould were chumming together again,
and Birdie was apparently developing into just as much of a nuisance
because of his freshness as he had been before his accident in the
swimming pool.
Birdie had hardly been definitely discharged from the infirmary before
Jeff discovered him one evening strolling with Gould toward the shadows
of the gymnasium building around which they disappeared. Jeff knew as
well as if he had been told that the two of them were on their way
toward the back road that led across the Wading River bridge to the
woods on the far side which was out of bounds and so much out of the
way that they could plan to do almost anything and not be detected.
They were going to the woods to sneak a smoke. They were up to their
old ways again and Jeff watched them in disgust. Anything that one had
to sneak out of bounds to do was hardly worth doing to Jeff’s way of
thinking.
“By Jove, I believe Rabbit was right. Birds of a feather do flock
together. It looks as if they were both tarred with the same stick. And
Gould is the worst of the two because he is older and should have more
sense. He is leading that kid into trouble and I’m afraid Pell hasn’t
the backbone to say no to anything.”
Jeff was thoroughly disgusted with both of them after that and gave the
redemption of Pell very little thought. He had too many other things to
occupy his mind.
Spring was coming on with a rush. The first of May arrived with all
the balminess that that delightful month can bring. The majestic old
elms and maples on the campus were a brilliant green now with lush
young leaves, the ivy that sprawled over the brick walls of the school
buildings was colorful with new leaves and bright green tentacles that
were reaching out for new places into which to hook their tiny fingers.
All of the birds were back now, even the sputtering wrens that nested
in the bird boxes that the students of another generation had erected
around the school grounds, and tiny warblers of all descriptions were
whisking from one tree to another diligently seeking worms and worm
eggs and thus clearing the fine old trees of any breeding summer pests
that might destroy them. It was great to be alive such days.
It was baseball weather, too; baseball weather of just the right sort
and all of Jeff’s otherwise unoccupied time was devoted to thoughts of
the game and his efforts to develop himself into a permanent member
of the first team. He had not missed a single day’s practice since
the call for baseball candidates had been issued, and he had devoted
himself conscientiously to the work of rounding into excellent physical
shape and his best playing form.
And his efforts had not been without recognition either, for Coach Rice
and Mr. Clarkson had been watching him with critical eye ever since he
had been a member of the squad, and they had both gone to great pains
to help him in his efforts, giving him suggestions and pointing out
minor faults in his form which when corrected went a long way toward
making him a better all around player.
Since the first game of the season with Erasmus Hall he had been
accepted as one of the regular substitutes for the big team, and
every Wednesday and every Saturday thereafter his name appeared on
the bulletin board with those called out for the game. Indeed, by
the end of the second week in May he had played in three games, once
substituting for Mickey Daily on second base for an entire game, when
that sturdy little streak of lightning had to go to the infirmary with
a slight case of tonsilitis, and twice being put into the game for
Gould at third base when Mr. Rice felt that perhaps the team would work
better with the substitution than with the regular player.
Of course, Gould was none too pleased with these changes that kept him
out of the batting order and he made manifest his disagreeableness in
various ways much to the disgust of Jeff and the rest of the members
of the team who were not at all partial to having him in the game. But
it was a notable fact that the next game following the games in which
Jeff had played, Gould put up a much better exhibition of baseball. He
seemed to have it in him to play harder, as if he meant to show Mr.
Rice and the rest just what he could do when he tried. Jeff noticed
this with the rest of the fellows of the team, and the coach as well,
and he came to the same conclusion as the rest of them did; that Gould
was not giving his best to the team only when he had to.
If there was anything that made the head coach angry it was just that
fault in a player. His instructions always were, “Play it hard, no
matter how easy the game. Play everything hard.” And when he found
a player softening up on his play, or trying grand stand stuff, or
showing off in any way he was the first to call that player down.
That is what he did with Gould after the Fayville High School game. As
the Sophomore was getting dressed in the locker room the coach sent a
boy downstairs to tell him that he wanted him to report to his office.
Gould reported on his way out of the building and the coach treated the
third baseman to one of the severest lectures that he had delivered
to any boy and Gould in humiliation became very surly and ugly, and
answered back in a manner that was decidedly disrespectful.
“Look here, Gould,” said the coach, concluding the grilling he was
giving the Sophomore. “You are a fair baseball player when you want to
try. But it isn’t very often you want to try, it seems to me. I’m about
sick of it. I think you are not putting enough of yourself into the
game. You are not giving enough of yourself to the team. You are just
giving enough to slide by and that isn’t what I want. I want a fellow
to play hard all the time. Play everything hard. You know that as well
as I do. Let me see your hands.”
Gould wonderingly held out his hands. Mr. Rice looked at them closely.
“Hum, just as I thought. Trying to slide by. Giving some of your
physical resources to smoking, eh? Oh, don’t try to deny it. I’ve
suspected it for a long time and now I’m convinced. That’s nicotine
on your fingers, isn’t it? You are one of those chaps who sneak out of
bounds every night after supper and steal a smoke or two. Gould, you
can’t match baseball against cigarettes. Every time you smoke you give
just so much of your physical energy and resource to tobacco and you
have just that much less to give to the team. You have doubtless hurt
your wind and your heart by smoking. You have slowed up your brain
just a little. Your eyes are a little duller. The coördination of your
muscles isn’t quite so keen as it should be. You are lazy and willing
to let down except when you have to exert yourself, and the exertion
costs you just a little bit more than it does a boy who doesn’t smoke.
I knew I’d find the answer to it all in cigarettes, or late nights
or both. I’ve watched too many boys these years past to let you put
anything like that over on me. I am sorry it has come to this, Gould,
but until you can give me one hundred per cent of yourself, until you
can give the team and the school all your interest and not divide it
with cigarettes and pleasures, you will have to go back in the line of
substitutes and give your position to a fellow who is willing to play
hard and work hard, and give all his interest to the school, the team
and to me.”
Gould was sullenly silent for several minutes after the head coach had
stopped talking. Then he moistened his lips and spoke:
“Look here, Mr. Rice, you are accusing me of something that you are
not certain of. Those yellow stains on my fingers may not be nicotine.
Suppose I said it was iodine; that I hurt my finger in practice
yesterday. What about that?”
“Why, if you told me that, Gould, and looked me in the eyes as you
told me, perhaps I would believe you. But that wouldn’t make me change
my opinion that you have not given everything you have to the team
except when you had to. And I’m sick of such tactics. From now on you
will have to fight for your place in the sun; your place on the team.
You’ll have to give everything you have to the team or you will not
be in the batting order very frequently. Saturday I am going to keep
you on the bench and put Thatcher in for the whole game. And until you
can convince me that you have taken baseball seriously and that you
will play hard all the time I am going to keep him in the line up.
Understand? That’s all, Gould.”
That was Wednesday afternoon. Thursday morning the team was posted
for the next game, which was the first out-of-town game of the season
and Jeff, as he entered the gym., that afternoon, was surprised to be
greeted by Wade Grenville who had a broad smile on his face.
“Put her there, Old Hickey. You’ve made it at last.”
“Made what? What’s happened? What do you mean?” exclaimed Jeff, totally
surprised.
“Why the regular team, you ninny. You are slated to start the game at
third Saturday over at East Hampton. Look. There it is on the board.
See.”
Jeff looked at the bulletin and was surprised to discover that in the
batting order announced, his name appeared in the place of Gould at
third base and Gould’s name was among the list of substitutes.
“Well, by jingoes!” exclaimed Jeff jubilantly. “What’s happened?”
“Happened, you old chump? Why, Coach Rice has recognized your superior
brand of baseball. That’s what. He’s tied a can to Gould which most of
the fellows think he should have done long ago.”
“But Gould is good, Wade. There must be something behind it all. I
wonder――”
“Hello, Thatcher,” said Mr. Rice, coming up behind the group of boys.
“I’m going to give Gould a rest. He seems a little stale so I’m going
to keep him on the bench to-morrow and let you start the game. It all
depends, of course, on how you play, whether you finish it or not. Play
hard, my boy. Play it hard every step of the way. Good luck.”
“Thank you, Mr. Rice,” he said with enthusiasm. Then as the coach
passed on up the hall he turned to Wade and exclaimed:
“Oh, boy, it sure looks like a chance. Play hard! Will I! Watch
me! I’ve simply got to make good. I want a chance to play in that
Lawrencetown game and win my P.”
CHAPTER XX
FIRE!
The Custer School at East Hampton always put a snappy and thoroughly
aggressive ball team in the field and Pennington always arranged to
crowd that game past the middle of its season, so that there was no
chance of the East Hampton boys catching her with an under-developed
team.
It was the only over-night trip on the Pennington schedule and Coach
Rice summoned the team to appear at the gymnasium ready to take the bus
for the three-thirty afternoon train on Friday for a five-hour ride to
East Hampton.
It was a lively party that gathered with suitcases, bats and gloves
in the big gym. doorway when Terry McCall, the bus driver, swung his
big yellow automobile stage down the drive and backed up to receive
the load of passengers. Of course, the stage was not large enough to
accommodate the whole squad of fourteen boys without crowding and there
was a lively scramble for seats and some horse play before they all
managed to wedge themselves in somehow and get adjusted as the bus
started snorting and lurching toward the station.
They only just made the train. It stood puffing impatiently in the
station when Terry swung his bus around with a flourish, and the boys
streamed out of the rear door and rushed madly for the steps of the day
coach. A train trip with a baseball team is always a merry party as
Jeff knew for he had taken more than one as a member of the New City
Y. M. C. A. team the year before, and he joined in the general fun and
gentlemanly boisterousness they indulged in as they took possession of
a day coach that held few occupants besides themselves.
But the boisterousness gradually subsided as hour after hour of
wearying train travel rolled by, and long before they reached East
Hampton even the noisiest of them had long since subsided, raising only
an occasional appeal for “eats.”
It was a hungry crew of boys who detrained at East Hampton and made a
rush for the Custer School stage that stood backed into the graveled
approach waiting for them. And then the clamor that they raised once
they got inside was a noisy call for food, for it had been arranged
that they would take their evening meal, a little late to be sure, in
the dining hall of the school whose baseball team they were to cross
bats with the next day.
That evening meal, however, turned out to be a miniature banquet, for
the managers of the Custer School team had arranged to have the boys
of their squad eat with the Pennington group and a really elaborate
spread had been arranged, which was concluded with speeches by the
team captains and the coaches and any of the boys who could in any way
provide entertainment “stunts.”
The last “stunt” on the program was a really clever dialogue between
the Custer School captain, Roy Milliken, and the team’s mascot,
“Spike,” a Boston bull dog of very likeable disposition. Roy and Spike
talked to each other in “dog language.” Spike, apparently uninvited,
jumped on top of the table and stood in front of Roy with one foot in a
dish of olives. Roy pretended to be horrified at the dog’s conduct and
proceeded to scold the animal in surly tones, whereupon Spike began to
talk back in barks and growls until he seemed to work himself up to a
furious pitch. The little act had all the fellows in stitches before
it was concluded and the more they laughed the more Spike seemed to
enjoy himself, barking and growling and raising a terrible to-do until
Roy affectionately swept him off the table into his arms and gave him
several caressing pats on the head before putting him on the floor
where he proceeded to make the rounds of the boys in the room, getting
acquainted with all the new fellows from Pennington.
Jeff loved dogs and when the animal got around to him he picked him up
in his arms and stroked him and playfully pulled his ears, and the dog,
satisfied, snuggled down in his arms and stayed there until the party
broke up and the boys began to leave for their rooms.
Arrangements had been made to have the Pennington boys occupy extra
rooms on the second floor of one of the school buildings during their
stay and the entire squad was conducted across the campus by the boys
of Custer School with whom they had become really chummy.
It was a big, old fashioned brick building, which a half a century
before had represented the entire school, class rooms, dormitories
and master’s quarters all being in the one structure. But the school
had grown since and the original building was now one of the minor
buildings of the school group and given over entirely to rooms for most
of the members of the junior class.
As at Pennington, Jeff and Wade were roommates and it was with a sigh
of relief that they found the room they were to occupy, turned on the
lights and threw themselves onto the two couch beds that occupied
opposite corners.
“Oh, my, I’m tired out,” said Jeff, beginning to unlace his shoes.
“So am I. But we’ve had a bully time so far, haven’t we?”
“I’ll say so,” said Jeff, suppressing a yawn as he kicked off his
trousers.
“Some nice fellows at this school. I like ’em all. They are a bunch of
huskies, too. Bet they can play ball,” said Wade, crawling into the top
piece of his pajamas.
“We’ll know to-morrow, old son. Last in turns out the light. I’m in,”
yelled Jeff, tumbling under the blankets and settling down on his
pillow.
Wade snapped out the lights and followed Jeff’s example, and in less
than five minutes’ time husky snores began to make the room noisy.
A terrific clatter and clanging, yells and the tramp of feet awakened
Jeff. He sat bolt upright in bed with a strange frightened feeling. The
terrific medley of sounds continued, and above the racket he heard the
shriek of a weird whistle――a fire siren.
“Wade! Fire!” he exclaimed. Then he added, “Great cats, the room is
full of smoke. It’s here. In this building. Wade! Wade!”
