A DESPERATE ENEMY.
“Ginger up, there, Robinson! You’re worse than a dead man!”
“Get in front of ’em, Dashleigh! Stop ’em with your body if you can’t
hold ’em with your hands!”
“You throw like an old woman, Mason! You’ll break your back some day.”
“Here, here, Ready! that will do with those flourishes! When you get
hold of a ball throw it. Don’t juggle it.”
“Say, you chap with the curly hair, don’t get so excited. Take a little
time in throwing to first, after picking up a ball.”
“Who is that long-legged chap?” Gamp questioned.
“Here, Gamp, it’s your turn to bat.”
“Oh, murder! Who let that grounder go through him? Carker? Is that his
name? Say, Carker, you’re a sieve! Keep your feet together and you’ll do
better.”
It was a lively scene in the great baseball cage at Yale, for the squad
of candidates for the ball-team were hard at work and the coaches were
putting them “through the paces.”
The men were working hard, and the coaches were yelling and shouting at
them, giving orders, criticizing, commenting—but seldom expressing
approval.
It would not do to let any man think he was doing too well at this early
stage of the work, for it might spoil him by giving him a good opinion
of his ability.
More men have been spoiled by praise than by adverse criticism, and the
professional coach knows this very well.
It is a pretty level-headed youth who can stand open praise without
thinking himself the “only one.”
Sometimes it pays to praise a man, but it is best to know your man
before you venture to praise him. Be sure it will do him more good than
silence, or keep your mouth shut.
In rare instances praise will serve to spur a man on to do still better.
Far oftener it will cause him to think he is good enough already and
that the other fellows should hustle to keep in his class.
The fellow who manages or coaches a ball-team must know this, and he
must be exceedingly careful with his praise.
In the cage the sweating crowd of candidates accepted this criticism
without a word, for it would not do to “talk back.” When one was called
down for something he did, if he was a good man, he shut his teeth and
made an extra attempt to do it well the next time. If he was sulky and
had a bad temper, he might tell himself he did not care a rap, and then
he would be careless and do worse the next time. In that case, the
chances were he would be quietly informed that it would be a waste of
time for him to practise further, and that the room he occupied in the
cage was needed for others.
Of course, there were men, and plenty of them, who worked like slaves to
improve, yet failed to make the necessary progress, and who were dropped
one after another for that reason.
But no man of this class, willing and determined, was dropped till the
coaches were perfectly satisfied that there was no possible chance of
making good material out of him.
The turnout this year had been most unsatisfactory, barely more than
half the usual number of candidates coming to the cage each day.
This happened despite all efforts to get out the usual large squad. It
seemed very remarkable, but men came to attribute it to the absence of
Merriwell, which, they said, accounted for the apathetic interest taken
in baseball.
There was at one time talk of making some move to choose a new captain
for the team, to see if that would not bring about better results; but
Merriwell had given no notice that he would not be on hand to fill the
position, and the one who hinted openly of selecting some one to fill
his place was soon hissed down.
But now Merriwell had arrived, and his return showed immediately by the
change that took place in the cage. He had made inquiries about the
work, and, having learned what men were practising and who were not, he
went around among those whom he regarded as having a chance to make the
nine.
The following day a swarm of new men flocked into the cage and went to
work with a vim that astonished and delighted the coaches. Joe Gamp,
Hock Mason, Berlin Carson, and Greg Carker were among the new men.
Carson had given up in despair, having tried to make the team the year
before and failed; but during the trip of Merriwell’s athletes through
the West the previous summer Frank had been given an opportunity to see
what the rancher’s son could do at the game, and he urged Berlin to come
out and make one more attempt to get onto the varsity nine.
Frank did not have so much confidence in Greg Carker, the pessimist, for
he knew that Carker’s peculiar temperament was such that he could never
be at his very best in anything.
Joe Gamp, however, despite his awkwardness, was one of the best
outfielders Merry had ever seen. This was rather astonishing, for Gamp
was not regarded at college as a person having the least baseball
material in him, and he had never tried for a place on the varsity nine.
But Merriwell had seen him play center field on the great athletic trip,
and he knew Gamp could cover an “outer garden” in splendid style, and
could throw with almost the marvelous power of the once famed
Sockalexis, and was an unusually good hitter against pitchers who had
not discovered his "weak spot"—high and close to his shoulders.
With Hock Mason it was different. Frank had seen Mason, who was from the
South, catch some flies in field practise, which he had done very well;
but outside of that Merry knew very little about the fellow except that
he was sturdy, well built, and a perfect bulldog at anything he set out
to do.
