THE HOME RUN
Events were crowded thickly into the next week. Gardiner returned
to the Academy on Monday and shook up football affairs in a way
that surprised even Paddy. On Tuesday two more graduates put in an
appearance on the campus and with most terrifying scowls proceeded to
work miracles, one with the sprinters and the other with the baseball
candidates. The latter coach reached the scene none too soon, for the
next day Shrewsburg sent down an aggregation of hard-hitting young
gentlemen who had already earned a reputation that reached up and down
the valley. Most of the fellows turned out for the game and cheered
lustily for the crimson-stockinged youngsters, but despite the support
of the grand stand Hillton put up a ragged kind of ball, and at the end
of the sixth inning the wearers of the green S were five runs to the
good and their earning capacity seemed still unlimited.
Wayne and Don and Dave saw most of the contest from where the former
was putting Perkins over the high hurdles in a fraction over record
time. Later they adjourned to the stand and Don took a hand in
the cheering with encouraging results. Hillton went to bat in the
first of the seventh amid a loud chorus of cheers only to retire in
one-two-three order. Then the coach asserted authority and a new
pitcher went into the box, a lower-middle-class boy, Forest by name,
who had gained some success with his class nine the preceding spring.
He had a fresh, smiling, and ingenuous countenance, and he delivered
nice straight balls that went so fast that the first two Shrewsburg
batters went out on strikes and the third one reached first base
through the medium of a short grounder that seemed to belong to nobody
in particular, and for which nobody tried. But the side was out in
the next moment, for the fourth batsman struck up a nice clean fly
that settled cosily into the right-fielder’s hands, and the crimson
stockings trotted in under a salvo of applause.
“Say, where’s Paddy?” asked Wayne, while the first man at bat was
recovering his equilibrium after striking unsuccessfully at a deceptive
drop. Dave grinned.
“Paddy’s busy. Gardiner’s got every candidate, new and old, back of the
gym teaching them to pass. And Gardiner’s so full of new ideas that
Paddy’s head is in a whir all the time. I fear he’ll have brain fever
soon.”
“There’ll be two of us,” said Don feelingly, “unless Middleton goes out
of training. He knocked over every hurdle to-day except the last three.
I don’t understand how he came to miss those.”
“Side’s out,” interrupted Wayne. “This is the last of the eighth, isn’t
it?”
“Yes, let’s get the fellows to cheering.” Don got up and encouraged the
stand to renewed efforts, and the Shrewsburg captain went to bat.
“Twelve to seven,” muttered Dave. “I guess we don’t want this game.”
“Nine’s awful rocky this year,” said Don. “But I’ll bet Kirk will teach
’em something before the first St. Eustace game.”
“Good work, Gray!” yelled Wayne, as the Hillton first baseman captured
a liner hot off the end of the Shrewsburg captain’s stick.
“Is that Carl Gray?” asked Dave.
“Yes; I guess he’ll get on to the team. He’s made two of the seven runs
so far.”
Once more the Shrewsburg batters failed to make a safe hit, and Forest
got a good hearty cheer all to himself as he threw down the ball and
went to the bench. It was the first of the ninth now and the home
team’s last chance to tie the score or win, either a difficult task.
But the cheering became continuous, and the first man at bat, obeying
instructions, waited patiently for his base and got it on four balls.
Then a batting streak came to the Hillton players, and the next fellow
at the plate struck the first ball delivered safely just inside of
the third baseman. The next batter also found the ball and knocked it
hotly to shortstop, who fumbled it; and the bases were full. But the
Shrewsburg pitcher settled down to work and the following Hillton man
went out on strikes. And then happened a most unfortunate incident
for Shrewsburg. The coachers were busy back of first and third bases,
and the Shrewsburg pitcher allowed the noise to worry him a little,
just enough to turn an inshoot into a catastrophe. The ball struck
the batsman on the hip, and he limped to first, the men on bases
moved up, and Hillton scored her eighth run, amid quickly suppressed
applause from the seats. The pitcher lost his nerve then and delivered
a straight ball, shoulder high, which lit on the center of the bat
and went sailing just over his head, bringing another runner in and
reaching first too late to put the batsman out. The bases were still
full, with but one out, and the grand stand was wild with excitement.
The next fellow at the plate, perhaps determining to profit by the
pitcher’s collapse, allowed the first two balls to go by unnoticed.
Both were strikes. He looked worried for an instant as he tapped the
plate with his stick and again faced the pitcher. The third delivery
was a ball, and the batsman smiled.
“Hit it, Jim!” shrieked a friend in the audience, but Jim merely
broadened his smile into a grin, and the umpire called “Two balls!”
Again he remained motionless. “Three balls!” Fellows on the seats began
to breathe hard and lean restively forward. The Shrewsburg pitcher
glanced around the bases, wiped the stained leather sphere pensively
on his gray trousers, shot his hands upward, and sent a straight ball
waist-high over the plate. The batsman tossed aside his stick and took
a step toward first base.
“Striker’s out!” called the umpire.
A howl of derision went up from the watchers as the youth turned back
and walked toward the seat with a pained expression on his face.
“Idiot!” commented Dave.
But there was yet a chance. A three-bagger would tie the score. A
slightly built boy selected a bat and took his place at the plate.
Simultaneously the pitcher turned, waved his hand, and the fielders
scattered farther away. Some one started a cheer.
“’Rah-rah-rah, ’Rah-rah-rah, ’Rah-rah-rah, Gray!”
“There’s your friend, Wayne,” said Dave. “Hope he’ll swipe out a home
run.”
“So do I. But no such luck, I’m afraid.”