He bounced out of bed and went groping about the room in the blackness
trying to find the electric light switch. He found it, snapped it on
but no light responded. The electric current had failed.
“Jiminy crickets! No light! This is a mess! Wade! Wade!”
“Wad’deyah wan’?” grumbled Wade sleepily. Jeff heard him toss in his
bed.
“Asleep in all this racket. Think of that,” cried Jeff groping toward
Wade’s corner of the room. He found the bed and seizing his roommate he
shook him roughly.
“Lemme go. Git out, you chump,” grumbled the still sleeping Wade
kicking violently at Jeff.
“Come out of this, you chump,” yelled Jeff, seizing him and dragging
him from the bed to the floor.
Wade fell out of bed with a thump and grumblingly got to his feet.
“What’s all the infernal racket for, Jeff? What’s―― Say, I smell smoke.
Jeff! What――!”
“Oh, you do smell smoke, do you? It’s about time. My golly, the house
could burn down on top of you and you’d never wake up. Get into some
clothes, quick. Remember where you put ’em? Lights are gone. Have to
get something on in the dark. Hurry. Room’s full of smoke,” cried Jeff
feeling about in places where he remembered putting his clothes.
He found his coat, trousers and shoes, and he made haste to get them
all on, meanwhile feeling about him for his suit case that contained
his baseball uniform. He found both his own and Wade’s together and
seizing them he cried to Wade:
“Come on, for goodness’ sakes. We’re about the last ones in the
building I guess.” Coughing with the smoke that was getting into
his lungs as it swept through the room on the draught created by the
open window, Jeff crossed the room, stumbling over various articles of
clothing that strewed the room. Gropingly he reached the door and found
the knob. A moment he waited as he called:
“Wade, are you ready?”
“Yes, let’s get out of here quick,” said Wade, bumping into him as he,
too, groped for the door.
“All right. We’ve got to open the door and close it quickly though,
because there is no telling what the draught might do in the way of
bringing the fire this way. Ready. Let’s go.”
Jeff swung open the door and stepped out into the hall and Wade crowded
close behind him. They slammed the door shut with a bang and looked
around.
A dull red glow, ugly and sinister, lighted the long hall, and clouds
of smoke, thick and black and disconcerting, rolled past them. The
noises in the building had ceased but outside they could hear shouts
and calls, the tooting of fire engines’ whistles, the sound of breaking
glass and the swishing slosh and steady pounding of streams of water.
“My goodness, the firemen have their hose lines going already!” Jeff
exclaimed to Wade. “We must be the last ones in the building. All the
rest have cleared out long ago.”
“Yes, and I wonder if we are going to get out before we get trapped,”
said Wade with an unmistakable note of concern in his voice.
“Sure, we will,” said Jeff with encouragement that he did not entirely
feel.
“Well, let’s go. But which way? Listen! What’s that noise? Sounds
horrible!” exclaimed Wade.
Jeff listened and cold chills crept up and down his back. It was a
steadily growing moaning roar――the voice of the fire as it gathered
in volume and swept through the building. A sinister crackling sound
accompanied it, too, and the dull glow through the smoke grew brighter.
“Jiminy, that’s some fire,” cried Jeff, becoming slightly panic
stricken as he realized how close the fire was.
They started down the hallway together, making in the direction they
felt the stairs must lay. They hurried forward, through the smoke that
was thickening fast, protecting their eyes and nose with their free
arms while they lugged their suit cases with the other.
“Jiminy, where are those stairs?” panted Wade after a moment.
“Just ahead, I’m sure,” coughed Jeff.
“See any red exit lights? Might be a short way to a fire escape,” said
Wade.
“Nope, all the lights in the building are out, evidently. I wonder if
the fire started in the power plant in the basement. Bet it did. Seems
to me――”
_Crash! Bang!_
Somewhere down stairs in the building came a terrific, crashing
explosion. Jeff and Wade staggered under the concussion, and the whole
building shivered and shook for the fraction of a second.
“Great cats, what was that?” cried Wade in real terror.
“Must have been a boiler in the basement. Come on, for goodness’ sakes,
let’s get out of here or we’ll be trapped sure,” cried Jeff, for a
moment losing control of himself and permitting utter panic to sway
him.
But an instant later he got a firmer grip on himself and began to
think more clearly than he had at any time since he first discovered
the fire. Thicker, blacker smoke was rolling into the hallway now and
behind them Jeff could hear the roar of flames more clearly. There was
a peculiar slope to the floor, too, which led Jeff to believe that
somewhere down the hall in the direction from which they had come a
hole had been torn in the floor by the explosion. He realized instantly
that if this were true that hole would create a new draught that would
bring the flames up onto their floor in terrific volume.
“Quick, Wade, we’ve got to move mighty fast now or the whole building
will be in flames. Wow, there are the stairs. There, right ahead.”
Outlined through the smoke he could see the iron railings of the
stairway, and seizing Wade by the arm he plunged toward them, Wade
following eagerly beside him.
They reached the top step and started down. Great clouds of thick,
black, gaseous smoke were rolling upward toward them. They wondered
vaguely whether they could struggle through them and make the first
floor and the open air safely. Down stairs they could hear the flames
roaring louder than ever. They could hear the hiss and spatter of hose
lines, too, and the thunder of the water pounding against the floor and
side walls.
“Must be a ripper of a fire. Listen to the water they are pouring into
it,” exclaimed Jeff, as they started down the stair well.
Down they went step by step, working their way cautiously, for by this
time they could not see where they were putting their feet and each
had a vague fear that at any moment they might step off into space and
go tumbling down the stair well, so thick was the smoke. The draught
was drawing it up the stair well in ever increasing volume and Jeff
realized that ere long the flames would follow. He knew that they must
get clear of the stairs as soon as possible and out of the building
before many minutes had passed or else they would be doomed. Already
they were both nearly suffocated with the terrible nauseating smoke
fumes.
They continued on. Presently they reached a landing and a bend in the
stairs; as they turned they could behold part of the flame-swept lower
story of the building, and they gasped with horror as they realized
what a terrific fire was developing there. It was a veritable furnace
toward the far end of the structure, and they realized too that the
flames were sweeping toward their end of the building with terrifying
speed. The structure was surely doomed.
Presently they reached the floor, and found themselves in a cooling
draught that came evidently from an opened door that led to the campus.
They could not see the doorway for the smoke, but they knew in which
direction safety lay and they turned to go.
But as they did, a strangely pitiful sound came to Jeff’s ears. It was
the sharp whimper of a dog in pain and fright. It came from somewhere
up the hall, and Jeff stopped and clutched Wade’s arm.
“Listen. That must be Spike, their mascot. Bet he’s caught in the
building. We ought to save him, Wade, if we can.”
“Yes, but where is he? We ought to save ourselves, too, Jeff. Come on,
boy. Don’t take a chance. Safety is right ahead. Let’s get out while
we can.”
“You go, Wade. There, I heard him again. He must be right here
somewheres. You go on out. I’ll follow directly. Just want to find
that pup. Go, Wade,” and Jeff shoved his roommate ahead of him toward
the door and turned back to find Spike, whose whimper he could still
faintly hear.
Jeff was coughing and gagging with the smoke. His lungs felt as if they
would burst for want of a breath of pure air and his head spun with the
blood that was pent up there, yet he took a half dozen steps into the
swirling smoke, calling at the same time in hope that the dog would
come to him. Presently he found himself in the stair well again, with
the thick black cloud of smoke sweeping past him. He turned and stepped
aside to avoid the terrible volume of the smoke borne upward on the
draught, and called again and again hopefully. But as far as he could
make out not even an answering whimper was uttered.
“Perhaps he’s found his own way out. In that case I guess I’d better
be going myself,” said Jeff aloud. Then turning, he started in the
direction he thought the doorway lay. A half dozen steps forward he
walked, groping blindly. But his hands came in contact with nothing
at all. Had he gone in the right direction? No, the door was this way
to the left. He moved to his left a little and tried again, only to
presently fetch up against a blank wall. This startled him. Perhaps
the door was here. He groped about again, panic mounting swiftly. He
stepped briskly forward and the next moment he beheld with terror that
he was facing tongues of flames that were advancing toward him.
Hastily he retreated. Then in his excitement he tried to recall which
was the front and which was the back of the building, but for the life
of him he could not remember. Then suddenly the truth dawned upon him.
He was lost――lost in a strange, flame-swept building. He had heard of
firemen being in similar circumstances, and he recalled with horror
the fate of some of them. More than one had perished in this way. Such
thoughts were far from encouraging. What should he do? Which way should
he turn? The smoke was terrible――almost unbearable now. He knew that if
he did not find the doorway soon he would be overcome with the fumes
and gases and then he knew that he would perish.
The flames were drawing closer, too. Weird lights flashed through the
swirling smoke. It suddenly seemed to Jeff that he was surrounded by
fire. And he knew that he could not stay in the building much longer
and not be overcome. Blindly he started in another direction, hoping
again to find the stairs, or the doorway, or perchance a window through
which he could get one single breath of fresh air. On he plunged until
suddenly he brought up with a bump against a jutting corner in the
wall. This did not help him to locate himself. Indeed it confused him
more. Here were two passages, one straight in front of him, the other
leading off to his right. Which way?
He started on again straight ahead, then suddenly above the roar of the
fast approaching flames he heard one terror-stricken howl, followed by
a series of whines. Spike again, and he was close at hand. This seemed
to steady Jeff’s nerves. He stopped, listened, then called:
“Here, Spike―― Where are you―― Good old Spike. Come here.”
Again he heard the whine almost at his feet, and reaching down he
groped about in the smoke.
His hand came in contact with the animal, huddled beside a bookcase
Jeff had not noticed before. Jeff sensed something strange about the
animal and immediately began feeling for his collar. Hooking his
fingers into it, he drew Spike out of his hiding place and lifted him
into his arms, dropping his suit case with its contents of precious
baseball paraphernalia which until now he had not realized he had
been carrying through all his peril. In the smoke he made a hasty
examination of the dog. He was injured. Something had fallen on him,
perhaps as a result of the explosion. One side was badly cut and
bruised and his two front legs hung limp and helpless.
“Crackey, Spike, you sure got it rough, didn’t you?” said Jeff
soothingly. “How did it happen that the fellows went off and left you.
Or did you get lost and――and――say, you _are_ crippled, aren’t you? You
can’t get out of here alive alone, that’s sure. I don’t know whether
I’m going to get out myself. But we’ll try, old fellow, we’ll try.”
He snuggled the dog close to his chest and then, still protecting his
eyes and nose with his crooked arm, he staggered on down the passageway
again, hoping that somehow, by the merest chance, the merest good luck,
he would find an exit, or perhaps come in contact with some of the
firemen who must be fighting the flames inside the building. He knew
that he must find relief soon or――
He tripped. Something smooth and round was under his feet. It was a
line of hose! Instantly stories he had read and heard told of how
firemen had saved themselves under similar circumstances came to his
mind. The hose line led somewhere. It was a guide to the way out of
the building. Many a fireman, by following a hose line, had found open
air, and relief from smoke punishment. They usually followed it on
their knees with their faces close to the cold, pulsating rubber, for
the water throbbing through the line generated a layer of cold, sweet,
fresh air about the hose which could be breathed.
Jeff dropped to his knees and holding his nose on one side of the hose
and Spike’s on the other he struggled forward, following the line. On
he crawled. His knees and elbows were soon skinned and filled with
splinters. But he knew that if he kept on he would sooner or later
find a way out. It was hard going and even with his nose to the hose
line he could not get enough clear air to overcome the gases he had
swallowed. He was growing weaker. He only hoped that he had strength
enough to keep up a little longer. He exerted every ounce of will
power he possessed and fought stubbornly. Then suddenly, to make
the situation more horrible than ever, the hose line began to move.
Some one was pulling away from him his only guide to safety. Jeff in
desperation clutched at the smooth black rubber tube madly! Slowly it
drew away from him! In desperation he half struggled to his feet and
shouted frantically! And the next instant he beheld four vague shapes
looming out of the smoke and coming toward him. They were firemen. They
had come to his rescue.
The firemen half led and half carried Jeff, semi-conscious and still
clutching Spike, to the open air and safety. A great shout went up
from the crowd outside when they saw them appear in the doorway of the
building and make their way through swirling smoke clouds to the campus.
Eager hands seized Jeff and carried him out of the danger zone; then
with a crowd of Custer and Pennington boys gathered around, Jeff was
laid on the grass, and one of the school physicians began to work over
him.
“I’m――all――right―― Don’t fuss――over――,” said Jeff, after a moment.
“Just――give――me――a――drink――of――water.”
The drink was provided and so were restoratives, but the clear, fresh,
invigorating air was the best restorative of all, and soon Jeff was
able to sit up and grin sheepishly.
At the sight of his smile Wade Grenville set up a wild shout which
developed into a cheer that echoed across the whole campus.
“Where’s Spike?” asked Jeff, when the shouts had subsided.
