THE HILLBURY GAME
ON the following Monday Mr. Moore waited on the Principal in great
agitation.
“I am in despair about little Eddy,” said he. “It seems as though I
could not endure that miserable, white, vacant face in my room another
day. He has done no work worthy of the name in a fortnight, and I see no
way of making him do any.”
“You have talked with him about it, I suppose?” suggested Mr. Graham.
“Repeatedly, and with all the tact I possess. I have tried to win his
confidence by kindness; I have expostulated with him, I have threatened
him, I have ridiculed him; I have given him long tasks to write out:
nothing that I can say or do has the slightest effect on the little
mule. Sometimes I think he is actuated by a feeling of personal malice
toward me, and the thought makes me so nervous that I can hardly conduct
my recitation.”
Mr. Graham smiled: “You have no ground for that feeling, I am sure, for
similar reports have come to me from other teachers.” He paused a
moment, and his expression became sombre as he went on: “The boy has
evidently something very serious on his mind. I will talk with him
myself. Do you know whether he is still intimate with Bosworth? You have
a high opinion of Bosworth, I believe.”
Mr. Moore hesitated, and, passing over the question, replied to the
suggestion: “I used to have; since I caught him writing composition
exercises for Marks, I do not feel so sure about him. Still, he does his
work for me in a way that I cannot complain of.”
“Do you think he could be guilty of the thieving from rooms that is
going on in Carter and Hale?”
“Thieving! I should hope not! Do you suspect him?”
“I do and I don’t,” replied Mr. Graham, wearily. “He spends more money
than any boy ought to spend who is receiving help from the school. On
two occasions at least, when money was taken, I satisfied myself that he
might have done it, but I had no direct evidence against him, not even
enough to warrant calling him up and questioning him about it. Meantime
the thieving still goes on. There was another case in Hale on Saturday.”
Mr. Moore looked solemn. “What a scandal! It ought certainly to be
stopped, even if we have to employ detectives. Could you not introduce a
detective of youthful appearance as a new boy?”
The Principal shook his head. “New boys don’t enter school on the first
of June. Besides, I am opposed on principle to such methods. This is a
crime by a boy against boys. The boys by their carelessness and
negligence are partially responsible for what has occurred. They can and
ought to ferret out the offender themselves.”
“I’m afraid you will accomplish little if you rely on the coöperation of
boys,” said Mr. Moore, as he rose to go. “They always stand by one
another and cover up one another’s sins. At any rate, don’t suspect poor
Bosworth until you have incontrovertible proof. The worst thing I know
against him is his intimacy with that little wretch, Eddy.”
The interview between Eddy and the Principal was very unsatisfactory.
Early in the course of it the boy lapsed into tears, and his answers
were interjected between sobs that shook his own frail body and wrung
the master’s heart. He did his best for Mr. Moore; he was not well and
had not been for weeks. No, he hadn’t anything on his mind. He shouldn’t
be sorry if he were sent home; he didn’t care for the school or the boys
in it, except one.
“Bosworth?” suggested Mr. Graham, gently.
“No, sir,” replied the boy, emphatically, an expression of repugnance
flitting over his face. “I mean Phil Poole. He’s the only one who has
ever been kind to me.”
With this leading to follow, the Principal relaxed the sternness of his
method, and pleaded with the boy to open his heart frankly, with full
confidence that he would be treated kindly and fairly. More tears, more
violent sobs, more convulsive protestations of innocence. Either Eddy
would tell nothing, or he had nothing to tell.
The next morning, in chapel, Mr. Graham expressed the indignation he
felt that sneak thievery in the dormitories should continue, and
reminded the boys that they shared with him the responsibility for the
conduct of the school. The admonition was hardly necessary, for the
students were already thoroughly aroused. They discussed the cases from
every side, and uttered vague and terrible threats as to what would be
done with the malefactor if they once got him in their hands. The
discussion yielded no result except to bring the names of a dozen
innocent lads into temporary disrepute; and threats, as Varrell
disconsolately remarked to Melvin, are of no use when addressed to no
one in particular.
