adherents had their favorites, but they always showed a sportsmanlike
appreciation of opponents. Salisbury wound up, took an enormous stride,
and pitched the ball. He had speed. Homans seldom hit on the first
pitch, and this was a strike. But he rapped the next like a bullet at
Griffith, the third-baseman. Griffith blocked the ball, and, quickly
reaching it, he used a snap underhand throw to first, catching Homans
by a narrow margin. It was a fine play and the crowd let out another
blast.
Raymond, coming up, began his old trick of trying to work the
pitcher for a base. He was small and he crouched down until a wag
in the bleachers yelled that this was no kindergarten game. Raymond
was exceedingly hard to pitch to. He was always edging over the plate,
trying to get hit. If anybody touched him in practice he would roar
like a mad bull, but in a game he would cheerfully have stopped
cannon-balls. He got in front of Salisbury's third pitch, and,
dropping his bat, started for first base. The umpire called him
back. Thereupon Raymond fouled balls and went through contortions
at the plate till he was out on strikes.
When Reddy Ray took his position at bat audible remarks passed like
a wave through the audience. Then a long, hearty cheer greeted the
great sprinter. When roar once again subsided into waiting suspense
a strong-lunged Wayne rooter yelled, "_Watch him run!_"
The outfielders edged out deeper and deeper. MacNeff called low to
Salisbury: "Don't let this fellow walk! Keep them high and make him
hit!" It was evident that Place had gotten a line on one Wayne player.
Salisbury delivered the ball and Reddy whirled with his level swing.
There was a sharp crack.
Up started the crowd with sudden explosive: "Oh!"
Straight as a bee-line the ball sped to Keene in deep centre, and
Reddy was out.
Wayne players went running out and Place players came trotting in. Ken,
however, at Worry's order, walked slowly and leisurely to the pitcher's
box. He received an ovation from the audience that completely surprised
him and which stirred him to warm gratefulness. Then, receiving the ball,
he drew one quick breath, and faced the stern issue of the day.
As always, he had his pitching plan clearly defined in mind, and no
little part of it was cool deliberation, study of the batter to the
point of irritating him, and then boldness of action. He had learned
that he was not afraid to put the ball over the plate, and the knowledge
had made him bold, and boldness increased his effectiveness.
For Keene, first batter up, Ken pitched his fast ball with all his
power. Like a glancing streak it shot over. A low whistling ran through
the bleachers. For the second pitch Ken took the same long motion,
ending in the sudden swing, but this time he threw a slow, wide,
tantalizing curve that floated and waved and circled around across
the plate. It also was a strike. Keene had not offered to hit either.
In those two balls, perfectly controlled, Ken deliberately showed the
Place team the wide extremes of his pitching game.
"Keene, he don't waste any. Hit!" ordered MacNeff from the bench.
The next ball, a high curve, Keene hit on the fly to Homans.
The flaxen-haired Prince trotted up with little, short steps. Ken did
not need the wild outburst from the crowd to appreciate this sturdy
hero of many gridiron and diamond battles. He was so enormously wide,
almost as wide as he was long, that he would have been funny to Ken but
for the reputation that went with the great shoulders and stumpy legs.
"Ward, give me a good one," said Prince, in a low, pleasant voice.
He handled his heavy bat as if it had been light as a yardstick.
It was with more boldness than intention of gratifying Prince that
Ken complied, using the same kind of ball he had tried first on Keene.
Prince missed it. The next, a low curve, he cracked hard to the left
of Raymond. The second-baseman darted over, fielded the ball cleanly,
and threw Prince out.
Then the long, rangy MacNeff, home-run hitter for Place, faced Ken.
His position at bat bothered Ken, for he stood almost on the plate.
Remembering MacNeff's weakness, Ken lost no time putting a swift
in-shoot under his chin. The Place captain lunged round at it,
grunting with his swing. If he had hit the ball it would have been
with the handle of his bat. So Ken, knowing his control, and sure
that he could pitch high shoots all day over the incomer of the plate,
had no more fear of the Place slugger. And it took only three more
pitches to strike him out.
From that on the game see-sawed inning by inning, Ken outpitching
Salisbury, but neither team scored. At intervals cheers marked the
good plays of both teams, and time and again the work of the pitchers
earned applause. The crowd seemed to be holding back, and while they
waited for the unexpected the short, sharp innings slipped by.