Roy Milliken crowded forward then and shook Jeff’s hand. “Thanks, old
fellow,” he said huskily to Jeff. “Spike and I got separated on our way
out and I guess he must have thought I was lost and went back to find
me. Poor beast got smashed up. A couple of the fellows took him over to
the basement of the gym. and made him comfortable. Thanks again, old
man; it was a mighty gritty thing to do.”
“Shucks, don’t mention it. I’m going over to the gym. myself and have a
plunge.”
“Right-o, go ahead. It will make you feel a heap better. And I’ll get
trainer Al Meyers to give you a good alcohol rubdown afterward. Then
you’ll be fit to play baseball this afternoon; that is, if there is to
be a game.”
CHAPTER XXI
THIRD BASE THATCHER
The question of whether there was to be a game or not was long debated
that morning by the Custer School authorities. The fire had created no
end of excitement at the school and in the village. And when the news
of the burning of the fine old school building got abroad by means of
the newspaper telegraph system anxious parents from all corners of the
country began to telephone and telegraph concerning the safety of their
boys.
It was long after daylight before the firemen got control of the fire
and finally put it out, and when the last of them had gone back to
their stations the gaunt, smoking ruins of one wing of the building
stood out against the green spring verdure of the campus, stark and
grimly fire-blackened.
There was a tremendous feeling of unrest among the students, too, for
all of them had been aroused from their beds at an early hour that
morning and of course none of them had returned to catch up on their
sleep. Under such conditions the school authorities were not certain
whether to attempt to play the scheduled baseball game or not.
At eleven o’clock that morning a conference was called in the
administration building by Headmaster Dr. Shwagert, of Custer School.
Coach Rice and Mr. Clarkson, and the Pennington captain, Tad Sloan,
were included, with the two coaches of the Custer School team, Roy
Milliken, and several of the school department heads. And at this
conference the advisability of playing the game was carefully talked
over. The conclusion was, however, that the students needed something
to take their minds off the catastrophe of the night and announcement
was made that the game would go on.
The announcement was greeted with enthusiasm by the students and the
players of both teams as well, for all of the boys were as eager for
the contest as they had been before the fire. To be sure, most of the
Pennington boys, including Jeff, had lost their baseball togs and
some of their equipment in the flames, but an hour’s rummaging in
the gymnasium of the Custer School brought to light enough available
equipment and cast-off uniforms to fit out the players who had lost
their things, and by noon time everything was ready for the contest.
The game was arranged for two-thirty, as it had been originally
scheduled, and of course the entire student body of the East Hampton
school turned out and lined the field. Even the mascot, Spike, was
brought out from his resting place in the basement of the gym. and
taken to the Custer School’s bench, where, swathed in bandages, he was
propped up on several gay pillows requisitioned from some of the boys’
rooms, and despite his suffering he evidently enjoyed the attentions
showed to him, because he made a valiant effort to wag his stump
of a tail every time any of the boys approached him. And he seemed
especially grateful to Jeff, for when the third baseman went over to
give him an affectionate pat the dog licked his hand by way of thanking
him for his rescue.
But as a contest the game was far from a success. Indeed it was a
very poor exhibition of baseball on the part of both teams, for when
the boys got out on the field they realized soon enough that the
excitement, keyed-up nerves, and loss of sleep had left them in far
from fit condition to do their best as athletes.
Coach Rice approached Jeff just before the game was called and taking
him aside spoke to him in a very fatherly fashion.
“Look here, Thatcher, I planned to start you at third to-day, as I told
you. But you had a rather trying experience last night which must have
taken a hard toll of your physical resources. I am inclined to keep you
on the bench to-day and let Gould play. You may need a rest more than
you need the physical exertion of playing the game. How do you feel,
boy?”
Jeff’s disappointment was evident instantly.
“Oh, look here, coach,” he said eagerly, “there’s nothing the matter
with me at all. Really there isn’t. I feel as fit as a fiddle. That
swim and rub down I had just about set me up. And I got a good nap over
in the gym., too. I’m just crazy to play.”
The coach was silent for a moment while he studied the boy. Then he
smiled and said:
“All right. I’ll let you go in. But promise me when you feel that the
exertion is too much for you you will let me know. I don’t want to be
responsible for having you break down when you get back to school and
cause you to have a session in the infirmary, you know.”
“Oh, don’t fear, coach. I’m all right. Just let me go in.”
The coach gave Jeff his way, but the new third baseman soon realized
that Mr. Rice knew a lot more about the physical capabilities of boys
than he did. He was far from being at the top of his game and his
playing was decidedly ragged. But at that he seemed to have himself
better in hand than most of the other players, for they were all just
as ragged as he was and some of them a great deal more so. About the
only one who seemed to have his feet on the ground at all was sturdy
little Tad Sloan, the catcher and captain. He played a good, heady
baseball game, and he tried valiantly to instill his own confidence
into the rest, but with little success.
The game opened up a veritable “swat fest,” to quote the baseball
writers. The Custer School pitcher, Ray Strong, was in bad shape during
the first three innings and the visitors found him for several bunches
of clean hits ranging from sizzling singles, to a long three-base drive
by Dutch Hecht that brought in two runs.
But big George Dixon seemed to be no better off than the Custer School
man, for he was “as wild as a tom cat,” as Coach Rice expressed it. He
passed the first and second man up and served a wide out to the next
Custer batter, who promptly landed on it for a smash into right field
that brought both runners home and put him in a position to score on
the next hit, which was not long in coming. Indeed, the Custer School
players buried Dixon under an avalanche of hits in the first and second
innings and he finally appealed to Coach Rice to take him out until he
could steady down. Honey Wiggins went in after that and seemed to be
just the man to step into the breach, for he steadied down and actually
struck out two of the opposing players for the first two strike outs of
the game.
They took out Ray Long, too, in the third and put in a young husky
with terrific speed and fine control, but very little versatility in
pitching anything but straight balls. He was good, however, and he
seemed to be working on something more than pure nerve which had been
Long’s case for the first three innings.
Each side had scored heavily in the opening innings, with the
advantage going to the Custer School team. The tally stood 8 to 6
at the beginning of the fourth inning. But both teams showed signs
of steadying down, however, and with the advent of new pitchers the
hitting suddenly let down. Indeed, Honey Wiggins held the Custer
team to two hits in the succeeding three innings and neither of them
amounted to more than getting a man on base.
The new Custer pitcher also kept the hits scattered until the beginning
of the seventh, when big Lafe Gammage, the second man up, slammed a
likely bingle between short and third, and Mickey Daily beat out a
pretty bunt and advanced Lafe to second. There were two on and one out.
Buck Hart was up next and Buck was due for a hit.
The speed artist on the Custer mound looked the situation over
carefully and realized that he was in a hole. He tried to coax Buck to
swing at an offering a trifle wide that zipped over with the speed of a
cannon ball, but Buck refused. He tried another one a little low and
Buck only smiled. There were two balls on him and no strikes.
The Custer pitcher calculated that it was time now to put over a
strike, figuring that Buck would pass it just on a chance that it might
be called a ball, so he whipped over one that fairly sizzled as it cut
the inside corner of the plate. Buck saw it was a likely ball, and he
made a vicious stab at it and connected. It went crashing toward the
first baseman, who was playing close to his bag, and it looked for a
moment as if Buck had batted into a double play.
It was a terrifically hot ball that the first baseman tried to field,
but he fumbled it, the sphere shooting at a tangent toward second base.
Wildly he scrambled for it, while the pitcher raced to cover first.
Meanwhile, Lafe had gone down to third and Mickey Daily was racing to
second. The chances for a double play had gone glimmering with that
error and it was evident that it was going to be a hard job to even
catch Buck at first. Lafe overran third, and watching the scrambling
first baseman started for home, Gleason, on the coaching line, gave him
the signal and he sprinted for the plate.
By that time the first baseman had fielded the ball, and seeing a
runner streaking for the plate he whipped the horsehide down to the
catcher. But the throw was low, and as the catcher tried to dig the
sphere out of the dust Lafe slid over with long arms and legs flying,
and the umpire called him safe.
That left Daily on second and Buck Hart on first and Jeff Thatcher was
the next man up.
Jeff had one hit to his credit so far. He decided that he wanted
another to bring Daily in and tie the score. And he got it. He leaned
on the very first ball pitched and smashed it over the second baseman’s
head for a fine clean single, and meanwhile Daily, who was working on
a long lead off the base, scored standing up, while Buck Hart went to
third. The score was evened up, with a man on first and a man on third
and only one out. It looked as if Pennington could sew up the game
right there,――it looked that way but it did not work out that way.
Instead, Dave Gleason, the next man up, batted into a double play. Jeff
was caught at second by a snappy play by the Custer short stop, and
Dave Gleason was thrown out with a yard or two to spare at first and
the side was retired.
With the score tied the Custer team came up to the bat for the last
half of the seventh full of determination. And they started to make
good with the first player, who found Honey Wiggins for a hit just out
of reach of the shortstop.
The next player up was one of the best batters on the Custer team and
Jeff had been watching him the entire game. As he picked up his stick,
Jeff noticed that the Custer coach passed him a signal. He could not
interpret it but he made a wild guess at it. The man at the bat was a
slugger. A wise coach, under the present circumstances, with all of
the players looking for a slashing hit, would doubtless signal the
batter to bunt and try and beat it out while the man on first went down
to second. Jeff realized that there were a dozen chances to one that
he had guessed wrong; but playing for a lucky break, and instead of
backing out when the slugger came to bat, he set himself for a sprint
in toward the plate.
He started a moment after the ball left Honey Wiggins’ hand, and
sprinted toward the batter. And he had guessed right. The Custer
slugger shorted his bat and bunted a soft rolling bunt that bounded
directly toward the oncoming Jeff. On the run Jeff scooped it up,
snapped it down to first, and Lafe Gammage, on his toes, relayed it to
second for a double play. The Pennington crowd went wild, and there
were cheers for Jeff even from the Custer School contingent, for he had
displayed a brand of snappy baseball in a game that had been as ragged
as could be, which, perhaps, was one reason why his play stood out so
conspicuously. But regardless of that fact the cheers sounded good to
him, and especially good came the shout from right field, where Wade
Grenville yelled:
“That’s baseball, old Frog.”
With two out it looked as if the inning would be closed with the next
man up, and Honey Wiggins pitched to him, determined to make him fan.
But Honey did not know how really dangerous this batter was or he
would have been more discreet. The third ball that was served to him
evidently looked to be just what he wanted, for he swung with all his
might. A startling crash resulted, and the horsehide went soaring up
and up and out, far over Jeff Thatcher’s head and on into left field.
Dutch Hecht was running back as fast as his short legs could carry him,
which was mighty fast at times. But in this instance Dutch and his
legs were not equal to the occasion, for when the ball hit the ground
Dutch was still running toward the spot it dropped, and when he finally
recovered it and threw it back to Jeff, a wild shout went up from the
stands, for the runner had crossed the plate for a home run, and, as it
proved, the winning run of the game, for in the remaining two innings
neither Custer nor Pennington were able to score again, and the final
tally was 9 to 8 in favor of the home team.
But despite the loss of the game Jeff did not feel as despondent
as might have been the case, for on their way back to the Custer
gymnasium, Coach Rice came over to his side and walked with him a
little way.
“That was heady baseball you played in the seventh inning. I like to
see a man use his head that way. Of course you got a lucky break,
too, but I like to see a man on his toes and ready to take advantage
of lucky breaks just as you did. I guess we’ll have to give you the
regular job at third base, Thatcher.”
CHAPTER XXII
TREACHERY?
Spring swung swiftly onward toward June and the finals,――the
examinations toward which every fellow in the school had been looking
forward since mid-year with a certain amount of worry and not a few
misgivings. And one after another the games on the baseball schedule
were becoming history as each Saturday and Wednesday slipped by. Each
game was becoming harder now, for the Pennington team was reaching
the stiffest part of its schedule. But the team was making a fine
record in spite of the strong combinations that the players were
pitted against. Bedford Hall was well trounced in a sizzling game that
brought out all sorts of fine baseball; Carlton Hill Prep was defeated
by a narrow margin; Brunswick, the hard-hitting champions of Sussex
County Scholastic League, were beaten in a ten-inning game, and even
the Princeton Freshmen were humbled after an extra-inning session that
reached a dramatic climax when Wade Grenville poled out a home run
right after a smashing double by Buck Hart. Binghamton High, Hanover
Prep and the Crescent Club of Dover were humbled successively, and
the Pennington team seemed to be moving along irresistibly toward a
complete clean-up of its schedule, when quite suddenly it received
a setback that probably did the team more good than several more
victories.
The Washington-Childs School team came to Pennington. It was a little
school and actually a little team. The nine was composed of boys
none of whom was older than seventeen, and many of them looked to be
about fifteen. They were all short, stocky, sturdy players except the
pitcher, who was the giant of the squad, a long, rangy country boy with
hands as big as fielders’ mitts; at least they looked that big as they
dangled at the ends of his grotesquely long lean arms. His feet were
big and his face was big and round and good-natured and covered with
freckles that ranged from the size of pinheads to some the size of a
dime. He looked more like a country clown than a baseball player, and
the Pennington boys looked at him and smiled. Here, they thought, was
a break in their stiff schedule. This would be a romp; a veritable
walkaway, and unfortunately they went onto the field with that attitude
of mind.