“Hillbury day” came. For the last fortnight the nine had been playing a
steady game, which, if not brilliant, was at least thoroughly good; and
the school, having shaken itself clear of the wavering mood in which
hope and fear seesaw up and down with every fresh rumor from the rival
diamond, had settled finally into a cautiously sanguine frame of mind.
There were still some who spoke with disapproval of the favoritism which
displaced a veteran and put a young boy like Poole into an important
field; but among this small number the generally rampant patriotism
proved too strong for personal prejudice. Even Marks, whose baseball
lingo would have discouraged a sporting editor, and who asserted that
the “kid would queer the gang”—even silly, slangy, sporting Marks only
half believed what he said, and was really quite willing that the
fielder should distinguish himself, if this was necessary to the success
of the team.
The crowd poured into the campus that afternoon as if there were no end
to it. Word had gone forth that the nine had a “show to win,” and the
younger graduates thronged the regular trains. As Dick, clutching
proudly his cheerleader’s baton, walked along the line of seats to the
centre section, where the cheering force was clustered, he caught
glimpses of familiar faces of old boys smiling down at him from among
the rows of straw hats and gay parasols. He recognized Varrell perched
on the topmost bench, and shook his baton at him in a vain effort to
attract his notice. But Varrell’s attention was elsewhere, and Dick got
no return for his demonstration except a scowl from Bosworth, who
occupied a seat halfway up, at the edge of the entrance passage.
Presently the nines appeared, and in the din of yells and the confusion
of waving banners, Dick’s whole attention was devoted to following
Planter’s leadership and keeping his own side of the section in proper
time.
While the Hillbury nine was taking its practice, Melvin slipped over to
the players’ bench for a last word with Tompkins and Poole, and was
delighted to find them both cool and determined.
“How I’m feeling? Bully!” replied Tompkins. “If only I knew how to
pitch, I could do wonders to-day.”
“Give us your best, that’s good enough for us,” returned the senior,
clapping him on the shoulder.
“I’m going to put up my best bluff, anyway,” answered Tommy. “If I fail,
it won’t be because I don’t try.”
“Don’t let ’em rattle you,” urged Melvin.
“You needn’t worry about that,” put in Phil. “This pitcher doesn’t
rattle.”
Just then the umpire called the game, and Melvin hurried back to his
charge. Hillbury took the field. Millan, after leisurely rubbing the new
ball in the grass beside the pitcher’s box, while his friends were
roaring encouraging cheers, put in a hot one over the corner of the
plate. “One strike!” The next was a ball; the third Vincent struck at
and raised a high foul, gathered in by the first baseman. Robinson hit
at the first ball pitched, and dropped an easy fly in the
centre-fielder’s reach; Watson went out ignominiously on strikes; and
the Hillbury team came trotting smilingly in, quite satisfied that they
deserved the three long ringing Hillburys thrown at them by a grateful
constituency.
The red letters scattered to their places. Stevens, who headed the
Hillbury list, went to bat with an appearance of confidence and power.
But his bold air belied his real feelings. Nervous and uncertain, he let
the first ball pass and heard it called a strike, struck foolishly at
the second, which was out of his reach, and then, after a ball had been
called, hit a slow bounder to the pitcher. Hood, who followed, did not
touch the ball, though he struck hard at it thrice; and Franklin dropped
a weak fly into Robinson’s hands. Seaton came in for their second inning
after a short five minutes in the field. “Poole up!” Phil picked out his
favorite bat, fixed his feet firmly on the ground, and boldly facing the
pitcher, tried to forget that this was the Hillbury game, and to see in
the man before him, not the redoubtable Millan, but a practice pitcher
whose balls were easy if closely watched. The first was wide, the second
too low; the third he caught squarely and drove it over the uncovered
second base into the out-field. It was the first hit of the game, and
the Seatonians noised their joy abroad in a splendid “hullabaloo.”
And now, in addition to the senseless exhortations of the fielders:
“Right at ’em now!” “Right in the middle of the big mitt!” “Put it over,
old boy!” were heard the yells of the coacher, whose object usually
seems to be to confuse the pitcher rather than to help the base-runner.