Trace for Wayne led off in the seventh with a safe fly over short. Ken,
attempting to sacrifice, rolled a little bunt down the third-base line
and beat the throw. With no one out and the head of the batting list up,
the Wayne players awoke to possibilities. The same fiery intensity that
had characterized their play all season now manifested itself. They were
all on their feet, and Weir and McCord on the coaching lines were yelling
hoarsely at Salisbury, tearing up the grass with their spikes, dashing
to and fro, shouting advice to the runners.
"Here's where we score! Oh! you pitcher! We're due to trim you now!
Steady, boys, play it safe, play it safe!--don't let them double you!"
Up by the bench Homans was selecting a bat.
"Worry, I'd better dump one," he whispered.
"That's the trick," replied the coach. "Advance them at any cost.
There's Reddy to follow."
The reliable Salisbury rolled the ball in his hands, feinted to throw
to the bases, and showed his steadiness under fire. He put one square
over for Homans and followed it upon the run. Homans made a perfect
bunt, but instead of going along either base line, it went straight
into the pitcher's hands. Salisbury whirled and threw to Prince, who
covered the bag, and forced Trace. One out and still two runners on
bases. The crowd uttered a yell and then quickly quieted down. Raymond
bent low over the plate and watched Salisbury's slightest move. He
bunted the first ball, and it went foul over the third-base line.
He twisted the second toward first base, and it, too, rolled foul.
And still he bent low as if to bunt again. The infield slowly edged
in closer. But Raymond straightened up on Salisbury's next pitch and
lined the ball out. Prince leaped into the air and caught the ball in
his gloved hand. Homans dove back into first base; likewise Ken into
second, just making it in the nick of time, for Martin was on the run
to complete a possible double play. A shout at once hoarse and shrill
went up, and heavy clattering thunder rolled along the floor of the
bleachers. Two out and still two men on bases.
If there was a calm person on Place Field at that moment it was Reddy
Ray, but his eyes glinted like sparks as he glanced at the coach.
"Worry, I'll lace one this time," he said, and strode for the plate.
Weir and McCord were shrieking: "Oh, look who's up! Oh-h! Oh-h!
Play it safe, boys!"
"_Watch him run!_"
That came from the same deep-chested individual who had before hinted
of the sprinter's fleetness, and this time the Wayne players recognized
the voice of Murray. How hopeful and thrilling the suggestion was,
coming from him!
The Place infield trotted to deep short-field; the outfielders moved
out and swung around far to the right. Salisbury settled down in the
box and appeared to put on extra effort as he delivered the ball. It
was wide. The next also went off the outside of the plate. It looked
as if Salisbury meant to pass Reddy to first. Then those on the bench
saw a glance and a nod pass between Reddy Ray and Coach Arthurs. Again
Salisbury pitched somewhat to the outside of the plate, but this time
Reddy stepped forward and swung.
_Crack!_
Swift as an arrow and close to the ground the ball shot to left field.
Starke leaped frantically to head it off, and as it took a wicked bound
he dove forward head first, hands outstretched, and knocked it down.
But the ball rolled a few yards, and Starke had to recover from his
magnificent effort.
No one on the field saw Ward and Homans running for the plate. All eyes
were on the gray, flitting shadow of a sprinter. One voice only, and
that was Murray's, boomed out in the silence. When Reddy turned second
base Starke reached the ball and threw for third. It was a beautiful
race between ball and runner for the bag. As Reddy stretched into the
air in a long slide the ball struck and shot off the ground with a
glancing bound. They reached the base at the same time. But Griffith,
trying to block the runner, went spinning down, and the ball rolled
toward the bleachers. Reddy was up and racing plateward so quickly
that it seemed he had not been momentarily checked. The few Wayne
rooters went wild.
"Three runs!" yelled the delirious coaches. Weir was so overcome that
he did not know it was his turn at bat. When called in he hurried to
the plate and drove a line fly to centre that Keene caught only after
a hard run.
Ken Ward rose from the bench to go out on the diamond. The voices of
his comrades sounded far away, as voices in a dream.
"Three to the good now, Ward! It's yours!" said Captain Homans.
"Only nine more batters! Peg, keep your feet leaded!" called Reddy Ray.
"It's the seventh, and Place hasn't made a safe hit! Oh, Ken!"
came from Raymond.
So all the boys vented their hope and trust in their pitcher.
There was a mist before Ken's eyes that he could not rub away. The field
blurred at times. For five innings after the first he had fought some
unaccountable thing. He had kept his speed, his control, his memory of
batters, and he had pitched magnificently. But something had hovered
over him, and had grown more tangible as the game progressed. There was
a shadow always before his sight.