It was well enough to get such a man into the cage and see if something
could not be made of him, so Frank urged Mason to turn out and practise.
Mason did so.
A long time before this Mason had been one of the greatest bullies in
college; but he found more than his match in Frank, and the result of
the sound thrashing he received was very beneficial. After that it was
his belief that Merriwell must despise him, but when he was injured and
lying in a hospital it was Merriwell who came every day to ask about
him, it was Merriwell who first reached his side when a visitor was
permitted to see him, and it was Merriwell who pressed his hand and
spoke encouraging words to him.
When he left that hospital the student from South Carolina was cured
completely of his bullying ways, and Frank Merriwell had made a new and
stanch friend.
Still, Mason was strangely proud, and he would not force himself on any
one, for which reason it happened that he never became one of
Merriwell’s recognized “flock.”
Deep in his heart Mason had often longed to join the jolly band of
Merriwell’s friends, but his pride had held him back.
Now, when Frank came and asked him to get out for practise in the cage,
Hock was ready enough to do so, even though it seemed really
preposterous that he could ever make sufficient advancement to have a
show to get onto the nine.
Bertrand Defarge was among the men who had taken his regular amount of
work in the cage day after day, and he was showing up pretty well, too.
But Frank knew Defarge of old, and he was aware that such a fellow,
though full of vigor, fire, and intensity at times, could not always be
relied upon, having a temper that conquered and swayed him absolutely at
times.
Of course, Frank was on hand, and it was his presence in the cage that
seemed to make the marvelous change in things, so that the men went at
their work with a gingery earnestness that quite surprised and wholly
delighted the hitherto disgusted and disheartened coaches.
And Frank had managed to keep himself in excellent form, so that he
remained the admiration and marvel of the athletic-loving students. He
began his pitching-work easily, however, knowing the folly of starting
off with too much vigor, even though he was in perfect condition.
Even Frank was not above taking advice from the coachers, although it is
probable that not one man among them knew more about baseball and the
work of getting into trim for it than did Merry himself.
If any one watched the first day to see him throw some samples of the
“double-shoot” that person was disappointed, for he indulged in nothing
of the kind.
But he still had it at his command, as he very well knew, and his wrist
was hard as iron. When the time came he would swiftly convince his
doubting opponents that the “double-shoot” was not a fanciful invention
of some romancer’s brain.
For among the hundreds of pitchers who had worked and tried and schemed
to learn his secret, it was not probable that one had entirely
succeeded, therefore they gave up in despair, and became scoffers,
saying there was no such thing as the double-shoot.
Among the candidates for pitching-honors was Dade Morgan, and he worked
persistently and faithfully.
On the first day of Frank’s appearance in the cage one of the coaches
asked him to watch Morgan’s work and see what he thought of it. Merry
did so for a few moments, and Dade flushed hotly when he saw this,
though he kept at it without a break.
When Frank had moved away the man who was coaching Morgan said:
“Try to throw that drop with just the same motion you use in throwing
your other curves. You give yourself dead away every time you start to
throw a drop. The batter would know just what was coming.”
Dade’s dark eyes flashed and drooped. For one moment he betrayed anger,
and then he smiled sweetly, saying:
“I’ll do my level best.”
But Bertrand Defarge quickly found an opportunity to slip over to Morgan
and sneer:
“So you got a call-down! I knew it would come the minute Merriwell saw
what you were doing. He’s jealous, and you don’t stand the least show of
making the nine. You may as well give up trying now.”
“How about you?”
“Oh, I’m not a pitcher, and there is no chance that I’ll rob him of any
glory. Indeed, if I pan out well, I may add to his glory by helping him
in games, so he’ll let my head alone. Yours comes off before the Easter
trip, see if it doesn’t. You may as well quit now.”
“I’ll never quit till I have to!” returned Dade. “Get out and let me
alone! I’m sick of your croaking!”
“Go to blazes!” hissed Defarge. “I may find a way to make you sicker!”
A number of men were hard at work fielding ground balls and throwing to
first. Mason was one of this squad, and he was not making a great
success of it. The coaches yelled at him, but that did not seem to do
him much good.
Then Frank Merriwell, being a privileged character, walked down and
talked to Mason in a quiet, soothing tone.
“You’re rattled, Mason,” said Merry. “Just get rid of the idea that
everybody is looking at you. They are not. The other men are busy taking
care of their own affairs.”