The pitcher was evidently afraid of Gray’s prowess with the bat and
went to work skillfully to deceive him by all his arts. But Gray was
cool and used the best of judgment. The first ball sped slowly by and
resolved itself into a wide outcurve. “One ball!” droned the umpire.
The catcher protested loudly, indignantly. Then he marched forward and
held a whispered conversation with the pitcher, while the audience
laughed derisively.
“No secrets!” bawled a small junior.
The catcher returned, and, leaning far to the right, smote his glove
disconcertingly. But Gray refused to glance around or lose his head.
The pitcher’s wonted skill and coolness had returned to him. The men on
bases were playing far off, ready to take advantage of anything in the
shape of a hit. Up went the pitcher’s hands, forward shot his arm, and
Gray leaped desperately backward.
“Strike!” called the umpire.
Gray looked disconcerted for an instant. Then he tapped the plate
resolutely and again faced the pitcher. The next ball was far out and
the boy at bat made no offer at it.
“Two balls!”
Again the chap with the great green S decorating his jersey went
through his contortions, and the sphere sped forward. Gray struck at
it with all his force and spun around on his heel. The catcher dropped
to his knee and picked the ball from the dust. It was a most deceptive
drop and the waiting batsmen on the bench nodded their heads in
approval.
“Two strikes!”
A little spot of deeper red shone on Gray’s cheek now and he moved his
stick a bit nervously behind his shoulder. The pitcher stepped back
into his box, nodded to a sign from the catcher, and let drive. Then
there was a sharp report as Gray’s bat struck the speeding sphere, the
grand stand was on its feet, the three men on bases raced home almost
in a bunch, and Gray was rounding first base at a desperate pace!
High and far sped the ball. The left-fielder was racing back down the
field. Would he catch it? Pandemonium reigned in the grand stand. Wayne
and the others were on their feet, shouting wildly and waving their
caps. Gray reached second base, cast a glance toward left field, and
came on. The fielder turned almost under the ball and reached upward,
leaped back a step, clutched wildly, and fell. The ball, tipping his
fingers just beyond his reach, dropped to earth. And Gray, panting and
happy, crossed the home plate into the arms of his exultant friends.
The score was now in Hillton’s favor by one run: thirteen to twelve.
The half was soon over. The next man struck a short grounder and was
out at first. And Shrewsburg went to bat, desperate resolve written
large on every face.
“Say, that friend Gray of yours is a great little boy!” exclaimed Dave,
as he pulled his cap on again and pounded his feet in time to the
refrain of Hilltonians, which the audience had started to chant.
“That’s the finest home run that’s ever been seen on this field since
I’ve been in school,” said Don. “And it was needed, too. A home run in
time saves the nine.”
“I hope it’ll save this nine,” laughed Wayne. “But those chaps look as
though they meant business. One run will tie us; two will beat us.”
But fortune proved a friend to Hillton, and Gray’s wonderful hit saved
the day, for Forest worked like a veteran pitcher and struck out the
first two Shrewsburg men in short order. The next batter wrote finis
to the game by sending a high foul into the first baseman’s gloves,
and the grand stand was emptied of its throng. Shrewsburg accepted
defeat manfully, answered the Hillton cheer with one equally hearty,
bundled itself into the waiting coach, and took its departure with much
good-natured defiant flaunting of green banners. Gray, by one brilliant
stroke, had achieved a much-coveted position on the nine and was a
school hero for many weeks.
The following day Wayne again sped over the mile while Professor Beck
held the watch on him. But something was wrong. The professor gave him
the result with ill-concealed displeasure.
“Five minutes twenty-three seconds. That’ll never do. You must cut off
fifteen seconds, Gordon, if you expect to make the team. What’s the
trouble?”
But Wayne couldn’t tell. He had done his best, he thought, and asserted
positively that he could run the distance again without feeling it,
which feat was naturally not allowed.
“Take a rest to-morrow,” counseled the professor, “so that you’ll be
in good condition for Saturday. For I’ll tell you frankly that if you
don’t mend that time in the handicaps you’ll find yourself out of it.”
And Wayne jogged back to the gymnasium feeling very forlorn and
discouraged. But after his bath and rubbing his spirits returned and
he vowed to open the professor’s eyes next time. He had entered for
both the half and the mile, the former on Professor Beck’s advice.
“For,” said the latter, “the races are far apart, and you’ll get over
the effects of the half before the mile is called. And the half may
limber you up for the longer distance.”
Wayne spent the next day in rest. Don, too, was idle, as were most of
the boys who were to participate in the handicaps, and he and Wayne
took a short walk along the river in the afternoon and returned at
dusk in time for an hour’s study before supper. The handicaps were
announced that evening, and, as is usual in like cases, there was some
dissatisfaction expressed by contestants. Wayne found that he was to be
allowed twenty yards in the half mile and was to run from scratch in
the mile, and was quite satisfied. One thing that told its own story
was the announcement that Merton would receive an allowance of eight
feet in the hammer throw.
“Poor old Dave!” said Don. “That’ll cut him up like anything. I suppose
it means that Hardy has turned out to be a better man, for you see he’s
down for scratch. Hello! they’ve given Middleton four seconds in the
one-hundred-and-twenty-yard hurdles; well, he ought to come somewhere
near winning with that allowance.”
Wayne went to bed that night filled with determination to win on the
morrow. He was not the sort of lad that allows the thought of coming
events to keep him awake, and he was soon fast asleep; nerves were
practically unknown to Wayne. But his brain proved more troublesome and
continued its labors after the body had gone to rest, with the result
that his slumbers were disturbed by dreams in which he seemed to be
trying to win the mile race with Professor Beck perched like an old man
of the sea on his shoulders, and Don continually thrusting hurdles in
his path.