JERRY GIVES A PARTY
It would be pleasant to tell how, with Grinnel pitching and Tub Keller
behind the bat, North Bank triumphed decisively over St. John’s College
that Saturday afternoon. It would be pleasant but untruthful, for the
Cadets licked North Bank unmercifully, driving Jack Grinnel from the
box in the third inning and causing the retirement of Hal Thacher in
the eighth. The only thing that prevented the subsequent removal of Bud
Train from the twirler’s mound was the conclusion of the game. If you
don’t mind we won’t even set down the score. It wouldn’t do any good at
this late day. Besides, North Bank subsequently found revenge.
It wasn’t that the Light Blue played so badly. She didn’t. Nor were
Grinnel and Thacher much, if any, below their top form. The plain truth
is that St. John’s played really remarkable ball that day, couldn’t
seem to miss anything that was put across the plate and, beyond a
shadow of a doubt, had glue on their gloves! And, as so often happens,
Luck favored the deserving. That hit in the third that brought about
Grinnel’s downfall might easily have been an out if the ball hadn’t
found a loose pebble a yard in front of McGee and, instead of bounding
into his ready hands, gone off at a tangent and brought up almost in
midfield! That stroke of Fate let in two runs and placed the batsman on
second base, and caused Coach Keegan to beckon sadly to Grinnel. Again,
in the sixth, when North Bank had scored one lone tally and Beech and
Keller were on third and second respectively; when, with but one out, a
safe hit would have scored two more runs, and Thacher had the opposing
pitcher in the hole with three balls and one strike, the Cadets’ third
baseman had to go and perform the miraculous and, in the unlovely but
expressive words of Captain Lord, “spill the beans”!
Hal Thacher waited out the second strike and then, with every one
talking at once and North Bank’s rooters shouting their heads off, he
landed on the next offering. It started away from his bat as pretty
a hit into left as you’d want to see, and it went fast and about a
scant yard inside the foul line. Also, it looked from the North Bank
bench too high to reach, and too far away, anyhow, from the baseman,
and Manager Birkenside had his pen poised over the correct square in
the score book when Fate again mussed things up. That third baseman
did a combined run and leap that ought never to be allowed outside a
four-ring circus! And when he landed he somehow successfully defied
all laws of equipoise and gravitation and came down on his feet.
Considering what a great variety of other places he might have landed
on just as well――and far more probably――the feat gained new glory.
Having landed, he threw to shortstop, stepped to third and received
the return throw, which, had there been none out, would have completed
a triple play. As it was, it went for a double, although Birkenside
grumblingly declared that every score book ought to contain a column
headed “M,” for miracles!
Perhaps that completes the list of the absolutely outrageous buffets of
Fate, but there remains an incident in the ninth which, while it had no
bearing on the outcome of the contest, long since won by St. John’s,
and perhaps cannot rightly be classed with the flukes, yet stands as
added evidence of the partiality displayed that afternoon by the fickle
Goddess of Fortune. With the score――but we were not going to mention
that, were we? Well, anyway, with the score what it was and all hope
of winning long since gone, Coach Keegan used the last of the ninth to
try out some of the substitutes, and among them was Jerry. Stevens,
batting for Conway, after Lord had made the first out, shortstop to
first, beat out a bunt and went to second on as bare-faced a steal as
had ever been witnessed on the diamond. Royce, following, tried hard to
bring Stevens home, but the best he could do was to dribble one slowly
to the pitcher’s box. The pitcher wasn’t a quick fielder, and, although
Royce went out at first, Stevens, taking another long chance, slid into
third just ahead of the ball. Coach Keegan, who had already decided to
let Tom have his turn, suddenly changed his mind and sent Jerry in.
Jerry unlimbered and faced the foe and was at once put in a hole with
two strikes and no balls, while Stevens danced about twenty feet off
third and dared any one to put him out. Jerry was frankly puzzled by
the Cadet pitcher’s offerings, but, after a third delivery had been
declared a ball, he went for the fourth one. And he got it squarely
and it traveled. It certainly looked safe enough, too; safe for three
bases, anyway; possibly four. And North Bank cheered hilariously and
Stevens stood impatiently on third and waited for the ball to land.
Well, just to make a long story short, that absurd ball got caught in
a wind or developed a curve or something, with the result that it came
down where right fielder, by merely stopping in his frantic chase and
putting up his hands, could catch it. That spoiled a good three-base
hit and ended North Bank’s rally and the game. Oh, I dare say it
wasn’t a fluke, but you’ve got to acknowledge that there was some luck
in it!
