Chapter 7




AT THE BATTING NETS

Meanwhile Erskine had won a victory over Robinson, a victory which did not, perhaps, occasion as much enthusiasm as would have a triumph on the gridiron or the diamond, but which, nevertheless, pleased everybody greatly, and added new laurels to the wreath, encircling the brow of Anthony Zeno Tidball. Erskine won the debate. The result was never in doubt after Anthony delivered his argument, and when the last word had been said the judges did not even leave their seats, but, after a moment of whispered conference, awarded the victory to the visitors.

The debaters and their small company of supporters did not return to Centerport until noon the next day, and long before that the morning papers had arrived and the college at large had proudly read their account of the contest. That explains why when Anthony, attired in a long, yellowish plaid ulster of great antiquity, and carrying his nightgown and toothbrush wrapped in a piece of brown paper, lurched from the train to the station platform and looked about him, his jaw dropped in ludicrous dismay, and he made a hurried effort to retreat. But his companions were crowding down behind him and he was forced forward into the ungentle hands of the cheering students, who filled the platform. Somehow, he never knew quite how, he was thrust and lifted to a baggage truck, from which, since his legs were securely pinioned by several enthusiastic jailers, he found it impossible to make his escape. So he hugged his bundle desperately and beamed good-humoredly about him, recognizing the advisability of making the best of things. The other debaters were hustled to his side in a wild medley of cheers, and then, clutching each other madly in an effort to maintain their balance, they were wheeled up and down the long platform in the vortex of a swirling throng and cheered to the echo, individually and collectively. For his part, Anthony was filled with a great relief when the train with its long line of grinning faces at the windows drew away, and with a greater relief when one of the occupants of the truck, losing his hold, tumbled between the framework, and so brought the triumphal procession to an end.

The prey were allowed to escape, and Anthony drew his long ulster about his thin shanks and scuttled ungracefully into Town Lane and so out of the rabble of still cheering students. But he hadn�t escaped Jack, for that youth, somewhat out of breath, overtook him before he had reached the corner and showered fragmentary congratulations upon him.

�I got up—almost before—light,� panted Jack, bravely trying to keep up with Anthony�s long strides, �and went—down and—got a—paper—and—read—read— Oh, don�t go so fast, please!�

Anthony moderated his pace and put an arm affectionately over the other�s shoulders.

�Did you?� he asked. �Well, now, that was real friendly.�

�And when I—saw—that you�d won—I danced a jig in—the—middle of Main Street!�

�And haven�t got your breath back yet?� laughed Anthony.

�But—aren�t you glad?� asked Jack.

�I should say so,� answered the other. �So tickled that I don�t mind the money it cost.�

Another event, important to a large part of the college, took place a day or two later. March, which had raged in with a big snow-storm, relented and attempted the r�le of April. The ground dried and became firm and springy and little warm breezes almost induced one to believe that he had somehow lost track of the months and had torn one too few leaves from his calendar. Erskine Field, given over during the winter to snow and winds, clothed itself in a new green livery and suddenly became the Mecca for more than half the college. One Thursday morning the following welcome notice hung in the window of Butler�s bookstore:


University Baseball.—Outdoor practise on the Field at 4 sharp. Candidates must bring their own togs.


Jack went out to the field early and, having got into his baseball clothes, threw his white sweater over his back, and sat down on the steps of the locker-house in the sunshine. Many fellows passed him, going in and out of the building, some according him a word of greeting, others a mere nod, while still others pretended not to see him. But Jack was beyond slights to-day. The spring was in his blood and he would have liked to throw himself down on the grass and roll over like a colt for mere joy of living. Instead, he only beat a restless tattoo with his heels and watched the passers. Presently the varsity squad trotted out; King, who played left field and was substitute pitcher; Billings, third-baseman; �Wally� Stiles, second-baseman; Knox, last year�s shortstop and substitute pitcher; �Teddy� Motter, crack first-baseman; Lowe, center-fielder, and several more, with Gilberth emerging last of all in talk with Joe Perkins.

Jack watched Gilberth as he went by, much as a cat watches a mouse beyond its present reach. He had a score to even with Tracy Gilberth, and he was convinced that in good time the opportunity would come to him to even it. Meanwhile he waited patiently, observing Gilberth like a calm, inscrutable Fate. Gilberth had a firm grasp on the pitcher�s place, while Jack was only one of the second squad, and so, of late, their paths seldom crossed, and the senior had had no chance to give expression to his sentiments regarding the freshman. Of this Jack was glad, since Gilberth�s contemptuous glances roused his hatred as nothing else could.

The varsity squad took possession of the diamond and began practising. Presently Bissell, the varsity center-fielder, made his appearance and took the second squad in charge. Bissell was out of the game for the while with a sprained ankle, and Hanson, the head coach, had placed the second squad under his wing. There were sixteen of them in all, for the most part upper classmen who had failed to make the varsity the year before, with a sprinkling of sophomores and two freshmen. The freshmen were Jack and a small, wiry chap, named Clover, who was trying for shortstop. Bissell led the way to the batting nets and soon they were hard at work. A third squad, made up of some twenty more or less hopeless candidates, many of them freshmen who would later form the nucleus of their class nine, were occupying an improvised diamond at the farther end of the football field. The scene was animated and interesting. The sharp crack of bat meeting ball, the shrill cries of the coachers, and the low thud of flying spheres against padded gloves filled the air.

