ROBERT OWEN, FRESHMAN
On the Monday following the Hillbury games, Duncan rushed in with a
letter in his hand, and an eager look on his face.
“Look here, Sam! Bob Owen’s sent me two tickets to the Harvard-Yale
Freshman ball game on Wednesday. Do you suppose they’d let us off to
go?”
“Who’s us?”
“You and me.”
Sam’s eyes sparkled. “Wouldn’t it be great! Good seats?”
“Right behind the back-stop. Just think of seeing Owen bucking against
McPherson and Hayes! O’Brien, who used to pitch for Hillbury, is going
to be in the box for the Harvard Freshies, and several old Hillbury men
are playing with Yale. It’s a queer jumble; Seaton catcher and Hillbury
pitcher against a mixed mess,--half of them old Seaton and Hillbury
fellows.”
“I shouldn’t think you’d care much who wins,” observed Sam. “You’ve got
friends on both sides.”
“I do care,” answered Duncan. “I’m with the Harvard lot every time, and
you are, too, only I’ve got more reason for my stand than you have.
It’s Don’s class and Bob Owen’s class, and old Bob’s captain.”
“Well, I hope his nine will win. The Yale fellows beat ’em in football,
didn’t they?”
“Yes, and Bob was on the eleven. He’s aching to get back at them. It’ll
be a hot old game, all right. The only question is whether we can break
away to see it. Who’s the most likely prof for you to tackle? You’ll
have to get the permissions. I haven’t a pull with a single man in the
faculty, worse luck!”
It was decided that Sam should try to win Dr. Leighton to the cause,
and through the strong influence of the teacher float Duncan’s
uncertain craft across the bar. Duncan suggested various subtle methods
of appealing to Dr. Leighton’s favor, but Sam preferred a simple,
straightforward course,--which was unquestionably the best one. He
called on his patron saint of the faculty that afternoon, explained
to him with eager enthusiasm the special opportunity which had been
offered, urged that neither had had out-of-town leave for a long time,
and promised, if they were allowed to go, not only exemplary conduct
while absent, but compensation in diligent work on their return. Dr.
Leighton smiled a little mournfully at this conception of diligence in
school work as a favor granted to a teacher, and promised to think the
matter over and do what he conscientiously could. Sam departed, greatly
encouraged.
Two circumstances counted in favor of the boys’ request: the fact that
the invitation came from Robert Owen, for whom Dr. Leighton cherished a
sincere regard, and his full confidence in Sam. He believed, moreover,
that an honest petition for a legitimate purpose from an honest boy
should receive at least as much consideration as some fictitious
excuse of necessity trumped up to satisfy a formal rule. More than
once, as he was sadly aware, had A’s candid request been refused by
the authorities, when B, who followed with a lie on his lips, obtained
a permission which was used for precisely the same purpose. Dr.
Leighton’s commendation carried weight at the office.
They boarded the eleven o’clock train, jubilant in spirit as any
schoolboy released for a lark, but self-contained as conscious
Seatonians, who pride themselves on being above the “kiddishness” of
minor schools. In Boston they snatched a hasty lunch and took a car
for Cambridge. The car filled quickly. The Harvard track meet was to
be held in the Stadium at the same time with the Freshman game on the
ball field, and many outsiders were tending Cambridgeward. On Boylston
Street a large, serious-faced young man climbed upon the running board
of the car, and looking calmly over the crowded seats to spy out an
unoccupied place, winked solemnly at a familiar face.
“Look, there’s old Brandy!” exclaimed Sam, nudging Duncan sharply in
the ribs. “How did he get here?”
“How does he get anywhere?” retorted Duncan. “On his cheek, of course.”
Brantwein swung himself along to the seat occupied by Sam and Duncan.
He was dressed in his best, and carried himself with a noticeable air
of importance.
“Going out to the game?” he asked coolly.
“Yes, are you?”
“I’m going to something, I don’t know what. Either the track or to see
the freshmen play.”
“How did you get off?” questioned Sam.
“I had business in Boston.”
“Buying peanuts?”