In the last of the seventh, with Keene at bat, Ken faced the plate with
a strange unsteadiness and a shrinking for which he hated himself. What
was wrong with him? Had he been taken suddenly ill? Anger came to his
rescue, and he flung himself into his pitching with fierce ardor. He
quivered with a savage hope when Keene swung ineffectually at the high
in-shoot. He pitched another and another, and struck out the batter.
But now it meant little to see him slam down his bat in a rage. For
Ken had a foreboding that he could not do it again. When Prince came
up Ken found he was having difficulty in keeping the ball where he
wanted it. Prince batted a hot grounder to Blake, who fumbled. MacNeff
had three balls and one strike called upon him before he hit hard over
second base. But Raymond pounced upon the ball like a tiger, dashed
over the bag and threw to first, getting both runners.
"Wull, Ken, make them hit to me," growled Raymond.
Ken sat down upon the bench far from the coach. He shunned Worry in that
moment. The warm praise of his fellow-players was meaningless to him.
Something was terribly wrong. He knew he shrank from going into the box
again, yet dared not admit it to himself. He tried to think clearly, and
found his mind in a whirl. When the Wayne batters went out in one, two,
three order, and it was time for Ken to pitch again, he felt ice form in
his veins.
"Only six more hitters!" called Reddy's warning voice. It meant cheer
and praise from Reddy, but to Ken it seemed a knell.
"Am I weakening?" muttered Ken. "Am I going up in the air? _What_ is
wrong with me?"
He was nervous now and could not stand still and he felt himself
trembling. The ball was wet from the sweat in his hands; his hair
hung damp over his brow and he continually blew it out of his eyes.
With all his spirit he crushed back the almost overwhelming desire
to hurry, hurry, hurry. Once more, in a kind of passion, he fought
off the dreaded unknown weakness.
With two balls pitched to Starke he realized that he had lost control
of his curve. He was not frightened for the loss of his curve, but he
went stiff with fear that he might lose control of his fast ball, his
best and last resort. Grimly he swung and let drive. Starke lined the
ball to left. The crowd lifted itself with a solid roar, and when Homans
caught the hit near the foul flag, subsided with a long groan. Ken set
his teeth. He knew he was not right, but did any one else know it? He
was getting magnificent support and luck was still with him.
"Over the pan, Peg! Don't waste one!" floated from Reddy, warningly.
Then Ken felt sure that Reddy had seen or divined his panic. How soon
would the Place players find it out? With his throat swelling and his
mouth dry and his whole body in a ferment Ken pitched to Martin. The
short-stop hit to Weir, who made a superb stop and throw. Two out!
From all about Ken on the diamond came the low encouraging calls of
his comrades. Horton, a burly left-hander, stepped forward, swinging
a wagon-tongue. Ken could no longer steady himself and he pitched
hurriedly. One ball, two balls, one strike, three balls--how the big
looming Horton stood waiting over the plate! Almost in despair Ken
threw again, and Horton smote the ball with a solid rap. It was a low
bounder. Raymond pitched forward full length toward first base and the
ball struck in his glove with a crack, and stuck there. Raymond got up
and tossed it to McCord. A thunder of applause greeted this star play
of the game.
The relief was so great that Ken fairly tottered as he went in to the
bench. Worry did not look at him. He scarcely heard what the boys said;
he felt them patting him on the back. Then to his amaze, and slowly
mounting certainty of disaster, the side was out, and it was again his
turn to pitch.
"Only three more, Peg! The tail end of the batting list. _Hang on!_"
said Reddy, as he trotted out.
Ken's old speed and control momentarily came back to him. Yet he felt
he pitched rather by instinct than intent. He struck Griffith out.
"Only two more, Peg!" called Reddy.
The great audience sat in depressed, straining silence. Long since the
few Wayne rooters had lost their vocal powers.
Conroy hit a high fly to McCord.
"Oh, Peg, _only one more!_" came the thrilling cry. No other Wayne
player could speak a word then.
With Salisbury up, Ken had a momentary flash of his old spirit and he
sent a straight ball over the plate, meaning it to be hit. Salisbury
did hit it, and safely, through short. The long silent, long waiting
crowd opened up with yells and stamping feet.
A horrible, cold, deadly sickness seized upon Ken as he faced the fleet,
sure-hitting Keene. He lost his speed, he lost his control. Before he
knew what had happened he had given Keene a base on balls. Two on bases
and two out!
The Place players began to leap and fling up their arms and scream. When
out of their midst Prince ran to the plate a piercing, ear-splitting
sound pealed up from the stands. As in a haze Ken saw the long lines of
white-sleeved students become violently agitated and move up and down
to strange, crashing yells.