“I reckon you made a mistake when you asked me to get out here, sah,”
said the Southerner, the perspiration standing out on his drawn and
worried face. “I judge I ain’t put up right to be howled at like this by
a lot of loud-mouthed duffers.”
“Don’t be touchy, man. You can’t succeed if you are. We’ve all had
coaches yell at us in the same way.”
“But it’s mighty galling to a man like me.”
“Haven’t a doubt of it, but you must set your jaws and lay right down to
the work. Get your body in front of those bounding balls every time,
even if they take your head off. Keep your heels together, and they may
stop balls when your hands fail. Jump into the track of anything that
comes your way. If it’s a slow one, go ahead to meet it, for every
second counts in trying to cut off a runner who is sprinting to first.”
“All right. I’ll try it again, sah, but I’m mighty afraid it isn’t my
line.”
After that Mason did better stopping the balls that came his way, even
though he did not pick them all up cleanly, but he made his worst
mistake in his hurry to throw to first. Seeing this, Frank fancied he
had given the fellow a wrong impression, and so worked round to Hock to
set him straight.
“Don’t be in such a fearful hurry to throw,” he instructed. “You make
poor throws by your hurry.”
“But you told me a little while ago that every moment counts in cutting
off a man running to first.”
“That’s true, but it’s far better to lose a little time in taking care
to make a good throw than it is to hustle for all you’re worth and lose
the man entirely by a poor throw. Besides that, you do not throw right.
You never get into the right position.”
“That being the case, sah, I reckon I better quit now.”
“I don’t think you’re a quitter, Mason. Let me tell you where you make
your mistake. In your haste to throw, if you pick the ball up with your
body leaning away from the base you wish to throw to, you do not take
time to right yourself, but you throw in that attitude. You can’t get
any force into the throw. Besides, you swing your arm too far. Try a
shorter swing; throw from the ear. Never take a hop, skip, and a jump
before throwing, as I saw you do a few moments ago. Even though you send
the ball whizzing across the diamond like a bullet, you have lost lots
of valuable time before you got it away from your hand, and that may
mean the loss of the runner. Pull your hand back behind your ear, lean
forward a little as you throw, and just as it leaves your hand take a
single step. Try that. Practice it all the time.”
Then Frank worked on to another man he had selected to advise, and in
this manner Merriwell assisted the coaches. In fact, his quiet coaching
was far more efficacious than that of some of the regular coaches who
made considerable noise.
A regular system of batting-practise was gone through, each man being
directed how to stand properly, how to hold his bat, and how to swing.
Bunting and place hitting were practised by the more skilful batters.
Base-running and sliding to bases was a part of the regular work. At
this the older hands showed up well, but some of the new men were very
awkward. It caused the coaches to howl when a runner was told to slide,
and he slammed himself prone on the ground as if going through to China
and slid about ten inches, but they howled equally as much at the one
“who let himself down in sections,” his knees striking first.
Dade Morgan was making excellent showing. He had a good eye for the ball
when batting, and he could sprint to first like a deer. When it came to
sliding, he slipped over the ground in an easy, graceful manner that was
deserving of applause.
Frank felt like giving Morgan a word of praise, but remembering the
past, and not knowing just what the effect on Dade would be, he
refrained from doing so.
Dick Starbright, the giant freshman, was in the midst of the work, and
he went at it with an energy that seemed almost savage. A change had
come over him, and the good-natured, pleasant look that had seemed
habitual had vanished before one of stern determination.
Indeed, Dick was doing everything possible to keep his mind from
dwelling on a certain beautiful dark-eyed girl whom he now knew was lost
to him. He studied hard, worked hard, played hard, and in this manner
succeeded fairly well in his purpose.
He had read in Frank’s happy face the result of the trip to Fardale, but
it had been exactly what he expected.
And Frank’s talk with Hodge had seemed to transform Bart, who had been
fretful, listless, and ill-natured before, failing to take much interest
in the cage-work or seeming to care whether Yale put a winning team on
the field or not.
Now Hodge went into the work with vim and earnestness, and he actually
smiled occasionally, which was so remarkable that it caused more than
one to comment upon it.
Defarge had seen Merriwell talking to Mason, and at the first
opportunity the French youth spoke to the Southerner.
“Did you get a calling down from the high muck-a-muck of this
combination?” sneeringly asked Bertrand.
“What do you mean, sah?” demanded Hock.
“Why, I saw Merriwell shooting off his mouth at you, and I presume he
was telling you just what sort of a slouch you are, which is a habit of
his, the egotistical cad!”