Brandy smiled. It was his regular armor-plated smile against which all
personal jokes fell dead and harmless. “No, buying a peanut farm and a
burying-ground for fools. I’ve got to lay out about a dozen up there at
Seaton before I leave. You fellows are feeling lively to-day.”
“Yes, we’re going to see Owen beat Coy again.”
“Do you expect to see that?”
“We hope so.”
“I don’t know but I’ll go there, too,” said Brantwein, meditatively.
“You may not be able to get a seat now.”
“I don’t care about seats.”
The three approached the entrance to the grounds together, but there
in the crowd Brantwein disappeared. Our friends gave little heed to
the movements of their eccentric schoolmate, being taken up with the
pleasant excitement of the quest of places. Duncan hailed several
fellows whom he knew, and pointed out several others whom he knew
about. While they were waiting for the nines to appear, with Duncan
still busy over his search for familiar faces, Sam’s eyes fell upon a
well-known figure seated on one of the benches reserved within the side
lines for coaches and old players.
“Look there, Duncan,” he cried, “on the first bench on the side line!
Isn’t that Brandy?”
“As sure as guns!” returned Duncan. “How did he get there?”
“Search me!” returned Sam. “He has the most colossal nerve! He told
me once that with a two-foot rule in his hand he could get into any
building going up,--construction work, he called it,--even if a man
stood at the door to keep people out. Perhaps Owen let him in.”
“Owen nothing!” retorted Duncan. “He’s worked one of his bluffs on the
ticket-taker. One of these days his nerve’ll carry him inside a jail.”
Duncan did not fancy Brantwein, even as an amusement.
But the players were appearing, and Brantwein and his arts were
forgotten.
“That’s Owen, the solid fellow with the white sweater, and the mask on
his arm,” cried Duncan; “and the tall fellow behind him is O’Brien, the
Hillbury man. The one just going out to left field is Latter. He played
on our nine last year.”
He paused to watch the men taking their positions for practice.
“There come the Yale fellows!” exclaimed Sam, whose gaze was wandering
over the field. “Now, which is McPherson?”
Duncan hesitated for some time; the unfamiliar uniforms confused him.
“I think that’s McPherson over by third base,” he said. The man at
third took a short bound and shot it underhand to a companion. “Yes,
that’s Mac. I should know that twist of the shoulder in California.
Isn’t it a shame!”
“What?”
“Why, that he should be playing under Coy against Bob Owen. In the
Hillbury game last year Coy came near assaulting Mac for tagging him
too hard at second. Now they’re pals.”
“I don’t see anything strange in that,” rejoined Sam. “He’s playing for
his college as Owen’s playing for ours.”
So they chattered on, till the Harvard men took the field for the game
and a businesslike pair of blue-stockinged legs appeared beneath a
bat at the plate. Then they watched with straining eyes, their talk
running to brief exclamations, sighs for the discouraging gains of the
visitors, vain cries of exultation when the Harvard men made promising
plays.
Three innings passed without a run on either side. Then Coy, the first
man up in the fourth, hit a bounder which the Harvard third baseman
found too hot to handle, and Coy beat the ball to first base. The next
man waited while O’Brien tried to tempt the runner to steal, and thus
got his base on balls. His successor hit to third again, and while
Manning hesitated and tried to touch Coy, likewise made first. Number
four went out on a long fly to right field, but the speedy Coy got
safely across the plate on the return throw, with score number one.
McPherson now made a lucky single over shortstop’s head, which brought
in a second run. Then O’Brien caught the Yale man playing off too far
from second, and the next batsman struck out.
[Illustration: “THAT’S OWEN.”--_Page 255._]
“Bad!” said Duncan, sadly. His unhappiness was not relieved when the
three Harvard men went out on a fly and two easy infield hits.
“They’re finding the ball, anyway,” remarked Sam, trying to be
courageous; “the game’s young yet.”
“It’s nearly half grown,” rejoined Duncan, gloomily; “and you can see
what kind of a beast it’s going to be. Two runs is an awful handicap.”
He was depressed still further in the fifth inning, when the first ball
pitched yielded a hit that put a Yale man again on first. The Yale
coachers took a risk and bade their man steal second. It was a poor
risk, for Owen shot one of his perfect throws down ahead of the runner,
and Williams, the Harvard shortstop, thumped him with the ball as he
slid gallantly into his fate.