Then Ken Ward knew. That was the famed Place cheer for victory at the
last stand. It was the trumpet-call of Ken's ordeal. His mind was as
full of flashes of thought as there were streaks and blurs before his
eyes. He understood Worry now. He knew now what was wrong with him, what
had been coming all through that terrible game. The whole line of stands
and bleachers wavered before him, and the bright colors blended in one
mottled band.
Still it was in him to fight to the last gasp. The pain in his breast,
and the nausea in his stomach, and the whirling fury in his mind did not
make him give up, though they robbed him of strength. The balls he threw
to Prince were wide of the plate and had nothing of his old speed. Prince,
also, took his base on balls.
Bases full and two out!
MacNeff, the captain, fronted the plate, and shook his big bat at Ken.
Of all the Place hitters Ken feared him the least. He had struck MacNeff
out twice, and deep down in his heart stirred a last desperate rally.
He had only to keep the ball high and in close to win this game. Oh!
for the control that had been his pride!
The field and stands seemed to swim round Ken and all he saw with his
half-blinded eyes was the white plate, the batter, and Dean and the
umpire. Then he took his swing and delivered the ball.
It went true. MacNeff missed it.
Ken pitched again. The umpire held up one finger of each hand.
One ball and one strike. Two more rapid pitches, one high and one
wide. Two strikes and two balls.
Ken felt his head bursting and there were glints of red before his eyes.
He bit his tongue to keep it from lolling out. He was almost done. That
ceaseless, infernal din had benumbed his being. With a wrenching of his
shoulder Ken flung up another ball. MacNeff leaned over it, then let it
go by.
Three and two!
It was torture for Ken. He had the game in his hands, yet could not
grasp it. He braced himself for the pitch and gave it all he had left
in him.
"_Too low!_" he moaned. MacNeff killed low balls.
The big captain leaped forward with a terrific swing and hit the ball.
It lined over short, then began to rise, shot over Homans, and soared
far beyond, to drop and roll and roll.
Through darkening sight Ken Ward saw runner after runner score, and saw
Homans pick up the ball as MacNeff crossed the plate with the winning
run. In Ken's ears seemed a sound of the end of the world.
He thought himself the centre of a flying wheel. It was the boys
crowding around him. He saw their lips move but caught no words.
Then choking and tottering, upheld by Reddy Ray's strong arm, the
young pitcher walked off the field.
XVII
KEN'S DAY
The slow return to the tavern, dressing and going to the station, the
ride home, the arrival at the training-house, the close-pressing, silent
companionship of Reddy Ray, Worry, and Raymond--these were dim details
of that day of calamity. Ken Ward's mind was dead--locked on that fatal
moment when he pitched a low ball to MacNeff. His friends left him in
the darkness of his room, knowing instinctively that it was best for
him to be alone.
Ken undressed and crawled wearily into bed and stretched out as if he
knew and was glad he would never move his limbs again. The silence and
the darkness seemed to hide him from himself. His mind was a whirling
riot of fire, and in it was a lurid picture of that moment with MacNeff
at bat. Over and over and over he lived it in helpless misery. His ears
were muffled with that huge tide of sound. Again and again and again he
pitched the last ball, to feel his heart stop beating, to see the big
captain lunge at the ball, to watch it line and rise and soar.
But gradually exhaustion subdued his mental strife, and he wandered in
mind and drifted into sleep. When he woke it was with a cold, unhappy
shrinking from the day. His clock told the noon hour; he had slept
long. Outside the June sunlight turned the maple leaves to gold. Was
it possible, Ken wondered dully, for the sun ever to shine again? Then
Scotty came bustling in.
"Mr. Wau-rd, won't ye be hovin' breakfast?" he asked, anxiously.
"Scotty, I'll never eat again," replied Ken.
There were quick steps upon the stairs and Worry burst in, rustling
a newspaper.
"Hello, old man!" he called, cheerily. "Say! Look at this!"
He thrust the paper before Ken's eyes and pointed to a column:
Place Beat Wayne by a Lucky Drive. Young Ward
Pitched the Greatest Game Ever Pitched on
Place Field and Lost It in the Ninth, with
Two Men Out and Three and Two on MacNeff
Ken's dull, gloom-steeped mind underwent a change, but he could not
speak. He sat up in bed, clutching the paper, and gazing from it to
the coach. Raymond came in, followed by Homans, and, last, Reddy Ray,
who sat down upon the bed. They were all smiling, and that seemed
horrible to Ken.