Phil clung to first while Sudbury struck twice and then went out on a
long fly, and Sands hit a pop foul that the third baseman easily caught.
With two men out, Phil started on the first pitch to steal second. That
he was successful was due as much to the catcher’s high throw as to his
own speed, for the second baseman had to jump for the ball, and while he
was in the air Phil slid safely in to the base. A good single now would
bring in the run, and the Seatonians, with a silent eagerness that the
cheer-leaders did not try to interrupt, waited to see if Waddington
would meet their hopes. “One strike! One ball! Two balls! Two strikes!”
and Waddington cracked out a pretty liner over third that brought Poole
home and put the batsman on second. Hayes went out on a grounder to
short-stop.
Hillbury came in determined to hit the ball. Ribot drove a hard bounder
to third, where Watson trapped the ball on the ground and fielded
cleanly to first. Kleindienst went out on strikes, and Haley, after
three balls had been called, hit a long fly to left-field that looked to
be a three-base hit. Phil was off with the hit, racing for the spot
where the ball was to fall, and sure, after his first glance over his
shoulder, that he would be able to reach it. But the crowd was not so
sure, and when at the end of his run he suddenly turned and pulled the
ball down, a howl of applause rose from the Seaton benches that for the
moment made the cheer-leaders seem quite useless ornaments. As Dick
stood waiting for this outburst to pass, he glanced curiously along the
tiers of eager faces, and suddenly became conscious that one spectator
seemed to have no share in the general delight. Untouched by the
excitement raging about him, Bosworth sat darkly glowering out over the
diamond, a melancholy island in a heaving sea of joy.
[Illustration: He suddenly turned and pulled the ball down.–Page 292.]
The third inning passed without changing the score. In the fourth,
Watson and Poole went out on in-field hits, and Sudbury was left at
second when Sands struck out. Hillbury began well when Hood got his base
on balls; if Franklin disappointed his friends by sending a fly to
short-stop, Ribot made up for the failure by driving the second ball
pitched in a straight line over the first baseman’s head. By the time
Vincent got it back, Hood had crossed the plate, and Ribot stood,
exulting, on third base.
The Hillburyites were on their feet, oblivious of cheer-leaders and
programme, howling their pride and hope. The score was tied! A hit, an
error, a long fly, would let Ribot in, and put Hillbury in the lead.
Tompkins was watching Ribot out of the corner of his eye, but his whole
mind was concentrated on the problem of putting the ball just where it
was required. Unworried, but more deliberate than ever, he responded to
Sands’s signals. “One strike! one ball! a foul! two balls! two strikes!”
The eager Seatonians began to breathe more easily. A strike out would
improve the situation vastly.
Sands signaled for a slow high ball over the inside corner. Tompkins
shook his head, but Sands repeated the signal and the pitcher obeyed.
The ball came true, but Kleindienst, fearing a called strike, waited
until it was near him and then slashed recklessly at it. Almost
simultaneously Phil heard the crack of the bat, saw the ball rising high
above the second baseman’s head, and felt his heart sink with a sudden
stab of pain. The fly was so far out that, even if Sudbury caught it, it
would be next to impossible for him to return the ball in time to hold
the runner on third.
And so it proved. Sudbury got the fly after a hard run, turned quickly,
and sent it hot to the second baseman, who lined it home; but Ribot was
across the plate by ten feet when the ball came to rest in Sands’s
grasp.
Wildly as the Hillburyites yelled, Seaton matched them cheer for cheer,
shouting to keep their courage up and show the nine men in the field
that their schoolfellows were not despondent. Haley struck twice, then
lifted the ball over Hayes’s head into short left-field. Phil had a
sharp run to get under the ball, but he took it safely enough, and then,
though the three men were out, he set himself for a throw and sent it in
to the home plate. Sands had to go forward a step to meet it. “A little
longer next time,” thought Phil, as he trotted in. “I can do it if
necessary.”