“What a daisy throw!” cried Sam, ecstatically.
“He can do those by the dozen,” remarked Duncan, airily. “He has a
special wire to second base.”
Manning now captured a foul off third, and Latter took a long fly in
left field. A Harvard man got as far as second base and was left there.
The sixth inning profited neither side.
The seventh began with another shock to our friends’ nerves. Bryant
made a two-bagger. His two successors, however, went out on hits to
O’Brien, and presently Bryant himself, working too far from his base,
was cut off by a sudden throw to second, and run down ignominiously
between second and third.
“Now, Mr. Owen, do something!” muttered Duncan, as the Harvard
catcher came to the plate. Owen responded to the unheard appeal by
a hot bounder over second which the Yale centre fielder allowed to
bounce past him, thus helping the runner to second. Williams drove
a troublesome ball into McPherson’s hands, and while the old Seaton
second baseman was struggling to get hold of it, Owen reached third and
Williams crossed first. The Harvard freshies now tried a squeeze play,
and Manning not only met the ball, but made a pretty little hit over
Bryant’s head, that would have brought Owen in, if he had not already
crossed the plate. A sacrifice now advanced Williams and Manning to
third and second. Then Gooding, the Yale pitcher, got three balls on
his first three pitches to Silverton, and the Harvard man, waiting for
his good one, drove a long single out between right and centre fields
that let in Williams and Manning with scores two and three. Two easy
outs followed.
“Three to two!” cried Sam, joyfully. “Two more innings!”
“It’s too close for comfort yet,” said Duncan, nervously. “I’d give a
month’s allowance to see the game end now. That’s Coy up, isn’t it?”
But Coy swung three times in vain at his old pitcher’s curves. One of
his successors reached first, but two others went out and left him
there. The Harvard men fared no better.
“Three more outs. It ought to be dead easy,” muttered Sam, as the ninth
began. The first Yale man at the bat drove a ball into left field that
looked good for two bases. But Latter got in front of it and sent it in
to second in season to scare the runner back to first. A big bony chap
followed at the plate.
“That’s Kleindienst. He used to play with Hillbury. He can hit. They’re
going to do us right here. I feel it in my bones.” Duncan jerked out
his words in curt explosives. “There! he’s done it!” he groaned, as the
batsman drove the ball in a long sweep over third base.
“No, it struck outside the foul line!” cried Sam, eagerly, as the
applause on the Yale side died suddenly away. “See! he’s gone back to
the plate!”
“And got a strike for it, too,” said the reviving Duncan. “That’s where
the foul strike rule hits ’em.”
While he spoke O’Brien sent in another pitch. Kleindienst hit another
foul. This time the ball careened over towards the stands opposite
first base. Owen tipped off his mask and ran headlong in pursuit. He
took the descending ball with hands outstretched; and while the howl
of applause was yet at its beginning, he turned sharply and threw to
first base. The Yale man scrambled wildly back, but the ball was there
before him. Williams fielded the next man out at first.
“Come on! Let’s find him!” sang out Duncan, and dashed down the aisle
before the rising crowd got under way. Sam followed. They rushed out
into the field and made for the close circle gathering rapidly round
the catcher.
“I’ll wait for you,” said Sam. “He won’t care anything about me.”
“Won’t he!” cried Duncan. “Come and see!” And dragging Sam along behind
him, he screwed his way into the cluster at the centre of which Owen
was fighting off the vehement attentions of admirers. At the sight of
Duncan he broke through the circle and pulled the boy in.
“Duncan Peck! I was wondering whether you were here. Didn’t we have
luck! Glad to see you, Archer. How are things at Seaton?”
But before the question could be answered, the questioner was rushed in
another direction, and Sam and Duncan found themselves whirled to the
outside of the circle.
Sam looked at his watch. “There’s just forty-five minutes before the
train leaves. We’ve got to hustle to catch it! We promised to take it,
you know.”
“I suppose we did,” sighed Duncan. “I hate to leave now. I haven’t seen
Don at all. Go ahead!”