"But, Worry--Reddy--I--I lost the game--threw it away!" faltered Ken.
"Oh no, Peg. You pitched a grand game. Only in the stretch you got one
ball too low," said Reddy.
"Peg, you started to go up early in the game," added Worry, with a smile,
as if the fact was amusing. "You made your first balloon-ascension in
the seventh. And in the ninth you exploded. I never seen a better case
of up-in-the-air. But, Peg, in spite of it you pitched a wonderful game.
You had me guessin'. I couldn't take you out of the box. Darn me if I
didn't think you'd shut Place out in spite of your rattles!"
"Then--after all--it's not so terrible?" Ken asked, breathlessly.
"Why, boy, it's all right. We can lose a game, and to lose one like
that--it's as good as winnin'. Say! I'm a liar if I didn't see 'em
Place hitters turnin' gray-headed! Listen! That game over there was
tough on all the kids, you most of all, of course. But you all stood
the gaff. You've fought out a grillin' big game away from home. That's
over. You'll never go through that again. But it was the makin' of
you.... Here, look this over! Mebbe it'll cheer you up."
He took something from Raymond and tossed it upon the bed. It looked
like a round, red, woolly bundle. Ken unfolded it, to disclose a
beautiful sweater, with a great white "W" in the centre.
"The boys all got 'em this mornin'," added Worry.
It was then that the tragedy of the Place game lost its hold on Ken,
and retreated until it stood only dimly in outline.
"I'll--I'll be down to lunch," said Ken, irrelevantly.
His smiling friends took the hint and left the room.
Ken hugged the sweater while reading the _Times-Star's_ account of the
game. Whoever the writer was, Ken loved him. Then he hid his face in
the pillow, and though he denied to himself that he was crying, when he
arose it was certain that the pillow was wet.
An hour later Ken presented himself at lunch, once more his old amiable
self. The boys freely discussed baseball--in fact, for weeks they had
breathed and dreamed baseball--but Ken noted, for the first time, where
superiority was now added to the old confidence. The Wayne varsity had
found itself. It outclassed Herne; it was faster than Place; it stood
in line for championship honors.
"Peg, you needn't put on your uniform to-day," said the coach.
"You rest up. But go over to Murray and have your arm rubbed.
Is it sore or stiff?"
"Not at all. I could work again to-day," replied Ken.
That afternoon, alone in his room, he worked out his pitching plan
for Saturday's game. It did not differ materially from former plans.
But for a working basis he had self-acquired knowledge of the Place
hitters. It had been purchased at dear cost. He feared none of them
except Prince. He decided to use a high curve ball over the plate
and let Prince hit, trusting to luck and the players behind him. Ken
remembered how the Place men had rapped hard balls at Raymond. Most
of them were right-field hitters. Ken decided to ask Homans to play
Reddy Ray in right field. Also he would arrange a sign with Reddy and
Raymond and McCord so they would know when he intended to pitch speed
on the outside corner of the plate. For both his curve and fast ball
so pitched were invariably hit toward right field. When it came to
MacNeff, Ken knew from the hot rankling deep down in him that he would
foil that hitter. He intended to make the others hit, pitching them
always, to the best of his judgment and skill, those balls they were
least likely to hit safely, yet which would cut the corners of the
plate if let go. No bases on balls this game, that he vowed grimly.
And if he got in a pinch he would fall back upon his last resort, the
fast jump ball; and now that he had gone through his baptism of fire
he knew he was not likely to lose his control. So after outlining his
plan he believed beyond reasonable doubt that he could win the game.
The evening of that day he confided his plan to Reddy Ray and had the
gratification of hearing it warmly commended. While Ken was with Reddy
the coach sent word up to all rooms that the boys were to "cut" baseball
talk. They were to occupy their minds with reading, study, or games.
"It's pretty slow," said Reddy. "Peg, let's have some fun with somebody."
"I'm in. What'll we do?"
"Can't you think? You're always leaving schemes to me.
Use your brains, boy."
Ken pondered a moment and then leaped up in great glee.
"Reddy, I've got something out of sight," he cried.
"Spring it, then."
"Well, it's this: Kel Raymond is perfectly crazy about his new sweater.
He moons over it and he carries it around everywhere. Now it happens
that Kel is a deep sleeper. He's hard to wake up. I've always had to
shake him and kick him to wake him every morning. I'm sure we could get
him in that sweater without waking him. So to-morrow morning you come
down early, before seven, and help me put the sweater on Kel. We'll
have Worry and the boys posted and we'll call them in to see Kel, and
then we'll wake him and swear he slept in his sweater."