Their supreme confidence was elevated to the heights of absolute
conceit, after the first inning, for the visiting team was set down
hitless while they poled out three safe drives off of the freckle-faced
pitcher’s delivery which netted them a run. It certainly looked easy.
But the confident Penningtons soon discovered that things are not
always the way they look from first appearances. Somehow, it really
looked as if it were an accident, one of the Washington players landed
on George Dixon’s delivery for a two-bagger in the second inning and
the next man up placed a neat sacrifice hit between first and second
and advanced the runner to third. Then in business-like fashion the
next player up, a lad not a day older than fifteen, slammed a single
just out of reach of Mickey Daily, and the man on third romped home.
The inning ended with the next man up, but the score was tied.
The Pennington players came in, slightly puzzled to understand just how
it all happened. They were still quite certain that it had all been an
accident and they decided to alter the score right there in the last
of the second and take a lead that would just about discourage the
visiting team.
But accidents seemed to continue to happen. Jed Stafford, always a
reliable hitter, was the first man up, and the good-natured face full
of freckles in the pitcher’s box proceeded to bend some mystifying
curves over the plate that Jed could only marvel at but could not
possibly find with the end of his bat. It took four pitched balls to
send Jed back to the bench, as puzzled as ever.
“Jiminy, that boy has something on the ball, believe me,” he assured
Coach Rice.
“Hum, I noticed you didn’t have anything on the end of your bat,” said
the coach sarcastically; “you fanned like a novice. I guess when you
kids get through you’ll know you’ve been up against a pitcher. He’s
just about the best man to step in that pitcher box this season or I
miss my guess.”
The coach was right. He of the long arms and the freckles made the
heavy hitting Dutch Hecht, the next man up, look like an amateur. He
gave him three balls, at which Hecht refused to strike, and then he
proceeded to bend three more over the plate in such fashion that Dutch
simply grunted as he swung at the last.
About that time the opposing catcher began to liven up, too, and talk a
little. And the line of baseball “guff” he handed out completely took
the wind out of the next batter’s sails, and he fanned, too. Pennington
had gone down one, two, three,――three successive strike outs, an
“accident” that had not happened to the team all season.
To be sure, the fellows took a brace right there. Their conceit had
been nicely taken down and they decided that the only way they could
beat the combination they were facing was to take them seriously and
play their hardest. They did. But somehow their hardest did not seem
to amount to much. The visiting players, with all the confidence in
the world, waded right into George Dixon and spattered hits around the
diamond and outfield something scandalous, and while the Pennington
players did their best to keep these hits from developing into runs,
their best was none too good and five runs did slip through.
As for the opposing pitcher, he of the freckles, long arms and a
smile, there seemed to be nothing in the way of curves that he could
not deliver to perfection when he had to. He had slow balls and swift
balls, too, floaters and a mystifying assortment of almost everything
in the pitching line, and the result was he made the Pennington players
look like a lot of sand-lot kids. Indeed when the dust finally settled
and the game was neatly folded away in the official score book, the
Pennington players discovered that the Washington pitcher had left a
humiliating record behind him. He struck out ten men, and allowed six
hits from which they managed to get one run, and that in the first
inning. That was all. They had been defeated to the tune of 5 to 1. The
worst beating they had received during the entire season so far.
“Crackey,” said Wade Grenville to Jeff, in the locker room after the
game, “I never faced anything like that for pitching. He’s going to be
one of the best pitchers in the country when he gets three years more
on his shoulders. There didn’t seem to be a thing he couldn’t make the
ball do.”
“It surely was air-tight pitching. I begin to think we don’t know a
thing about the game the way they trimmed us. Some pitching, I’ll say.”
“He was a wiz. I’d almost believe he was a ringer,――a semi-pro. or
something like that,” said Buck Hart disconsolately, as he pulled off
one cleated shoe and threw it into his locker.
“Oh, he’s no ringer,” said Coach Rice, who came up in time to hear
Buck’s remark. “He’s an honest-to-goodness student at Washington-Childs
and he sure had you fellows looking like a lot of posts.”
“I’ll tell the world,” said big George Dixon; “I’ll tell ’em, too,
that he’s no ringer, either. I know who he is. He’s Badger Clark, a
fellow from Iowa; rich ranchman’s son; and I’ve heard that Yale and
Harvard and Princeton are all trying to make him believe that he’ll
make the mistake of his life if he doesn’t register at their particular
institution next year.”
“Well, whoever gets him will be mighty fortunate,” said Coach Rice.
But that defeat, coming as it did in the tightest and hardest part
of the Pennington schedule, really helped the fellows, for whatever
conceit and overconfidence had been accumulating as a result of their
succession of victories disappeared over night. They suddenly realized
that they were just a baseball team and not a lot of champions, and
they settled down to afternoon practice with more of a feeling that
practice was necessary than they had had heretofore.
The team had not undergone any radical changes during the season.
Rabbit Warren, Cas Gorham and Brownie Davis, the three first string
substitutes, were given a number of chances to fill in for regulars
who were taken out for some reason or another, and Gould, who still
reported for each game in uniform, was given an occasional opportunity
to fill in for Thatcher, Buck Hart or Mickey Daily; but he was listed
as being among the substitutes and Thatcher became the permanent third
baseman of the team, clinching his hold on the position by playing a
steady and dependable game as he well knew how to play, giving his best
to the team and occasionally flashing bits of brilliant baseball that
pleased the coach and his assistant and made the rest of the players
proud of him. He was Third Base Thatcher and living up to his name.
But Gould hung on despite the discouragement of losing his job as a
regular. He hung on for much the same reason that Jeff had been eager
to become a fixture on the team. Gould was a Sophomore, and as a
Freshman the preceding year he had been a substitute third baseman, but
he had not been given the privilege of playing in the Lawrencetown game
and thereby winning his letters,――winning the privilege of wearing a
buff “P” on cap and blue jersey. He wanted that honor. He wanted to win
his letters and that was the one reason why he stuck to the squad as a
substitute, hoping, of course, that chance, or luck, or something would
make it possible for him to play in the Lawrencetown game long enough
to be entitled to that privilege.
The school ruling was that to win a letter for baseball a player had to
play in seven scheduled games during one season, but one of those seven
games had to be the game with Lawrencetown. Gould had taken part in
more than seven games and so had Jeff, but it was necessary for both of
them to play in the Lawrencetown game before they could be awarded the
honor they strove for. So Gould clung on, although it was evident that
Thatcher had made the regular position at third, hoping no doubt that
something would happen, or that Coach Rice would relent at the last
moment, as coaches frequently do, and shove him into the game just so
that he could earn his letter.
But as the schedule was played it began to look as if there was small
opportunity for Gould to get the chance he was looking for. Coach
Rice did not seem to consider him with any more favor than he had
immediately after the Fayville High School game. He made Gould earn
every opportunity to play at all, and he demanded every bit as much
energy and loyalty and attention to practice as he did from the regular
players.
Gould was not of the temperament to accept a situation of this sort
with good grace. The humiliation he had suffered at being put among
the substitutes had been a bitter pill for him to swallow, but to be
continued as a second-string man while he watched Thatcher make good in
his old job hurt his natural conceit and pride more than he was willing
to admit even to himself.
He went about with a perpetual grouch, and he did far less bragging
than he had done before. He became very unpopular in his class, too,
because of the disposition he developed, and there were few of his
former friends who appeared to care very much about him. Yet in spite
of it all one boy clung to him as closely as ever and seemed to admire
him as much as he had in former days. That was Birdie Pell. It seemed
very strange to most of the fellows that this should be so. Jeff,
for one, could not understand why the little Sophomore should still
insist on chumming with Gould, who to appearances had developed into a
thoroughly unpleasant person. Others tried to understand it, too, and
failing, classed Birdie Pell in the same category as Gould, and as a
result had very little to do with him. Yet this seemed to make but very
little difference to Pell, for he went blithely on his way of palling
with Gould, until they became a thoroughly lonesome couple, finding
their own pleasures and developing their own interests.
Jeff devoted a great deal of thought to this strange companionship and
tried to analyze the reason for it. But in the end he had to give it up
as a problem too deep for him to solve. For some reason he liked Birdie
in spite of his associations and some unpleasant faults of personality.
And Pell seemed to think well of him, for even though Gould hated Jeff
with a hate that was almost sinister Birdie was always pleasant to
Thatcher even in Gould’s company. When they passed Thatcher on the
campus, though Gould glowered and looked ugly, Birdie always smiled
and had a cheery word, and in the halls of the school buildings Pell
frequently stopped to chat just a moment with Thatcher while classes
were changing.
As the spring term drew on toward June and the time for final
examinations, Jeff found that he had a lot more to think about than
baseball. School work was piling up fast and getting stiffer and
stiffer for the entire year was being reviewed and new work was being
crowded in as well. With the examinations looming ahead, Jeff, and most
of the other fellows, were cramming hard, burning the midnight oil, so
to speak, whenever they could find opportunity.
Especially were the baseball men studying hard, for there was a
scholastic rule at Pennington that no boy could play on any of the
athletic teams representing the school unless his school standing was
all that it should be.
The final examinations were scheduled for the eighth of June and
the last and crucial game of the season, the Lawrencetown game, was
scheduled for the following Saturday, which was the fifteenth of June,
and all of the players realized that to be eligible for the big game
of the season they would all have to pass the examinations with flying
colors.
And besides this highly important reason Jeff had still another reason
for wanting to make a good showing in his studies. The other reason was
Mr. Davidson, the President of the Third National Bank, who was making
it possible for Jeff to remain at Pennington. During the school term
Jeff had written repeatedly to his benefactor just by way of keeping
in touch with him and informing him of his school standing, and the
few letters that he had received in answer to his messages were always
hearty, encouraging and very cheerful. Indeed Mr. Davidson maintained
what almost amounted to a fatherly interest in Jeff, and especially was
he interested in his baseball career.
Several times he had motored over to Pennington of a Saturday afternoon
and watched the team play, and he was always very careful to seek out
Jeff and have a cheerful chat with him before the boy went back to the
locker room.
Realizing this interest in him, Jeff studied hard as the final
examinations approached. Indeed he soon became a veritable “bone,”
to quote Wade Grenville, who frequently had to roar to Jeff to turn
out the light and come to bed. In truth Jeff became so serious over
his studies that he often carried one text book or another about with
him, snatching odd moments to study. Especially did he carry around
his Cæsar, for he realized that he was weaker in his Latin than in any
other study. And strange to relate it was this conscientious habit that
brought Jeff Thatcher no end of trouble and resulted in a situation
that threatened again to wreck his whole career at Pennington.
Jeff carried his Cæsar in his outside jacket pocket most of the time,
and one day early in June, having a half hour to spare before climbing
into his uniform for practice he sat in the sun on the gym. steps and
thumbed over his translations, committing a particularly hard passage
to memory. He worked at it right up until the time the other members of
the squad began to arrive in the gym., then, as he thought, he slipped
the book into his pocket and went down stairs to the locker room to
undress and put on his baseball uniform, leaving his school clothes in
his locker, which unfortunately was not all that its name implied, for
it did not always lock with safety.
He spent about three hours on the field with the rest of the squad, and
then, returning late to the gym., he dressed and started for his room.
Arriving there, he felt for his Cæsar and discovered that it was not
in the pocket in which he felt certain he had slipped it. He started
to trace back in his memory to see if he could recall just when he had
used the book last and remembered that he had been sitting on the gym.
steps studying for some time before he went to the locker room. He
wondered whether he could have left the book lying on the steps, and to
make certain he retraced his steps to the gym. and began to look around
in the gathering twilight.
Mr. Clarkson came out of the gym. door while he was looking and, seeing
him, asked if he were looking for a book.
“Why, yes. My Cæsar, sir. I must have left it here, though I could have
sworn I put it in my pocket.”
“I saw a junior school boy pick up a book on the steps here not
an hour ago. I was going into the gym. as he was coming out, and I
suggested that he take it over to the office. I guess you’ll find it
there,” said the assistant coach as he passed on.
Jeff hurried over to the office only to discover that it was six
o’clock and the door was locked. Dr. Livingston and his assistants had
evidently left the building for the day.
“Oh, well, I’ll get it in the morning. I’ve got that bloomin’
translation almost pat now, anyhow, so I won’t worry. I’ll try and
bone up on algebra to-night. I’ll pick up the book first thing in the
morning,” he assured himself, as he hurried off to his room to dress
for dinner.
But he had no time to go to the office before breakfast next morning,
and he lingered so long in the dining room that he came very near being
late for chapel, and consequently had no time to retrieve his lost book
before the regular morning exercises.
However, he had the missing text book on his mind, and therefore he was
not disturbed when Dr. Livingston, while making announcements from the
platform, asked that he report in the office before the first period.
Jeff concluded that the Headmaster wanted to give him his book, and,
perhaps a bit of a scolding for carelessness.
After chapel Jeff walked over to the office and, after knocking,
entered. Dr. Livingston was evidently plunged in deep thought. When he
looked up, at Jeff’s entrance, Thatcher noticed that there was a pained
and discouraged expression on his face. He looked at Jeff unsmilingly
as the boy crossed the office and stood beside his desk, and Jeff was
puzzled and a little worried by his expression.