An hour afterward, four boys, walking along the westerly road, had a
good deal to say about that game. No one, it seemed, was very well
satisfied with it, although one, Joe Kirkham, the only one of the four
who had not taken part in it, was able to discuss it with comparative
cheerfulness. Oddly enough, however, his contributions to the
conversation were not welcomed with much enthusiasm. “The trouble with
you fellows,” observed Joe blithely, “is that you don’t wake up until
about the ninth inning. Of course it’s a good thing to finish strong,
but if you’d just cop a few runs now and then as you go along――――”
“Joke,” said Tom severely, “you may know something about football and
something about basketball――not much, maybe, but something――but when
it comes to baseball, son, you’re not there at all! Consequently any
further criticisms can be dispensed with.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” replied Joe in puzzled tones, “unless you
want me to shut up.”
“That’s near enough,” answered Tom dryly. “You’re ‘warm,’ Joke.”
“You bet I am! Say, how much further is this sylvan paradise of yours,
Jerry?”
“Not more’n a mile, I reckon.”
“A mile? Gee, let’s get a move on, fellows! I’m starved!”
“I’d like to know what right you have to be hungry,” observed Wayne
Sortwell. “All you’ve done, Joke, is sit in the stand and watch the
rest of us.”
“Sure!” Joe grinned. “And maybe you think that isn’t hard work! Why,
I can get tireder seeing you fellows try to play baseball than doing
anything else I know of! I suppose it’s sort of――of sympathetic, Wayne.
My arms get to aching terribly when I see you swinging at the ball and
not hitting it!”
“Is that so?” asked Wayne, encircling Joe with an arm and getting a
grip on him that made him yelp and squirm. “Just let me tell you that I
hit that beggar twice to-day, Joke.”
“Then he――w-w-wasn’t――l-l-looking!” gurgled Joe, breaking loose and
taking refuge at the other side of the road. “The only fellow that
really hit him was Jerry, and if the wind hadn’t blown the ball over to
the left he’d have had three bases.”
“Yes, that was a piece of silly luck for those fellows,” agreed Tom.
“Ever notice, by the way, that old Jerry always hits about the same
length? Jerry’s motto is: ‘Three bags or none’!”
“And usually it’s none,” commented Jerry. “Some feller always manages
to catch the ball.”
“‘Three-Base Benson’ is his name,” said Joe. “‘Three-Base Benson, the
Demon Slugger of North Bank School!’”
“You surely hit them an awful wallop when you do hit,” said Wayne,
admiringly. “How do you manage it, Jerry?”
“I――I just sort of push them away,” answered Jerry vaguely, and the
others laughed loudly and long.
“I’d love to see you really _hit_ one then!” gasped Wayne. “I’ll say
you’re some pusher!”
Wayne’s inclusion in the party had been a good deal of a surprise to
Tom. He had not thought to ask Jerry who the fourth member was to be
since yesterday, and when Wayne had joined them on the gymnasium steps
after the game Tom had been a trifle embarrassed and had supposed that
his erstwhile enemy had merely stopped to talk. Instead, however, Wayne
had fallen into step with them, and here he was, and Tom as yet had had
no chance to ask Jerry why. Not, though, that he minded having Wayne.
The latter was quite all right, now that he knew him better, and so far
the expedition had been as jolly as you pleased.
Baseball as a subject of conversation languished and Joe began to
demand assurances from the host that there was really food awaiting
them at the cabin. “If,” he declared solemnly, “you get me away off
there, Jerry, and don’t feed me, I――I’ll come back and haunt you.
Because, boy, another hour without sustenance will do for me!”
“I ain’t saying you’ll have a regular dinner, with oysters and soup and
trimmings,” said Jerry, “but I’m aiming to get you filled, Joke.”
“That’s all I ask, Jerry,” answered Joe gravely. “Fill me and I’ll ask
no more.”
“If he fills you there won’t be any more,” said Tom. “I vote that the
rest of us eat first, fellows, just so as to be certain of getting a
taste anyway.”
It was nearly six when they left the road and, following Jerry, went in
single file through the woods. Darkness, however, would not come for an
hour yet, and by that time Jerry proposed to have the banquet spread.
