TOBY BLOCKS THE PLATE
The baseball game between the Towners and the Spanish Head boys came
off on the following Wednesday, strictly according to schedule. By
that time Toby and Arnold had somewhat recovered from the excitement
incident to coming into possession of so much money and were able
to give their minds to the event. Toby was the satisfied owner of a
passbook on a New York bank which showed him to have on deposit the
sum of one hundred and fifty dollars, subject to interest at four per
cent., while Arnold had that morning witnessed the laying of the keel
of his knockabout in Mr. Tucker’s shed. Of the two, perhaps it was Toby
who was able to give the most thought to playing ball that afternoon.
Long before the contest began it became evident that they were not
to lack an audience. Mothers, brothers, sisters, and friends of the
Spanish Head fellows came to the number of nearly one hundred, and the
road along the field was well lined with automobiles and traps. The
townsfolk turned out in far fewer numbers, but some of them came, among
them Phebe, looking very pretty in a new muslin dress and accompanied
by two girl friends. The accommodations for spectators being limited to
one small tier of seats, the visitors from the Head watched the game
from their carriages and cars. Mr. Trainor, appropriately attired in an
ancient Yale sweater, officiated to every one’s satisfaction and got,
as it appeared, a whole lot of fun out of his job!
There was a marked contrast between the rival nines when, at a few
minutes past three, they faced each other on the somewhat dusty field
of battle. The “Spaniards” to a boy wore uniforms, and although only
two of their number were dressed alike――the two being Arnold and Frank
Lamson in Yardley Hall attire,――they presented a rather more neat and
pleasing appearance than their opponents. Of the Towners fully a third
met the demands of the occasion by removing their coats, rolling up
their sleeves and turning up their trousers, another third compromised
by wearing portions of uniforms, and the rest were appropriately
attired in baseball togs of a sort. Toby, I regret to say, was of the
second class, appearing in a grammar school shirt and his everyday
khaki trousers. He had fully intended dressing the lower portion
of him in baseball pants and blue stockings, but the search for the
stockings had been only half successful. That is, he had found only one
of the pair. The idea of presenting himself before the public with one
bare leg had occurred to him, but had not appealed.
All being in readiness, and one of six new balls philanthropically
supplied by the umpire having been shorn of its tissue and glistening
foil, Frank Lamson walked to the pitcher’s box, his team mates arranged
themselves over the field, and Mr. William Conners, better known as
Billy, stepped to the plate. And after Frank Lamson had whizzed a few
balls across by way of warming-up and George Dodson had pegged the
last in the general direction of second base, and Arnold Deering and
Hal Mason had sprinted half-way to center field to get it, Mr. Trainor
called “Play ball!” in a very umpirical voice. And, lest you look for
that word “umpirical” in the dictionary, I’ll tell you right now that
you won’t find it. I just made it up!
I have no intention of following that very notable contest inning by
inning. You’d find it tiresome, and so would I. Besides, only four of
the nine sessions supplied real interest. The others often supplied
runs and errors――plenty of errors――but no great excitement. The Spanish
Head contingent of spectators were well-bred enough to only smile
discreetly at the sight of “Tubby” Knowles sliding to second base in
that first inning, but I’m certain that they really wanted to laugh
outright. Tubby was, as his nickname suggests, rotund, and he wore a
pair of trousers of an interesting black and brown plaid that were
very much too large for him around the waist and almost as much too
long for him in the legs. Picture Tubby, then, when, having reached
first by an error, subsequent to Billy Conners’s retirement, he saw
his chance to win glory and another base by a steal. Tubby’s run was a
series of convulsions in which every portion of his anatomy took part.
It wasn’t a fast performance, but it was earnest and whole-hearted――and
whole-bodied! Tubby’s strange plaid-attired limbs fairly twinkled
along the path, Tubby’s mouth opened itself wide, Tubby’s eyes fixed
themselves almost agonizingly on the middle sack, and Tubby stole!
Down sped the ball from Dodson’s hand. Arnold blocked the bag. Tubby
threw his hundred and forty pounds of body recklessly forward――and
confusion ensued! Over and over rolled Tubby, in the manner and with
all the grace of a rolling barrel. Plaid trousers filled the air for
an instant; plaid trousers and dust together, that is. And then Mr.
Trainor, trotting up, spread his hands and cried “Safe!” very loudly
indeed, but with a strange break in the middle of it, and Arnold gazed
as one stricken with bewilderment while Tubby, breathing loudly, pulled
himself to the bag and sat upon it in triumph!