On the Headmaster’s desk Jeff noticed his Cæsar. He smiled then and
reached for it.
“I guess I was a little careless, Dr. Livingston, I must have left it
on the gym. steps.”
“Is that where you left it, Thatcher?” asked the Headmaster, almost
wearily, as he laid his hand on the book to prevent Jeff from picking
it up.
“Why, I must have. That’s where it was found, wasn’t it, sir?” asked
Jeff in a puzzled tone.
“Yes, that is where it was found. I――I――rather hoped――” The Headmaster
stopped talking. It was evident to Jeff that there was something
unpleasant on his mind,――something that discouraged him,――made him
feel that all his efforts to train his boys had gone for naught. Jeff
thought that his carelessness at leaving the book around could not be
responsible for all of the Master’s apparent emotion and he wondered
what on earth could have happened. He was presently to know.
“Thatcher,” said Dr. Livingston, clearing his throat and looking at
Jeff searchingly, “a really terrible thing has happened,――a terrible
crime has been committed here in school and circumstances point to you
as the criminal!”
The last was snapped out with such startling emphasis that Jeff grew
weak and nervous. He felt as if his stomach had suddenly melted away,
and that he was nothing but head and legs with no connection between.
For a moment he could not find voice to speak. When he did his voice
was nervous and apprehensive.
“But――but――Dr. Livingston, I don’t understand. I――er――what is it?”
“Room 44 has evidently been entered, for an examination paper has
disappeared,” snapped out the Headmaster, watching Jeff’s face
carefully to see the effect of his words.
Jeff was stunned. Of all offenses at Pennington this was certainly the
most serious. To enter Room 44 at any time and under any circumstances
was the most dishonorable thing that a student could do. This was the
room in which the examination papers were prepared and kept. All of
the students were aware of this fact and honor bound to respect the
restrictions that none was to enter that room under any conditions.
Some one in school had violated this trust and suspicion pointed to him!
“How――why――this is terrible, Dr. Livingston. But――but why do you
suspect me, sir?” asked Jeff.
For answer Dr. Livingston took his hand from the book before him and
lifted the cover. Inside the fly leaf, neatly folded, Jeff saw a sheet
of light green paper which he recognized only too well as the form in
which the examinations in Latin were always printed at Pennington.
“Your book was found, Thatcher, with this in it,” said Dr. Livingston
wearily.
CHAPTER XXIII
VOICES
Jeff staggered back as if he had been struck a blow in the face. Was
this treachery? The evidence was certainly accusing.
But suddenly his nervousness passed and just anger and resentment took
its place. His face became red and he could feel his collar grow too
tight for him.
“Of all the rotten, crooked tricks, this is the worst I have ever
heard of, sir,” he exclaimed. “Now I know why that book was not in my
pocket where I put it and where I knew it should be. Whoever stole the
examination papers also stole my book from my pocket and put one of the
papers in it. Then he left the book where it would be found and turned
in at the office, so you could find this evidence. That is just about
the meanest trick a fellow could do.”
Dr. Livingston looked at him searchingly for several seconds and it
seemed to Jeff as if the cloud that had settled over the Headmaster
lifted just a little.
“Thatcher, did you enter Room 44?” he said sternly and in a manner that
demanded a truthful answer.
“No, sir. I have never been in the room, sir,” said Jeff drawing
himself up erect and looking the Master squarely in the eyes.
“Did you steal the examination papers that are missing?” continued Dr.
Livingston.
“I did not. I have never before seen that paper that you just showed me
folded in my book.”
“Do you know anything about this disagreeable situation at all,”
demanded Dr. Livingston, finally.
“Nothing more than you have told me right here, sir!” replied Jeff.
Dr. Livingston was silent for several seconds. Again he spoke:
“Thatcher, I believe you. But here is mighty unpleasant circumstantial
evidence that I must accept until a better case can be made out for
your defense or damnation. Until then you are barred from taking the
final examination. Of course, you are set down from the baseball team
and any other athletic team in school. You must keep within bounds at
all times and you must be in your room at eight o’clock every evening.
I’m very sorry, Thatcher, but you realize the seriousness of the
situation. I am going to conduct an immediate investigation and will
clear this thing up as soon as possible and”――the Headmaster stood up
and put his hand on Jeff’s shoulder――“Thatcher, I hope you are telling
the truth and that you can prove your statements, for, my boy, I like
you a great deal and it would hurt me more than you can believe to know
that you were party to any dishonorable acts. When I saw your name in
this book here it made me feel sick at heart, my boy. Go, now, and we
will try to work this out happily for you, anyway.”
Jeff could not choke back a lump that came into his throat as the
kindly Headmaster spoke to him, and in spite of his best efforts tears
mounted to his eyes and spilled over onto his cheek. He had never had
the benefit of paternal affection and the fatherly attitude of the
venerable Dr. Livingston reached a strangely responsive heartstring.
“Thank you, sir,” he said in a thick voice as he turned to leave the
office.
Jeff was considerably disturbed by the developments of the morning
and he went to his classes in a strangely confused and upset state of
mind. Indeed, it was not until the noon recess period, just before the
mid-day meal, that he managed to get control of himself again, and then
only after he had had a long talk with his roommate, Wade Grenville.
“Whe-e-w-w-w,” whistled Wade, when Jeff unburdened himself to his chum,
“of all the rotten dirty, skunky tricks in the world, there never was a
worse one than that. And believe me, old kid, I think I know the birds
who did it.”
“Who?” said Jeff, in a manner indicating clearly that he, too, had
already made up his mind as to who was at the bottom of it all.
“Why, Gould and Birdie Pell, of course. There aren’t any other fellows
in the school who would stoop to a trick as low as that,” said Wade
with conviction.
“Well, I suspect Gould myself. But――er――well, I can’t believe Pell
would do anything like that,” said Jeff.
“Tut-tut――he’s as bad as Gould. Wouldn’t wonder but that Gould had
talked him into doing it and kept his own skirts clean.”
“No, no. I can’t believe that,” said Jeff.
“It’s a mighty rotten set up just the same――and――by jingoes something
should be done about it. Something――er――say, Jeff, this is a matter
for we students to take a hand in. By jingoes, we’ve got to find the
cowards who are responsible and show them up. I’m for that. I’ll get
Buck Hart and Rabbit Warren and Lafe Gammage and Honey Wiggins and a
couple others and we’ll find the skunk who did it or――”
“No. Don’t do that, Wade. Don’t――”
“Tut-tut, Little One. You haven’t got a word to say. I’m going to run
this end of it. Not a word now. I’ll tell you all about it after the
thing is all over,” said Wade.
And in spite of Jeff’s best efforts to persuade his roommate not to
interfere Wade took it upon himself to spread the news of what had
happened among all of Jeff’s friends, and organize his special little
committee of students who were to take it upon themselves to smoke out
the fellow or fellows behind the “frame up” as they chose to call it.
Indeed, Wade worked so well that by the end of the afternoon session
the committee’s plans were all laid, but he refused to divulge anything
to Jeff.
But during the afternoon a new development entered the situation,
which, while it helped matters a little, did not tend to remove all
suspicion from Jeff. At about the time the baseball men were gathering
at the gym. for the regular afternoon practice word was sent to Jeff’s
room to report to Dr. Livingston again. He was quick to obey the
summons and at the office he found Professor Hatfield in conference
with Dr. Livingston.
“Thatcher,” said Dr. Livingston, “Professor Hatfield has just shed some
light on the unpleasant situation we were discussing this morning, and
while it does not entirely clear you from having the Latin examination
paper in your possession it does absolve you and every other boy in the
school from the breach of school honor in entering Room 44. Professor
Hatfield has charge of that room, as you know, and he is the custodian
of the examination papers. He tells me that yesterday at noon he
entered the room and took a copy of the Freshman Latin examination
away with him, putting it in his inside pocket, so he believed. But
when he went to look for it late last night he discovered that it was
gone. He has tried to trace back in his memory how he might have been
responsible for its disappearance and he has come to the conclusion
that he must have lost it out of his pocket while crossing the campus.
That explains the paper missing from Room 44 and it removes any
suspicion that you or any one else had broken the school’s code of
honor and entered Room 44 without permission. Now, then, Thatcher,
that brings me to the point of asking you more questions and I want
you on your honor as a gentleman to answer me truthfully and take your
punishment if punishment is coming to you.”
“Dr. Livingston, I am always truthful, and I have always taken whatever
punishment is coming to me in a manly fashion, I believe,” said Jeff.
“Yes, I think you have,” said the Headmaster.
“What questions do you want to ask me, then?” asked Jeff.
“Did you find the paper Professor Hatfield lost?” asked Dr. Livingston.
“No, sir,” said Jeff.
“You are sure you did not pick it up, and noting what it was decided to
look it over first before reporting it and returning it to me?”
“No, sir. I never saw the paper before you showed it to me this
morning, sir,” said Jeff.
“All right, but the evidence is against you, Thatcher, and I must
still deny you certain privileges. You will be permitted to take the
final examinations. We will work out a new set of Latin questions, so
as to be certain that this missing paper has not passed through more
than your hands. But you must remain within bounds, be in your room at
the hour I designated this morning, and you cannot take part in any
athletic contests whatsoever until this case is cleared up and we know
all the facts. Go to your room, boy.”
Feeling somewhat relieved, but still angry and resentful that any one
should play such an ugly trick on him, Jeff returned to Carter Hall.
As he crossed the campus he looked out toward the ball field where the
team was at afternoon practice, and he bit his lips in disappointment.
Because of the dishonesty of some one else he thought he was forbidden
the privilege of practicing with the team, forbidden the privilege of
playing in the remaining games and especially the Lawrencetown game
nest week. That would mean that he would not win his letter. That would
mean―― Jeff stopped short in his tracks. Suddenly a thought occurred to
him. Had Gould found the examination paper and used it to keep him out
of the Lawrencetown game! If he played in the Lawrencetown game Gould
would not win his letter. But if he remained ineligible, Gould was the
logical man to take his place and in playing the game he would win the
honor he most coveted. Had Gould planted the lost examination paper
in his Latin book just to keep him out of the Lawrencetown game? Jeff
began to believe that it was very likely.
Jeff’s non-appearance at practice that afternoon caused a number of
questions to be raised by the players and students who always watched
the team warm up, and Wade Grenville was not slow in supplying the
information as to just what had happened and why Jeff was being denied
the privilege of practicing with the team and playing in the remaining
games of the season.
The attitude of practically all of the fellows was the same. They
asserted that a mighty low-down trick had been played on the third
baseman, and even Gould, who was filling Jeff’s place, seemed to
profess to be disturbed by the unfairness of it all, and was loud
in his insistence that if Thatcher was not responsible for his own
undoing, the fellow who stooped to such meanness should be smoked out
and made to confess.
But Wade refused to be deceived by what he believed was a bit of stage
play on the part of Gould, and he refused to accept the attitude of
Birdie Pell as anything but sham. Yet, Birdie appeared to be very
resentful of the way Thatcher had been “framed” as dishonest, and he
insisted that he would do his utmost to help find the fellow who was
responsible.
When Wade heard him make this statement he looked at the little Soph
more searchingly for a moment. Then he said:
“Well, Pell, I guess you won’t have to look far among _your_ friends to
find out who did it.”
Little Pell colored up at this and seemed about to make a retort.
Instead, however, he bit his lips and turned away in silence.
In the locker room that afternoon Wade passed secret word among certain
of Jeff’s friends, suggesting that they linger about the gym. a little
later than usual.
Buck Hart, Honey Wiggins, Rabbit Warren, Cas Gorham, Brownie Davis
and Mickey Daily composed the little group who remained behind in the
locker room after the rest of the baseball squad had left. Wade became
the spokesman at this impromptu meeting.
“Fellows,” he said, “I believe Jeff has had a mighty shabby deal put
over on him by some one, and I think it is up to us to find out who did
it. I don’t mind saying I have my suspicions and I for one am going to
try and get at the facts in the case. I’ve been thinking that perhaps
a little committee composed of the few of us here might be able to
do more in the way of shedding light on the whole business than Dr.
Livingston and the rest of the members of the faculty can. Thatcher
doesn’t like my idea of getting you all together. He calls it gang
spirit, or mob rule, or Ku Klux stuff, but just the same I think we can
help a lot toward getting this mystery cleared up if we work together.”
“Sounds good,” said Lafe Gammage.
“Right-o. What’s the idea, Wade?” said Mickey Daily.
“We’re with you, Wade. Count us all in and give us the dope,” said
Rabbit Warren.
“Well, here’s the way I figure it, fellows. I think that Gould is at
the bottom of the whole thing. I’m going to interview him in his room
to-night, and if I can’t make any progress with him, I want you fellows
to be ready to come in and help me out. Not physically――that is, not
unless we have to. But I don’t believe that we’ll need to use force.
Just the presence of you fellows all in a group will go a long way
toward making Gould understand that he will have to come across with
facts and not try to lie out of anything.”
“All right, we’re with you. Aren’t we, fellows?” asked Buck Hart.