Perhaps his companions were a trifle disappointed when the cabin came
in sight. It looked rather forlorn, rather melancholy in the gathering
shadows. The whippoorwills were busy, too; at least three of the “pesky
things,” as Tom observed; and their plaintive songs didn’t add any to
the cheerfulness of the scene. Tom, though, exclaimed enthusiastically
over the cabin, and if his enthusiasm had a slightly hollow sound Jerry
didn’t notice it. In five minutes their first impression had vanished,
for the outdoor fireplace and the indoor stove had been laid ready for
the match, and with the fires going the scene took on quite another
appearance. Besides, there was much within the cabin to elicit surprise
and praise. There was a real homelike look to the place. A long table,
fully six feet by three had taken the place of Jerry’s first effort,
and there was a box for every one to sit on. That table explained
Jerry’s absence from the vicinity of school most of the morning and its
top represented parts of three packing boxes. The small table stood
under the wall cupboard and held Jerry’s cooking utensils, or many of
them. Others hung ornamentally above it. The cupboard, reënforced with
a middle shelf, held tin dishes and cups, knives, spoons and forks.
Around the interior where walls and roof met Jerry had tacked evergreen
boughs, and two lanterns stood ready for lighting.
“Gee, it’s simply great!” exclaimed Joke. “And――and, for the love of
faculty, fellows, look at the bed!”
“Yes, and look at that ham!” said Wayne. “Say, what do you want me to
do, Jerry?”
“Take this bucket and fill it with water at the brook,” responded Jerry
promptly. “And you dig eight potatoes out of that bag down there, Tom,
and wash ’em and cut rings around ’em. And, Joke, you―― Where’d he get
to?”
“Here I am,” answered Joe, contentedly from the bed. “Don’t bother
about me, Jerry, I’m all right.”
“You pile out of there,” laughed Jerry, “and set the table while I get
the ham cut. How many slices will we need, Tom?”
“Let’s see it. Three’ll be plenty. One for you and one for me and one
for Wayne. Yes, three’s enough.”
“Well, look,” said Joe earnestly, “how you going to cook the rest of it
for me, Jerry? Won’t it be too thick?”
Wayne came back with the water bucket filled and preparations began
in earnest. Jerry had agreed to do the cooking, and, although he
found himself surrounded by three eager volunteers, he stuck to his
agreement. “You fellers sit down and get hungry,” he ordered. “That’s
all you need to do. ’Cepting some one might keep a look on that fire
out there and see it don’t go out. I thought maybe after supper we’d
like to sit around it a spell.”
Twenty minutes later the banquet was ready. Four slices of ham sizzled
on four tin plates, two fried eggs reposed on each slice and two boiled
potatoes, their jackets all ready to come off, flanked them. Coffee
steamed from tin cups and a huge pile of bread adorned the middle of
the table. It was almost dark inside the cabin now and so Tom lighted
the two lanterns and placed one at each end of the board, the odor of
kerosene mingling perceptibly with the aroma of ham and coffee. Only
one thing had Jerry forgotten, and that was butter, but with plenty of
ham-fat no one missed it. Condensed milk did for the coffee, and Wayne
swore by the graves of his ancestors that finer coffee had never been
made.
For that matter, every item of the menu came in for exalted praise,
and, I think, every item deserved it. Surely there never was a sweeter,
tenderer, more juicy ham, surely eggs never tasted better than those
and certainly no potatoes were ever taken from the pot at a more
opportune instant! “Hungry?” responded Joe in response to an inquiry
from Tom. “_Hungry!_ Boy, I could eat a railroad spike! Toss me a piece
of bread, Jerry, if you don’t want it all!” Tin cups were replenished
and more bread was cut, and the last drop of fat was poured from the
frying pans; for there were two now, since one would never have met
the culinary requirements. And finally, sighing with repletion, the
quartet leaned perilously back on their boxes and triumphantly surveyed
a devastated scene. Wayne spoke the sentiments of all the guests when,
after an eloquent silence, he murmured fervently: “Some feed, Jerry,
some feed! I’ll say it was!”
“I’m powerful glad you liked it,” answered Jerry.
“Liked it!” said Joe. “Honest, Jerry, that’s the best dinner I’ve ever
eaten!”
“Same here,” said Tom dreamily, surreptitiously letting out his belt
another hole.
“Well, now,” Jerry went on, “I’d like you to tell me something. Do you
reckon there’s other fellers at school that would like such a feed?”
“Other fellows! Like it! ’Course they’d like it! Why not? But you can’t
afford to give parties to all of them,” expostulated Tom.
“Could if they’d pay something,” said Jerry quietly.
“Pay? How much?” demanded Wayne.
“Maybe seventy-five cents apiece.” Jerry leaned forward, elbows on
the table, and faced the others with twinkling eyes. “Reckon for
seventy-five cents I could give ’em pie, too!”