I’m not accusing Mr. Trainor of partiality or blindness or any other
fault undesirable in an umpire, but it did look as though that ball met
one of Tubby’s wildly waving legs before Tubby reached his goal. Still,
Mr. Trainor was where he could see! And Mr. Trainor had a nice sense of
justice! And, out or not out, Tubby certainly deserved that base!
And yet, in spite of Tubby Knowles’s heroic act, the Towners failed
to score in their half of the first. Tubby got no farther than that
hard-won second sack, for Tony George struck out miserably and Gus
Whelan only popped a weak fly to shortstop. Nor, for that matter,
could the Spaniards do any better. Tim Chrystal’s slants were by no
means crystal when it came to seeing through them, and both Tracey
Gay, who led off for the visitors, and Arnold himself, who followed at
the plate, fanned very promptly, and when Sam Cushing had been easily
tossed out at first the inning ended.
In the second the Towners scored their first run on an infield error,
a hit, and a sacrifice fly, Manuel Sousa crossing the plate with the
initial tally of the game. The Head came back a few minutes later with
two runs, however, and so the Towners had but a brief enjoyment of
their lead. Two to one the score stood until the fourth. Then things
happened.
Frank Lamson had pitched a very creditable game so far. He had a
couple of curves that broke nicely for him and he had a canny way of
mixing them in with his straight ball that made them more serviceable.
Something that he called his “fade-away” was less successful and
usually “faded away” several feet in front of the plate. But he got to
the fourth inning with only some six hits set down against him in the
scorebook, and as those six had been well scattered he had been in no
danger. But in that memorable fourth, Tony George, coming to bat for
the second time, took a sudden and unexpected liking to Frank’s very
first offering and sent it screaming away into deep right field about
three yards beyond the point that Tracey Gay reached in his frantic
effort to get to it. That hit yielded two bases on its merits and a
third when Tracey threw in wildly and the ball rolled past first base.
Tony got to third with seconds to spare.
Toby stationed himself at first, hitched up his trousers at the knees,
and coached loudly and incessantly, while Billy Conners, back of third,
followed his example to the best of his ability. Harry Glass stepped to
the plate and seemingly dared Frank to “put ’em over!” Just what did
happen during the next ten minutes is not for me to attempt without the
scorebook to refer to. I know that Harry Glass tried to bunt and was
thrown out at first and that “Snub” Mooney took his place. You’re to
bear in mind that during these proceedings Toby’s voice was cannoning
across the diamond and that Billy Conners’s voice was flying back like
a startling echo! And this had its effect on Frank Lamson. Snub tried
hard to find something to his liking, but Frank only put one good one
over and Snub walked. Whereupon Toby’s voice arose to greater heights.
“All right, fellows! We’re on our way! He hasn’t a thing! Watch that,
will you? Take a lead, Tony! Take a good one! Oh, more’n that! He won’t
throw it! He wouldn’t dare to! He’s tired out. O-oh, what a bluff! Come
on again, Tony! Now then, Tim, whale it! If you don’t want to hit,
wait him out! He’ll give you the base if you wait! Here we go! Here we
go! Here we go!”
Tim, being a pitcher, was not supposed to hit, but this time he did,
and the ball went straight between Arnold, playing second, and the
shortstop, and Tony trotted home. Tim went to first and might almost
have reached second. Then Toby, batting last, whacked out a two-bagger
that scored Tim. Billy Conners put Toby on third with a scratch hit
down third base line, and Jim Lord dropped a foul and Toby scored.
After that, well things got confused. Errors multiplied and Frank gave
some two more passes and there were some more hits, one, by Gus Whelan,
a three-bagger. When the inning was at last over the Towners had
accumulated a nice lead of five runs, and the score stood 7 to 2!
Tim Chrystal had his bad innings as well, and Toby, who was catching
him, and doing a very good job, too, spent some anxious moments. The
sixth was especially trying to Tim and the Towners, for in that inning
the visitors got to Tim for four hits with a total of six that sent
three more runs over. Meanwhile Frank Lamson had settled down again and
the Towners made no more circuits until the eighth. Then, when Harry
Glass got to first base on the third baseman’s fumbling of an easy
ball and was sacrificed to second by Snub Mooney, Tim Chrystal took it
into his head to bunt and laid the ball down in front of base. George
Dodson faked a throw to first and then wheeled and pegged down to third
to get Harry Glass. Harry, seeing a world of trouble ahead, doubled
back to second again, found Tim speeding along from first, changed his
mind as the ball passed him into Arnold’s hands, and streaked once more
for the corner sack.