“I’ll say we are. Right-o,” came the response.
“Good. I’ll go to Gould’s room at eight o’clock. You fellows gather
around outside about that time and be handy. No use of us all piling in
on top of him right off. We’ll give him a chance first. All right?”
“Right as can be,” came the response. And the meeting broke up, the
fellows leaving the gym. in a group.
Wade refused to discuss his plans with Jeff at all that evening,
although Jeff tried his best to learn them.
“Never mind what we plan to do, Jeff, but we are going to get to the
bottom of this thing if we can,” said Wade.
“All right, hang it. If you won’t let me in on it I can’t make you.
But let me tell you, Wade, I don’t want any gang stuff or strong arm
methods or anything like that. Don’t stoop as low as that for me, Wade.
The whole thing isn’t worth it,” said Jeff.
“Oh, we won’t. I’ll promise you we won’t use force under any
circumstances, but we are going to see the thing through, let me tell
you.” And Wade picked up his hat and went out.
Jeff was half inclined to follow him. Indeed, he took up his hat to
do so when he realized that it was eight o’clock and that he was not
permitted the privilege of leaving his room at that hour.
Wade crossed over the campus and went straight to Newkirk, in which
most of the Sophomores were quartered. On the front step of the house
he found Rabbit Warren and Honey Wiggins waiting and several other
fellows were coming down the drive. He could make out their forms in
the gathering half light of evening.
“Wait here, fellows. I’ll whistle if I want you,” said Wade, and he
entered and went upstairs to the second floor.
As he walked in the direction in which Gould’s room lay, he suddenly
became conscious of voices raised to more than conversational pitch
which sounded rather strange in the silent hall.
As Wade approached Gould’s room he presently recognized the voice
speaking as that of Birdie Pell, and he could not resist the impulse to
stop and listen. They were in Gould’s room and the transom above the
door was open.
“――and I’ve stuck by you through a lot of messes,” Pell was saying,
“but, by jingoes, if you are implicated in this I’m through with you,
cousin or no cousin. I don’t care a whoop whether your father does get
miffed and refuse to pay my expenses here. By jingoes, I’ll work my
way through and be quit of a dirty mucker like you.”
“But, Birdie, I didn’t do it, I tell you. You can’t believe I would be
as low down as that, can you?”
“No, I can’t, but, by jingoes, you have made yourself such a crab
around the school that Wade Grenville and all of Thatcher’s friends
suspect you and are perfectly willing to believe that you would do it.
And if you didn’t do it you and I have got to find out who did, just to
clear you. Get me. Hang it, you make me so mad sometimes I’d give you
a good beating if I was big enough. If you hadn’t been such a darned
grouch and crab, and so conceited and pig headed you wouldn’t be under
suspicion now. You don’t suppose I like to have you act――”
In justice to his own conscience Wade could not listen any longer and
he knocked at the door.
There was silence for a moment. Then Gould, in a husky voice, said:
“Come in.”
The boy was pale of face and visibly overwrought when Wade stepped in
and closed the door after him.
“I know what you’ve come for,” he said, in a voice that trembled. “But
I swear to you, Wade, I do not know a single thing about it. I may be a
‘mucker,’ as Birdie has called me to-night, but honestly, Wade, I’m not
as low down as all that.” Gould was so sincere and so overwrought that
Wade could see tears in his eyes and his voice choked.
Jeff’s chum felt dreadfully sorry for him and almost half inclined to
believe that he was telling the truth.
“Look here, Gould, I’m not the only fellow who believes that you had a
hand in this. They are all downstairs. Can you go down and tell them
what you have told me. If you can I believe you are honest. If you
can’t, why, it will――”
Gould swallowed hard, seemed to grow a shade paler, and made a valiant
effort to pull himself together.
“I’ll go down. I want to tell them all that they are mistaken. I must
be a mucker to have them _all_ believe me capable of such a low-down
trick.” Gould got his cap, and followed Wade out into the hall and down
the stairs, and Birdie, evidently feeling very unhappy for his chum,
trailed after them.
Rabbit Warren and Honey Wiggins were still sitting on the steps while
Mickey Daily and the others stood under an elm tree near by. As the
three boys came out of the door they all gathered in a little group at
the foot of the steps expectantly. Wade stepped aside to give Gould the
opportunity to face them, and the former third baseman stepped forward
and stood in front of them for a moment.
“Fellows,” he said, in a husky voice, “Wade and Birdie Pell have told
me that you believe that I planted that Latin examination paper in Jeff
Thatcher’s book and left the book where it would be found and turned in
so that he would be blamed for dishonesty and barred from the team. I
want to tell you all that I do not know any more about the whole thing
than you do, and that’s the honest truth. I want you to believe it is
the truth, too. It makes me mighty unhappy to know that you can all
think me capable of such an act, but it makes me realize, too, that
I have probably been a cheap, rotten sort of a skate for some time.
I want you all to overlook that and give me another chance to be a
regular fellow. I tell you I never stooped to anything as low as the
deed you are accusing me of, and if you do not believe me I will do
anything that you fellows say to――”
Gould did not finish his sentence. Out of the dark came the sound of
feet running up the graveled drive, and presently a figure burst upon
the scene. It was Jeff Thatcher, hatless and out of breath.
“Good, I hoped I’d find you all here. Fellows, it’s a mistake, thank
goodness. Ollie Simms, the janitor, is responsible for the whole
business. Here’s how it all happened. He has just been over to Dr.
Livingston’s office and explained, and Dr. Livingston called me in to
let me know all about it. Seems Ollie found the examination paper on
the path across the campus while he was on the way over to the gym.,
and on the basement steps he found my Cæsar, where I must have lost it
out of my coat pocket. He shoved the paper into the book and intended
to bring them over to the office. But he got busy with something else
and he laid the book on the gym. steps and forgot about it. Little
Jimmy Wild, a sub-freshman, found it and turned it in to the office.
So there is the solution of the whole business and I am exonerated.
And now, what I want to do is to apologize to Gould here for the ugly
thoughts I have had about him and the ugly deeds I have believed him
capable of.”
Jeff stepped up the steps and extended his hand to Gould and his former
enemy gripped it with tears in his eyes.
“Thanks, Jeff,” he stammered, “I must have been carrying myself like a
mucker these last few months to make you believe I could be capable of
such a deed. _I_ want to apologize for that and I want to apologize for
many other things too. That basketball foul last winter, for instance.
I lied then, Jeff. That was a mucker’s trick that I have regretted ever
since. I’m going to be a regular fellow after this or I’m going to quit
Pennington.”
Buck Hart and Wade Grenville stepped up followed by the others.
“We, too, want to apologize, Gould. We are blamed sorry, but, honestly,
you have laid yourself open to it with your lax ways, your smoking,
your egotism and some of the shady stunts you have pulled in the past.
But we are all willing to let that stuff be far in the past. We are for
you, Gould, and little Birdie Pell here, too.”
“Fellows,” said Gould, “Birdie Pell is about the best chum a fellow
could have. He’s stuck to me through a lot of what must have been to
him discouraging situations and he has always tried to make me see how
rotten I have been, but I guess I have been such an infernal egotist
that I have not been willing to pay much attention to him. He’s my
cousin, fellows, and a dandy kid. But even his relationship did not
stand in the way of his throwing me down to-night when he thought I had
stooped to such a low trick as I was accused of.”
“Fellows,” said Wade Grenville, “we’ve been misjudging these two chaps
a heap, and I guess I’m a lot responsible for some of the unpleasant
feelings we have all held against them. I propose a yell for both of
them.”
The “rahs” were given with enthusiasm and echoed across the campus with
such feeling that presently heads were appearing at various windows.
“And now,” yelled Buck Hart, “let’s give the same to Jeff Thatcher
because I think of us all he has been the most tolerant.”
And Jeff Thatcher heard his name go echoing through the night on the
end of nine rousing “rahs.”
CHAPTER XXIV
THE BIG GAME
The days immediately preceding the final examinations were long dreary
days of hard work and very little time for thoughts of baseball for
Jeff or any of the other fellows at Pennington. They were not even
relieved by a mid-week game nor was the afternoon practice carried
on for any extended period. All of the fellows were too much worried
and fretted by their school work. But they did have events of real
importance to look forward to after the examinations were held and they
were, in the order of their importance to Jeff, the final game of the
season with Lawrencetown and the commencement “hop” and various other
“spreads” that immediately preceded or followed the game.
That Lawrencetown game loomed up to Thatcher as the most important
event in his school career so far, and he looked forward to it with
a tremendous lot of interest. Perhaps it was this enthusiasm that
carried him through the deadly examination week and kept him from
growing gray with study. Still, he was mighty glad when the last exam
was over and he could fare forth to the gym. and the baseball field,
light hearted and unburdened with worries about his scholastic standing.
The last examination occurred on Wednesday afternoon, and Jeff answered
the last problem with a suppressed cheer and turned in his paper. He
felt as if a load had dropped from his shoulders with that act, and he
made haste to quit the study hall and hurry over to the gym. to get on
his baseball togs.
He found Wade and Honey Wiggins in the locker room ahead of him and
they were as jubilant as he was, and while he was getting into his duds
more and more members of the team came straggling in, all bearing happy
grins to know that the unpleasant period was behind them.
“Whew-w-w. _That’s_ all over, thank goodness,” said Captain Tad Sloan.
“All over but the shouting. They will announce our marks after chapel
to-morrow morning. Let’s hope we all pass. Anyhow, now for a real
practice. Come on. Let’s go.”
A real practice it proved to be, the fellows cavorting on the diamond
until dinner time. And whatever mental disquietude remained was
dispersed next morning when the marks were announced from the chapel
platform, and it was made evident that every fellow on the baseball
squad passed with flying colors. That meant that none of them would
be disqualified or dropped from the team because of a poor scholastic
record, and the way was wide open for the team to prepare itself for
the big contest.
Thursday afternoon practice was just as good as Wednesday’s had been,
and Friday the team warmed up in its preparations by playing a sizzling
five-inning game with the Penguins, who were brought together again
for the especial purpose of giving the big team a good work out. There
was a mass meeting in chapel on Friday evening at which the cheer
leaders stirred the student body into a perfect frenzy of cheer and
song, and made them so worked up to have the scalp of Lawrencetown that
it began to look as if the baseball diamond would be the scene of a
mob encounter or something equally as dreadful. New school yells were
developed for the occasion, and practiced until the chapel rafters
rang. All the members of the team were brought up on the platform one
by one (much to the consternation of Jeff and a number of other more or
less bashful spirits), and as each appeared they were roundly cheered
by the enthusiastic and thoroughly excited students. Altogether it was
really a thrilling scene and Jeff became as excited as any of the rest
of them.
Jeff and Wade went to bed that night so thoroughly keyed up that it was
some time before either of them could get to sleep. And when they did
finally drop off it seemed to them as if they had only had their eyes
closed about five minutes when the seven o’clock bell sounded, and they
awoke to the realization that it was Saturday morning and that the day
of the big contest of the year was actually at hand.
Attendance at chapel was the only school work required of the boys that
day, and after the morning services were over the students flocked
to the campus, where in the fine warm June sunshine, for the day was
perfectly wonderful, they gathered in little groups to discuss the
game. Some dashed off to the railroad station to meet the eleven
o’clock train which would bring in loads of parents, friends and
bright-eyed, prettily frocked girl friends, eager to attend the game
and the “hop” after.
Jeff and Wade, having no friends of this sort to greet them, mingled
with the fellows on the campus or on the steps of the school buildings
until noon time when the call for dinner stirred them to action.
The noonday meal in the big mess hall proved to be more than a meal;
it resembled a continuation of the mass meeting the day before in
which the cheer leaders stirred up the boys to the point of singing
enthusiastically, and “_Pennington, old Pennington_” swelled forth
in such a mighty chorus that little prickles raced up and down Jeff
Thatcher’s spine as he heard the chorus roared, and just at that moment
he, and doubtless every other boy in the room, would have laid down his
life if need be for the honor of the school.
The fellows piled out of the dining hall still singing and then,
because it was one o’clock and the game was called at two-thirty, they
all scattered to their rooms to “doll up” for the benefit of the horde
of pretty girls who would be present, as indicated from the number who
already had appeared and were strolling across the campus, with boy
companions or with attentive parents.
Jeff and Wade, with a peculiar, nervous feeling, in the vicinity of
their belts, for want of something better to do, went down in the
locker room and got out their fielding mitts, which they proceeded to
“work” into better shape by generous applications of saliva, soap suds,
oil and other “dope” that had been recommended to them from various
quarters. They meant to have their gloves in the pink of condition.
The call to get into uniform was sounded at one o’clock, but that was
hardly necessary for by that hour the entire squad was in the locker
room getting into their duds. Shortly after the head coach appeared
there was a blare of brass out on the campus, and a ringing cheer,
and the fellows all crowded to the basement windows to peer out at a
line of fifteen yellow automobile busses that came careening up the
long gravel drive, to come to a stop in front of the Administration
Building. This was the Lawrencetown team and rooters, arriving for the
fray.