Jack had just finished his first turn at bat by sending a hot grounder across the grass, and had taken his place at the end of the line again when he heard an authoritative voice addressing Bissell, and looked around to find the head coach standing by.

�Haven�t you got a man who can pitch better than that, Bissell?� asked the coach.

Bissell surveyed the candidates doubtfully and the man who was pitching, quailing under the disapproving eye of the coach, threw his next ball over the batsman�s head and so completed his disgrace. The head coach was a small man, small in stature and small of limb and feature, but possessed of a shrewd and sharp brown eye that was the terror of shirking candidates. He was unmistakably good-looking, was Hanson—his full name was Alfred Ward Hanson—and had the faculty of commanding instant respect, rather a difficult feat for a small man. He was aided there, however, by a reputation for wonderful playing; nothing commands the respect and allegiance of the soldier or the athlete as does past prowess, and an army officer or college coach whose history contains valorous deeds is seldom troubled with insubordination or discouraged by half-heartedness in the ranks. Hanson was liked, respected, admired, and—feared.

�You must have somebody here that�s able to pitch a straight ball,� continued the coach.

�There ought to be,� replied Bissell. �How about it, you fellows? Can any of you pitch?�

There was a moment�s silence. Undoubtedly several of them could, but with Hanson�s dissatisfied gaze upon them they hesitated to make known their accomplishment. It was Jack who spoke first.

�I can pitch some,� he said, in matter-of-fact tones, stepping out of the line. �I�ll try, if you like.�

�Go ahead then,� said Hanson. �It isn�t necessary to pitch curves; just get an occasional ball over the plate.�

The head coach went over to the other net and Jack took the place of the retired pitcher. He hadn�t tried pitching since the summer and his first ball went very wide. The line of waiting batsmen grinned; some even laughed audibly.

�That�s a great deal better,� remarked one of them with fine sarcasm, and the laugh became general.

�That�ll do, Showell,� exclaimed Bissell. �We don�t need your opinion.� Showell, a junior, and the fellow whom Jack had ousted, grinned sheepishly under the amused glances of the others and Jack settled down to business. After a few poor balls he got his hand in again and Bissell nodded approvingly. One after another the candidates took their places in front of the net and stayed there until they had made clean hits. Jack did not attempt to puzzle them, for at this time of year, despite the practise in the cage, batting work was still pretty poor. He delivered straight balls as slow as possible and the line moved along quickly. When Showell took his place, however, Jack remembered his sarcastic remark and resolved to make the former pitcher earn his hit. He attempted no curves or drops, but sent the first ball very straight over the square of wood that did duty as a plate. But if it was straight it was also swift, so swift that Showell merely looked at it go by and then glanced inquiringly at Jack as he tossed it back to him.

He gripped his bat afresh then, and waited the next ball confidently. It came, and was, if anything, swifter than the one before. Showell struck at it hard, but was half a foot too late. The watchers began to guess what was up and looked on interestedly.

�Shorten your swing, Showell,� directed Bissell. �You were way too late then.�

Showell�s face took on a deep red and he gritted his teeth as Jack slowly and calmly threw up his arms for the next delivery. Again the ball came straight and fast over the plate and this time Showell struck an instant too soon and the sphere glanced up off his bat, bounded against the hood of the net, and came down on his head ere he could duck. He picked it out of the dust and tossed it back with no pleasant expression. The line was grinning appreciatingly by this time, but Jack�s face showed neither amusement nor interest. Again Showell struck and missed miserably.

�What are you pitching, Weatherby?� Bissell asked suspiciously.

�Just straight balls,� answered Jack, simulating surprise.

�Well, now look here, Showell,� said the acting coach, �do try and remember what you�ve been taught. Give me the bat.� Bissell took the other�s place. �Don�t stand as though you were going to run away. Face the plate; if you�re hit you�ve got your base. Now, watch me. All right, Weatherby.�

Jack sent him a fairly fast ball, and Bissell took it neatly on the end of his stick and sent it sailing in a short flight toward right field.

�You see, Showell? Swing back easily and don�t try to slug the ball. If you swing hard you miss your balance nine times out of ten. Bring the bat around easily on a line with the ball, hold it firmly and you�ve got your hit. Try it again, please.�

Showell did try it again and struck a palpable foul. Once more he tried and missed entirely. By this time he was as mad as a hatter.

�I can�t hit them unless he sends them over the plate,� he growled, eying Jack aggressively.

�You need to learn how to bat,� said a voice behind him. �I guess it would do you good to have a term with the third squad.�

He looked around into the face of Hanson, who unnoticed, had been watching his work for several minutes. He subsided and again faced the pitcher. But Jack had no desire to bring about Showell�s removal to the third squad, and so sent him a slow ball that he could not help hitting. When Showell had yielded his bat to the next man and stepped away Hanson turned to Bissell.

�Who�s that fellow?� he asked.

�Showell, a junior.�

�Junior? No, no; I mean the youngster that�s pitching.�

�Oh, that�s Weatherby, a freshman.�

�Weatherby? Oh, yes.� He watched Jack send in a couple more balls and then turned to Bissell again. �You�d better let him keep on pitching,� he said. �Seems to me he�s rather promising. What do you think?�

�I�ve never seen him pitch until to-day,� answered Bissell. �But he seems to be able to send in good, clean, straight balls. I don�t suppose he knows much about anything else, though.�

�Well, keep your eye on him,� said Hanson. �Can�t have too many pitchers, and that chap looks as though he might learn.�




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