By that time about half the Spaniards had gathered along the base line
to take a hand in the festivities. Back and forth sped the ball and
back and forth dodged Harry, always escaping by a hair’s breadth. Now
and then, by way of adding an extra thrill, some one would fumble and
Harry would get a new chance of life. But in the end they got him,
though goodness knows how the official scorers scored that play, and
George Dodson, somewhat relieved, tossed the ball along the ground to
the pitcher’s box. As it happened, Frank Lamson had been taking part
in the pursuit and was as far from the ball as any one, a fact which
struck Tim Chrystal, on second now, at that instant. Tim promptly
legged it for third. Three or four dismayed Spaniards hustled for the
ball. George Dodson got to it first, scooped it up and hurled it to
third. But, as the third baseman was several yards from the bag, the
ball continued busily into the outfield and Tim continued on his way
rejoicing, bringing home the eighth run for the Towners and joy and
hilarity to his friends.
Again, in their half of the eighth, the visitors decreased the lead. It
was Arnold who was directly responsible, for he got a two-bagger off
Tim and stole third standing up a minute later. Then Pete Lord smashed
one at Manuel Sousa that that youth couldn’t handle cleanly and Arnold
beat the throw to the plate by inches only. After that another hit, and
an error by Tony George, gave the Spaniards one more tally. And the
ninth began with the score 8 to 7, the visitors but one run behind.
The Towners tried desperately to add to their margin of safety, but
Frank Lamson, although he passed the first man up, struck out the
next, made the third fly out to center fielder and himself tossed the
ball to first for the final out. Toby was very glad that the opponents
were down to the tail-end of their batting list when that last half of
the ninth inning commenced, for Toby felt that it would be rather too
bad to lose the game after securing the lead they had secured in the
fourth. Many of the spectators from the Head had trundled away by now,
for it was close on 5 o’clock, but the townsfolk stayed loyally on.
Frank Lamson was first up, and Frank, who had not distinguished himself
greatly with the stick, was bent on getting at least one good whack.
Besides, he had the feeling that, on the whole, Tim Chrystal had
out-pitched him, and he wanted to do his bit to spoil that youth’s
record. And after Tim had got two nice strikes across and had only
wasted one ball in the operation Frank saw something coming that looked
good and let go at it. Toby, watching the ball streak safely into short
left field, remorsefully told himself that that was his fault, for he
had called on Tim to “sneak one over,” and Frank had outguessed him.
Then Hal Mason, center fielder, bunted and Tim threw wide and Hal was
safe. Toby knew he would steal and watched him closely. But with Frank
Lamson on third he didn’t dare throw down to second. Instead, he pegged
hard to Tim and Tim very neatly relayed the ball to third and Frank was
caught a yard off the base. After that Toby breathed easier, for with
one out and two strikes on Catcher Dodson things looked brighter.
[Illustration: Toby pegged hard to Tim.]
But Tim fell down badly and Dodson walked to first and the head of
the visitors’ batting list came up. That was Tracey Gay, and Tracey had
at least two hits to his credit to the best of Toby’s recollection.
Tracey was evidently bent on sending a fly to the outfield, for he
dropped two fouls outside the base lines before Tim had had a ball
called on him. Then, with the Spaniards’ coaches howling at him, Tim
got nervous and the first thing Toby knew the bases were full with only
one out!
“Here’s where we run away from you,” said Arnold as he stepped up and
tapped the plate with his bat. “Sorry, Toby.”
“That’s all right, Arn.” Toby smiled, although it was an awful effort.
“I’m not worrying any. You’ve got to hit out of the infield to get a
run, so go ahead and let’s see you do it.”
“Oh, I might stand here and let him pass me,” laughed Arnold. “I won’t,
though, if he will give me a chance to hit.”
“You’ll get plenty of chances. Just be sure you don’t miss them, Arn!
Play for the plate, fellows! Next man now! Let’s have ’em, Tim! Right
over, you know!”
A wide one that Mr. Trainor very properly called a ball, a drop that
went as a strike by the narrowest of margins, a high one that floated
past above Arnold’s shoulder and then――――
Whack!
Toby’s hands dropped emptily. Down at second Harry Glass was leaping
into the air. From third raced Hal Mason. Every one was shouting at
once. There was a slap as Harry’s upraised hand speared the ball. Then
the sphere was speeding back to the plate. Toby straddled the base,
tossing aside his mask, and held out eager hands. On came the runner,
fast and hard, threw himself off his feet and slid in a cloud of dust.
Smack came the ball into Toby’s mitten. Toby, plucking it out with
his right hand, dropped to his knees, blocking the plate, and jabbed
forward with it. Then Toby and the runner were tossed apart, the dust
arose in a yellow cloud and somewhere above it a voice cried “He’s
out!”