Seaton’s half of the fifth inning was soon over. Waddington went out on
a high foul, Hayes on a fly to left-field, and Tommy very tamely on
strikes. When Webster stepped up to the plate to lead off for Hillbury,
more than one timid Seatonian felt a mysterious foreboding that this was
to prove a fatal inning. Webster thought so too, for he waited bravely
until two balls had been called, and then drove a beautiful liner over
the second baseman’s head, that only a brilliant stop by Vincent
prevented from being a three-base hit. Webster rested at first. The
Hillburyites brandished their arms and whooped; while the Seaton
in-fielders spat on their gloves and braced themselves for great deeds,
encouraging Tommy meantime to “Be right there with the goods!” and “Put
’em straight over, old man!” Whether Tompkins profited by these
admonitions it would be hard to say; he certainly did his prettiest to
“deliver the goods,” conscious that every pitch was a critical one.
“One strike! three balls!” Cunningham waited, hoping for a chance to
“walk.” “Two strikes!” The batsman gathered himself for his last chance
and smote hard at the ball, but succeeded only in sending a grounder to
the pitcher. Tompkins turned and threw deliberately to second base,
where Webster was forced out, though Robinson was not quick enough to
catch the man at first. Still, one man was out, and the spectators were
encouraged.
Millan came to bat, glaring defiance at the Seaton pitcher. The first
one looked promising, and he swung hard at it. The Seatonians heard the
crack, had a momentary impression of the ball going like a rifle-shot
toward first base, saw Waddington put his hands together, stagger, and
dart for first,—and after an instant understood that the fifth inning
had ended suddenly with a double play.
As Dick turned round to do his part in leading the cheers for “Waddy,”
he caught a glimpse of Bosworth climbing down from his place into the
passage that led to the rear of the seats. In the excitement of the
scene, Melvin would hardly have noticed this departure of a single
member of the disorderly crowd, had not the last look that the fellow
cast along the benches had in it an element of fear and stealth that
drew his attention as the glint of distant water reflecting the sunlight
catches the eye of the mountaineer. An absorbing suspicion, which made
even the game seem of secondary interest, suddenly possessed his mind.
Hastily turning over his baton to one of his fellow-leaders, with an
explanation that did not explain, Melvin pushed his way to the rear of
the crowd that thronged the entrance passage through which Bosworth had
just gone. There was his man thirty yards away, walking toward the
entrance to the grounds!
The senior halted, turned back into the enclosure, and ran his eye along
the benches to Varrell’s seat. “He’s gone!” he muttered in dismay. “Just
my cursed luck! And I can’t stop to hunt him up!” He waited a moment
longer, sweeping the tiers of seats with his eye in vain search for his
missing friend; then he turned back again into the passage, and watched
Bosworth out of the grounds.
At the gate Bosworth stopped and exchanged a few words with the man on
duty. “They are asking him about the score,” thought Dick; “I wonder how
he explains his sudden leaving.” As Bosworth passed out of sight down
the street, Dick set off on a run for the gate.
“Was that Bosworth, Mike?” he panted, as he hailed the gatekeeper.
“I dunno the feller at all. I just axed him how the game was goin’ and
he said two to wan fer Hillbury.”
“Was that all?” asked Dick, disappointed.
“No, sir, I axed him what inning, and he said the ind of the fift’; and
I said how cud ye lave a close game like that right in the middle av it,
and he said the sthrain was too much for his nerves. But they’s a chance
for the byes yit, ain’t they?”
“I think so,” replied Dick, absently. He was contrasting the utter
indifference stamped on Bosworth’s face as he sat among the enthusiasts,
with this tale of nervous agitation. “Whose wheel is that?” he demanded
abruptly, pointing to a bicycle leaning against the fence.
“Mine,” said Mike.
“Will you lend it to me for an hour?” went on Melvin, eagerly. “I’ve a
very important errand to do.”
“Shure!” said Mike. The word was hardly out of his mouth before Melvin
had seized the bicycle and was running it across the street. Mike and
his comrade watched the student whip the machine through the yard
opposite, over a wire fence, and across another lawn to a second street,
where he mounted and sprinted off.
“He’s a divil to hustle, that bye,” remarked Mike. “Ye ought to see him
kick a futball. _He_ don’t hurry then, wan bit. It’s the ball does the
hurryin’.”
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