Led by the band the rooters gathered in a column four abreast and
started to parade around the campus, later turning in the direction of
the baseball diamond where they took up their section of the bleachers
and forthwith began to hurl challenges at the now crowded buff and blue
stands along third base line. Cheer for cheer was hurled across the
diamond while the rooters waited for the teams to appear.
Lawrencetown was given locker room in the basement of the Administration
Building, and while they were getting into their uniforms the Pennington
team completed that ordeal and appeared in a group on the steps of the
gymnasium building where the Pennington band was waiting for them.
Immediately the school’s marching song pealed forth, and the players,
with Mr. Rice and Mr. Clarkson leading, and Captain Tad directly behind
them, started across the campus for the field.
As they came into sight of the bleachers, a wild cheer started that
rolled on and on and developed into a thunder-like roar as they
finally reached the center of the diamond where they were scattered to
their positions by the coach, while the school band took its place in
the stands.
Warming up practice started with enthusiasm for the fellows had
suppressed themselves so long that only a lot of vigorous physical
action could serve to “let them down” and bring them back to normal.
Dutch Hecht found his particular mace and began “batting ’em out” to
the outfielders, while Captain Tad, the sturdy little catcher, began to
slash some hot ones to Jeff and the rest of the infield.
It was surely snappy practice and before long the Pennington rooters
began to realize that their team was at the very top of its form and
that if the Lawrencetown aggregation were as good, they were destined
to see a game that would be historic.
And the Lawrencetown players soon proved that they were in every bit as
good form. A wild cheer greeted their appearance about twenty minutes
after the Pennington fellows had arrived on the field, and, of course,
the home team came in to the bench while the fellows wearing the red
and black stocking of the visiting aggregation took the field. There
was snap to their practice, too. The infield worked as smoothly as a
well-oiled machine, and their lightning-like handling of the ball,
their snappy throws and remarkable “get” soon had even the Pennington
rooters on their toes.
“They are good, mighty good, and you boys are going to know you were
in a game when you get through to-day,” said Coach Rice. Then, looking
at his watch, he added, “Come on, Tad. They are coming in now and here
comes the umpire. Get your men out into the field. Here’s the batting
order.”
Jeff, who was pulling on his glove, looked over Tad’s shoulder to read
the line-up of players. He noticed with interest that the batting order
had been shifted slightly. Long Lafe Gammage led off, with Mickey Daily
next in line and walloping Dutch Hecht third man up. They were the “big
stickers” of the outfit. Captain Tad followed and Wade Grenville came
in fifth. Jed Stafford, also a reliable clouter, was sixth. He found
his own name seventh, Buck Hart eighth and pitcher George Dixon last
in line, though big George was not a weak batter as pitchers go.
“Well, fellows, let’s give ’em both barrels――all we got. Win the game
in the first inning if we can but play hard all the way through,” said
Captain Tad. “Come on. Let’s go.”
The fellows romped out to their positions and big George Dixon, with
his slow deliberate stride, walked out to the pitcher’s box, spat into
his glove, took the shining new ball that the umpire offered him,
and turned to face the batter: the first man up of the Lawrencetown
team, a chap by the name of Southers, who played second base and was a
formidable batter.
“Play ball!” called the umpire.
Southers pulled down the peak of his cap and stepped to the plate.
Captain Tad thumped his fist into his mitt. “Come on, George. Get this
first one. On your toes, fellows. Let’s go.”
George Dixon wound up his long arms, then uncurled like a steel spring.
There was a flash of white between the box and the catcher, a thump,
and the umpire shouted:
“Strike one.”
The big game of the season was on.
In spite of that auspicious start, however, George Dixon did not strike
the first man out. He managed to get two and two on him and then tried
to sneak over the necessary third strike. But Southers saw it was a
tempting offering and slammed it for a beautiful long fly which found
safety in the hands of Wade Grenville out in right field.
“One down. That’s the way they all have to go to-day. Give ’em the
gate. Get this guy now,” came the peppery coaching from all corners of
the diamond as the ball was relayed in to Dixon and Wild, first baseman
of the red and black team, selected his particular mace and stepped to
the plate. He was a versatile batter, and as he stepped into position
he shifted about and decided to bat left handed against Dixon.
“Left or right. It doesn’t make any difference to you, George, ol’ boy.
Put the bee on this boy. Thatta boy.”
Wild was a wily batter. He drew three balls before Dixon settled down
to pitch to him, and then he poked the first good ball down to Buck
Hart on a sizzling liner that Buck fielded to perfection and plunked
into Lafe Gammage’s hands in plenty of time.
“Two gone. One more left,” coached Captain Tad, as he thumped his mitt
and gave Dixon the signal. And Dixon, pitching to Freeman, the big left
fielder of the Lawrencetown team, the heaviest hitter of them all,
settled down and struck him out with four pitched balls, retiring the
side.
The team came in and as Jeff walked toward the bench he looked up into
the crowd along third base line and grinned, for there he saw Mr.
Davidson, President of the Third National Bank of New City, sitting in
the stand beside a charming lady whom Jeff concluded was Mrs. Davidson.
As the banker caught Jeff’s eye he waved to him and called:
“I’m out to see you fellows win the big game, Jeff.”
“All right, we’ll win it for you, Mr. Davidson,” said Jeff lifting his
cap.
Long Lafe was at the plate tapping his bat on the rubber and pulling
down his cap when Jeff took his seat on the players’ bench beside
Wade. Lefty Wells, the southpaw pitching ace of the Lawrencetown team
was in the box adjusting his glove, and Captain Tad was on the first
base line coaching.
“Show ’em where you live, Lafe,” called Tad.
The good-natured first baseman grinned as Wells wound up and shot a
swift one over for a strike. He tried another of the same kind but
Lafe, who was set for a slam, slashed at it and sent a Texas leaguer
humming over the second baseman’s head into short center for a single.
“Wow, the first man on. Here’s where you score, Lafe,” shouted Tad, as
he passed the signals he took from the coach on to Mickey Daily the
next man up.
Obedient Mickey struck at the first ball over and hit it, trying hard
to make the sacrifice play he was instructed to. But Bradley, the
Lawrencetown shortstop, covered a little more ground than Daily thought
he could and what was meant for a sacrifice resulted in a neat double
play, Gammage and Daily going out in quick succession.
“Well, we got one big man left,” coached Captain Tad as ponderous
Dutch Hecht stepped up, spat on his hands and took a squint at Wells.
The Lawrencetown man knew how formidable Hecht was from previous
experience with him and he was taking no chances. He never pitched to
the left fielder at all and passed him to first on five pitched balls.
Little Tad had come in from the coaching box for he was on deck, and
as Hecht lumbered to first Tad stepped to the rubber with a look of
determination on his face. But there were two down and the best that
the captain could do was to lace a grounder down to Dick Leslie, the
Lawrencetown third baseman, who promptly threw Hecht out at second and
retired the side. The score was 0 to 0 at the end of the first inning.
Nothing scintillating marked the second or the third innings. Both
Dixon and Wells were pitching at the top of their form and with the
best sort of support behind them the batters went down in almost one,
two, three order, only two Pennington men reached first base in the
two innings and only one Lawrencetown man got a clean hit, a slashing
double by Taylor, the red and black team’s center fielder. But the hit
went for nothing for the next man up could not advance the runner and
his out retired the side.
The beginning of the fourth, however, was different. Freeman, the
slugger of the Lawrencetown aggregation, was the first man up and
Dixon, although he tried to play safe, put one of the variety that
Freeman most liked within his reach and he landed on it for a two base
clout into deep right field.
Oleson, the Lawrencetown catcher, and no mean man with the stick, was
up next, and on the first ball pitched he poled out a single that all
but scored Freeman. The heavy hitter rounded third and started for home
when the Lawrencetown coach on the third base line warned him back to
the base.
With a man on first and third and none out it looked serious for Dixon
and the Pennington team. And it was serious. Miller, the Lawrencetown
right fielder, was next up and he slammed a hot one to Buck Hart,
Freeman going down with the crack of the bat. Buck played the man going
home and with a lightning-like throw to Tad Sloan, nailed him at the
plate. But it was such a close call at being a score that it gave the
Pennington rooters heart trouble for a moment. Still, there were two
men on, and only one out and a single meant that two runs would come
in. And center fielder Taylor, already credited with a hit, was at the
bat.
He made good a second time, lacing a single into short right field, and
Oleson and Miller rounded third and started for home hardly twenty feet
apart. Oleson made it standing up but little Tad was crouched over the
rubber waiting for the ball as Miller came thundering down from third,
and Wade Grenville with a fine throw shot it down into Tad’s mitt just
as the runner slid feet first for the plate. Tad and Miller were all
tangled up when the dust cleared away. The umpire signaled that Miller
was out, and the little Pennington captain got to his feet with a look
of pain on his face. His stocking was ripped down the shin and blood
was oozing from a nasty spike wound that he had received in the mêlée.
When Miller saw what he had done he scrambled to his feet and put his
arm around Tad’s shoulder.
“Sorry, old fellow,” he said. “That’s tough, but I couldn’t help it.”
“It’s nothing. Could have been much worse,” said Tad bravely, as he
walked over to pick up his cage, limping slightly as he did so. Then he
turned and shouted:
“Come on, fellows. Two down. Play the batter,” and he got a round of
hearty applause from the bleachers and a rousing cheer besides, both
for the fine play he had made and the gameness he showed after being
spiked.
Play the batter they did. He was Dick Leslie, not a particularly strong
hitter, and his best efforts netted Thatcher an assist for he scooped
up a humming grounder and shot it over to Lafe Gammage with a will.
Then the side came in and Captain Tad went over to the bench where Dr.
Stout was waiting with some bandage and iodine to patch up his wounds.
Unfortunate Dave Gleason, still limping slightly from his injury
sustained early in the season, crawled under the ropes and came over to
the bench to congratulate Tad.
“Hope it isn’t as serious as mine was, old fellow,” he said as he
slapped the captain on the shoulder.
“Nothing to it, old dear,” said Tad heartily as he made a wry face
while Dr. Stout poured iodine into the wound.
But the Pennington players could not get to Wells as the Lawrencetown
batters had reached Dixon. Wells never wavered and his port side
delivery was as deadly in the fourth as it had been in the third,
second and first; more deadly if anything for he struck the first and
third men out while the second batter up, who happened to be Wade
Grenville, was out on a high fly that the center fielder did not have
to move twenty feet to get. The score at the end of the fourth was 1
to 0 in favor of the Lawrencetown aggregation, and the Pennington boys
went into the field with the realization that they were up against a
fighting team of ball players who were out to earn a victory and had a
pretty clear idea of how they had to earn it.
The fifth inning opened auspiciously for the visitors. Shortstop
Bradley lammed one just out of reach of Thatcher, for a single. But
he tried to reach second while Dixon was pitching to Wells, the
Lawrencetown pitcher. That was where he made his big mistake, for
Captain Tad was waiting for just such an attempt, and he shot the
ball down to Buck Hart, who had slipped over to second when the play
started, and Bradley slid right into a neat put out, while the stands
went wild with cheers for Tad and Hart. Wells went down after the next
two balls were pitched, for he was a weak hitter, and Wild came up for
the third man.
With two down Dixon played the batter, feeling that the support behind
him could hold Wild down. The team so far had played an errorless game
and he felt reasonably safe in pitching to the Lawrencetown batter.
The second ball across seemed to be just what Wild was waiting for and
he leaned on it with all his strength. It was a wicked slash, and like
a cannonball it crashed right back at Dixon. Before the pitcher could
set himself to field it, it hit him on the elbow and made him double
up with a grunt of pain. The ball bounded off between first and second
and Daily fielded it and shot it down to Gammage in time to put out the
runner.
The coach and Dr. Stout met Dixon as he walked off the diamond rubbing
his arm, and they paused a moment to feel of the injured member. Dr.
Stout looked serious as he felt about with practiced fingers.
“That was a wicked ball, Dixon, and I’m afraid――yes――I think there
is a slight fracture of the end of the bone there. That settles your
pitching for to-day, anyway. Too bad. Come over to the bench while I
fix you up.”
“Wiggins, you warm up. You’ll have to go in next inning,” called the
coach. “Gould, take Tad’s mitt and catch Wiggins for a while.”
Captain Tad became active immediately. He saw that the loss of Dixon
might have a disheartening effect upon the Pennington players and he
began to talk to them as only he knew how to talk.
“Come on, fellows. Up and at ’em. We’ve got to get them for this. It
was an accident, of course, but let’s show ’em that it’s when we get
hurt the most we fight the best. Thatcher, you are up first. Come on
and do something. We want a hit from you. Go to it, old boy.”
Tad’s spirit of fight was infectious and Jeff went to the plate with a
determination to make good that made him almost formidable.
Wells pitched to him, for doubtless he held Jeff lightly as a batter.
The Pennington third baseman had not done anything notable with the
stick so far that day.
The first one over was a ball. The next was a clean strike that
Jeff let pass, and the next ball would have been the same, but Jeff
interrupted its career with a vicious swing that smashed out a sizzling
single; a clean hit.
“Wow, on your toes. This is our night to howl,” yelled Tad, hurrying
over to the coach line.