“No, sah, he was not calling me down. He was giving me a few pointers,
and I appreciate his kindness in doing so.”
“Well, you’re just like all the others,” growled Defarge. “He can rub it
all over you and you’ll think it’s nice, but you’d kick like a mule if
anybody else tried it.”
“I may kick like a mule, sah, if you are not careful about your language
in addressing me, and I’ll guarantee that you’ll be within reach when I
kick.”
Defarge showed his teeth.
“If you ever kicked me I’d make a hole in your skin and let some of your
confounded upstart blood out!” he hissed.
“And if you ever tried that trick,” retorted Mason, not in the least
frightened, “I’d forget that I’ve sworn never to strike a man who did
not weigh as much as myself, and I’d give you the blamedest thrashing,
sah, that you ever had in all your life!”
“Pouf!” said Bertrand, as he wheeled away.
“It really would do me good to thump him,” muttered Mason, watching the
fellow’s retreating figure. “I think he’s about the only enemy of any
account that Merriwell has left in college.”
Roland Packard did not occur to him just then. Besides, Roland had been
keeping pretty quiet about Merry since the beginning of the term,
realizing that popular sentiment was entirely against him.
The Chickering set was not regarded as worth considering.
Defarge could find little consolation in his attempts to deride and
sneer at Merriwell, and it began to seem to him that all the old enemies
of Frank with blood in their bodies and courage to take a stand against
the idol of Yale had given over the struggle as worse than useless.
Thus, when the practise work was over and the men were preparing for the
run into the suburbs, which always followed cage training, Bertrand
sulked and growled and was disagreeable to every one.
“I’d like to get a good chance to do up Merriwell!” he thought; but he
remembered how all his former efforts had failed and brought disgrace
upon himself in several instances, and even his hating heart quailed.
As soon as the men were ready they left the gymnasium in a body and
started at a brisk trot along one of the widest and most comfortable
streets of the old city. The pace was not made too fast at first, and
yet it was enough to keep them going sharply.
It was an interesting spectacle to see these sturdy-limbed youths start
out in a body, their heads up, mouths closed, cheeks flushed and
nostrils dilated. Surely a representative lot of young Americans they
were.
Frank ran lightly and easily, seeming to find it no effort at all to get
over the ground at the pace set. Hodge was beside him, and Jack Ready
had swung in with them. Ready still ran in his own peculiar fashion,
toeing in with his left foot, a habit he had been unable to break, try
as he might. His cheeks were rosy and his eyes bright.
“Ah-ha!” he exclaimed, as he trotted along. “This is the kind of stuff
that makes one feel fit to tackle the gods! Yea, verily! Why, just now I
believe I could give old Thor, the god of thunder, a rattling good
set-to!”
“Yet,” said Frank, “we know any amount of fellows in Yale who are
literally grinding their lives out, and not one of them has sense enough
to take sufficient exercise to preserve their health.”
“Which means that a few more fools will graduate near the head of their
classes and go out into the world with broken constitutions. What will
they be good for?”
“It’s all right for a man to graduate as near the head of his class as
possible,” Merry asserted, “in case he gives enough time to exercise to
keep his health and strength; but when he wears his life away and goes
forth from college a physical wreck he has committed a crime. Not only
that, but he will be punished for his crime, and there is no way for him
to escape that punishment.”
“And all the while he doesn’t dream what fun he’s missing,” laughed
Jack, thumping his breast with his clenched hands. “Why, it’s great just
to be living and feel this way! I could fly—if I had a flying-machine.”
“You have the necessary wheels in your head,” declared Merry.
“But you’ll never develop a pair of wings,” asserted Hodge.
By the time they were well out into the suburbs it had begun to grow
dark. They had passed Beaver Ponds, and were not far from West Rock,
before the leader swung to the left by a country road and turned back
toward the city.
The men had strung out behind for a short distance. It was impossible to
tell if all of them had held out and kept with the squad.
In fact, one of them had not. Defarge had slowly fallen behind until he
was near the rear of the squad, and then, making an excuse to tighten up
his shoe, he knelt beside the road and let them go on without him.
“I know the way they’ll come back,” he muttered. “And I know where I can
watch them without being seen. If Merriwell would just take a fancy to
spurt, or would get off by himself! Oh, yes! I’d make one more try to
settle his hash!”
Then he turned back, struck into a cross-lane, and ran swiftly through
the gathering gloom, his heart filled with black thoughts and evil
designs.