“Go down with his arm,” he signaled Jeff, and Thatcher, obeying the
captain, started for second on the first ball pitched, while Buck
Hart, at the bat, stabbed at the ball but purposely missed it. Jeff
saw Southers, the second baseman, set himself to catch the throw and
he slid. In a cloud of dust he clutched the bag and looked up to see
Southers recovering a fumbled ball. He made a mental note as he stood
up and brushed himself off that that was the first error of the game.
Now, if ever, it was time for Pennington to score. With a man on
second and none out, it was the opportunity of the game, and the
Pennington players determined to take advantage of it. A single of the
right sort could bring in a run, or at best move Thatcher on to third.
Buck Hart spat on his hands, and with one strike on him settled down
to the business at hand. And he was equal to the task, for presently
he found Wells’ delivery for a hit that somehow got between third and
short and enough out of reach to allow Thatcher to get to third, while
Buck romped safely to first.
With a man on first and third and none out, scoring looked like a
certainty, and the Pennington bleachers went into a frenzy of cheering,
while the band blared forth a spirited school song.
Jeff, from third, looked toward the bench, curious to know who would
be put up next. It was Dixon’s turn at bat, but Jeff realized that the
pitcher could not take his place. Who would be put in to bat for him?
Watching the players’ bench, Jeff saw Coach Rice look the fellows over
and motion to Gould. He said something to him, too, and slapped him
on the back, and as Jeff saw that his rival for third base honors was
going into the game as a pinch hitter he was thrilled with delight, for
he realized, as the jubilant Gould did, that going in as a pinch hitter
would mean that he would be credited with playing in the Lawrencetown
game and as a result be awarded his ’varsity letter. Jeff was as much
pleased as if it were himself who was being given the opportunity to
make good, and he called down from third base encouragingly:
“Land on it, Gould, for a single. That’s all we need to tie things up.”
Gould grinned at him as he selected his bat and stepped to the plate,
and Jeff hoped mightily that the pinch hitter would make good.
He did. Gould was capable, and when put to it could do as well as any
fellow on the field. And there was resolution and determination behind
the vicious swing that he took at the first pitched ball.
He connected in earnest and the sphere shot toward right field in a
long, low arc that started Miller running back as hard as he could. But
it was quickly evident that he would never catch that drive, and Jeff
and Buck Hart romped home, while Gould tore around the bases as fast as
he could go. It was a clean three-bagger, and had Gould been contented
to remain on third he might have ultimately scored. But in his
enthusiasm he tried to stretch it into a home run and he was caught at
the plate. But he was given a hand and a rousing cheer when he stood up
and brushed himself off, for the crowd recognized that he had brought
in two runs and put Pennington in the lead; indeed, pandemonium reigned
for some time, for the Pennington rooters had been hoping for just such
a break in the game and they cheered themselves almost voiceless when
it finally occurred.
But out of trouble once more and with one down the Lawrencetown pitcher
tightened up and the next two batters were played out both on infield
hits, and the team retired with the score 2 to 1 in Pennington’s favor
at the end of the fifth.
Considerably heartened, the team took to the field determined to play
air-tight ball behind Honey Wiggins, who made his way to the box,
while a cheer with his name tacked on the end of it resounded from the
bleachers. Honey was no slouch at pitching. He had been going well all
season and improving steadily, until now he was almost as capable as
big George Dixon, so his team mates had little doubt concerning his
ability to make a good showing.
And he did. Although he was pitching against a fighting team, a team
one run behind and determined to fight itself out of the hole and back
to an advantage again, he held them down to three scattered hits in
the succeeding three innings, and in the sixth and seventh sessions
he struck out one batter, while in the eighth, although he passed the
second man up and permitted the man following to find him for a hit,
he held the succeeding two men down to infield drives that retired the
side without a score.
In the same sessions, however, the Pennington crew could not do any
better. Wells never broke in his steady pitching nor did the team
behind him falter at all. They played the finest kind of baseball,
and try as the Pennington players did they could not break through
the wonderful defense, of an impregnable infield and an outfield that
seemed to cover every foot of territory with extreme ease. In the
eighth inning the Pennington batters began to find Wells more readily
than they had any inning before save the end of the fifth, but that
was where his fine support helped him out; although every fellow up
landed on his delivery, and two safe hits were made, the five batters
who came to the plate never scored. Wade Grenville, the first man up,
got a clean single. Jed Stafford, next man in line, banged out an
amazingly long fly that looked as if it was worth three bases anyway,
but Freeman traveled back and stabbed it with one hand, bringing forth
a wild round of applause and cheers from the rooters of both sides, for
it was a wonderful catch. Wade managed to get to second on the throw in.
Jeff Thatcher was the next batter up and he too found Wells for a
smashing drive that was picked up by Southers and shot down to third
in time to cut the flying Wade off. Dick Leslie tried to double by
catching Jeff before he made first, but Jeff beat the ball to the bag
by more than a yard and was safe. There were two down, a man on first,
and Buck Hart up. Buck Hart had made a hit before in the game and Wells
was very cautious with him. Indeed he showed his head work by passing
Buck to first and moving Jeff on to second, for he realized that the
next man up was Honey Wiggins, the pitcher, and he was more willing
to take a chance with Honey’s hitting ability than he was with Buck’s
bit stick. With two men on and a single needed to bring in a run the
Pennington stands went wild yelling for a single.
Honey looked desperate as he faced the Lawrencetown pitcher, but Wells,
as cool as could be under the pressure of excitement, never wavered. He
paid no attention to the men on base, and pitched to the batter as if
he were the only man in the game. He put a perfect strike over for the
first ball. Then Honey drew two balls in succession and another strike.
With two and two, Wells tried to put over the third and final ball, but
Honey saw how good it was and slammed at it. It was a beautiful line
drive toward second and it certainly looked as if Honey had succeeded
in poking out the necessary hit to score Thatcher. Jeff and Buck,
running on anything, tore around the bases madly, but as Jeff rounded
third he heard the plunk of ball against leather and he turned his head
in time to see Southers coming down from a remarkable jump. He had made
a wonderful catch and shut off the chance that Pennington had to add
at least one more run to its advantage. The side was retired, but the
score still stood 2 to 1 in Pennington’s favor in the beginning of the
ninth.
With one frame left in which to do or die, the Lawrencetown players
came in from the field all set to break things wide open. It was a
fighting team, and a ninth inning situation of this sort was not new
to them. They had played through more than one of them and made good
during the season and they were determined to do it once again. The
Lawrencetown stands started up a volume of cheering that surpassed
anything in that line they had done so far during the game. The
band opened up with all the brass it had, too, and the team, on its
toes, began a line of coaching that indicated all too plainly to the
Pennington team out in the field that the Lawrencetown boys were far
from accepting the defeat that was staring them in the face. Their
fighting spirit had only just been aroused to its full pitch and
the buff and blue players knew that this was to be the really big
Lawrencetown inning of the game.
All this by way of preliminary may have worked a little under the skin
of Honey Wiggins, for with the first ball he pitched it was evident
to Jeff on third and to several other players, as well as Captain Tad,
that he was a little unsteady.
The catcher walked out to the box with the ball and gave him a word of
encouragement, and Jeff from third yelled: “Steady, old boy. Don’t let
this thing get on your nerve. We’ve got ’em beaten. Let’s hold ’em down
this one session and it’s all over but the shouting.”
“We’ve got ’em where we want ’em. Steady, boy,” called Buck Hart as he
spat on his glove and settled down to play short.
Southers, the head of the Lawrencetown batting order, was up. With one
ball to his credit, he stood there grinning at Honey Wiggins, who, very
deliberate in all his movements now, was striving to settle his jumping
nerves. He wound up for the second ball and delivered it, a perfect
strike. But Southers refused to let it be called a strike and landed on
it for a clean single into right field.
The Lawrencetown stand went wild and so did the team. With a man on and
none out and the opposing pitcher visibly nervous, things certainly
began to look brighter. The heavy artillery was up, too, and as Wild,
one of their big guns, stepped up to the rubber, the crowd began to
storm for a hit.
And Wild got it; a clean single almost in the same place where Southers
had placed his ball. Southers went down to second and Wild was safe
on first, and there were none out. Freeman, the heaviest slugger of
the Lawrencetown team, was the next man at bat. Things certainly did
look serious for the Pennington team and bright and cheerful for the
visitors.
When Honey Wiggins saw Freeman step to the plate he seemed to take a
long time to think things over. He certainly was in a hole. Whether
to pitch to Freeman and take a chance or whether to pass him was the
question that seemed to trouble him. Finally he appeared to decide on
the latter course, for he was very careful to keep the ball out of
reach of the heavy hitter’s stick, and presently the umpire called:
“Ball four.”
Freeman walked to first and the bases were full, with none out!
The stands shook under the wild behavior and ceaseless cheering of the
Lawrencetown contingent, for they realized only too well that a single
would sew up the game for them. “A hit! A hit! Just one little safe
bingle!” roared the crowd.
Oleson was up. Oleson, the only man to score for Lawrencetown so far
that day. His name pealed forth in a roaring cheer as he took his place
at the plate.
Honey Wiggins was in a worse predicament than he had been during the
entire game, and his nerves were all gone, that was evident. Already
Coach Rice had Cy Gordon warming up, and Honey looked appealingly
toward the bench, as if he hoped that the coach would “derrick” him
from the mound and take him out of his mighty unpleasant position.
But the coach motioned him to continue with the game, and Honey, to
steady himself, tried three times to catch the runner off of first.
Meanwhile, Jeff Thatcher, on third, all on edge himself, was watching
the batter and the Lawrencetown bench, where their coach sat. He saw
signals passed, and while he could not read them, he concluded that
Oleson had been instructed to do the obvious thing: try a squeeze play
in the hope of bringing in the necessary run to tie and still leave
runners in a position to score.
Honey Wiggins evidently guessed the play, too, and so did others on the
team, for Buck Hart yelled:
“Come on, Honey, play the batter. On your toes, every one, and watch
out for a hit-and-run play.”
Honey faced the batter, and as he did so every runner took a long lead
off base. They started with the snap of Honey’s arm. But Honey, using
his head, did not shoot over a ball that was good for a clean hit. It
was high and swift, and Oleson, doubtless nervous himself, and knowing
that he had to play the first ball, took a short, snappy swing at it.
He connected. There was a report and a flash of white in the air in the
direction of third base.
Jeff, on his toes, close to his bag, saw what had happened. He saw
the white sphere coming toward him four feet above his head. It was a
safe drive if it got by him, and it surely looked as if it would. All
three men on base were moving under full steam and Oleson was sprinting
toward first.
With a terrific jump Jeff shot up in the air and stuck out his gloved
hand. There was a thump of ball against leather and Jeff, clinging to
the sphere, dropped to the bag, then stepping out quickly, tagged the
runner who was coming full speed down from second.
[Illustration: With a terrific jump Jeff shot up in the air]
Then in the most matter-of-fact way he tossed the ball to Honey Wiggins
and began to trot toward the bench.
For a moment absolute silence settled over the field. No one save Jeff
seemed to realize what had happened.
“Man’s out――two out――_three out_!” called the umpire, after a moment’s
puzzled study.
Then, as the crowd heard his decisions and realized what Thatcher, the
third baseman, had accomplished, a cheer started that gathered and
gathered in volume until it mounted skyward like a peal of thunder.
Unassisted Jeff had made a triple play![1]
[1] A play of this sort took place in the World’s Series of
1920 between the Brooklyn and Cleveland team when the Cleveland
second baseman made a triple play unassisted. It was the first
play of its kind ever recorded in a World’s Series and only the
fourth on record in the history of the national game.
His brilliant catch of Oleson’s fly had put the batter out, and as he
dropped to third and touched the bag, automatically Southers, who
had left for home, also went out, and Wild, romping down from second,
had been tagged out within five feet of third base, thus putting out
the entire side in a single play and bringing to naught the most
critical situation that the Pennington team had been in during the
entire game.
Nothing as scintillating as this in the way of baseball had ever
occurred at Pennington, or at Lawrencetown, either, for that matter,
and the crowd went wild over Jeff.
His team mates, coming in from the field, literally mobbed him, and
picking him up bodily, carried him on their shoulders toward the
player’s bench, much to Jeff’s embarrassment. Then they started on a
parade around the diamond, for the game had ended there, the score
still 2 to 1 in Pennington’s favor, so it was not necessary to play the
last half of the ninth inning.
The student body, led by the blaring band, fell in behind the triumphal
procession of players, with Thatcher on their shoulders, and round and
round the diamond they went in a wild snake dance that finally worked
its way off the field and over to the gymnasium.
There, as the players mounted the steps, Jeff was cheered and cheered
again, and then in a brief lull in the noise some one shouted from the
crowd:
“Oh, you Third Base Thatcher. Won’t the girls be wild about you at the
‘hop’ to-night!”
Whereupon Jeff colored up like a turkey gobbler, and breaking away
from the crowd, bolted into the gymnasium building and dashed down
stairs to the locker room, while the rest of the joyous, grinning
players streamed down the stairs after him, laughing and joking at his
consternation.
THE END
Transcriber’s Notes:
――Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
――Printer’s, punctuation, and spelling inaccuracies were silently
corrected.
――Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.
――Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.
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