MR. CARLE WANTS TO KNOW
The winter was wearing away. The third battery was plodding steadily
along at its task in the cage, with few critical spectators and almost
no interference from superiors. A more eager, trusting pupil than
Patterson no teacher ever had. So ready was the pitcher to take the
suggestion of his catcher as a maxim, that Rob had to set a watch upon
himself, that he might not overload the docile learner with useless
or questionable directions. He kept to a simple system of coaching,
told Patterson nothing of which he was not himself sure, trusted
him to throw his curves in his own way, but held him inexorably to
accuracy. Owen never would allow practice to begin unless with plate in
position and pitcher's distance well marked; he made his pitcher warm
up thoroughly before he began with curves; he would not permit a pitch
without a distinct understanding as to what the ball was to be.
At the beginning Patterson had but a single ball of which he was
sure,--which he could deliver as he wanted it, and when it was wanted.
On two or three others he was uncertain, sometimes successful, more
often wild. Owen's task was to construct out of these possibilities
the "three bread and butter balls" which form the chief stock in trade
of the good pitcher. Stated thus simply the task would seem simple; in
fact, it was most difficult, although Patterson's implicit confidence
in his catcher and absolute eagerness to take his advice smoothed many
obstacles from the path.
Few boys are willing to believe that the great pitchers achieve their
greatest success through the clever manipulation and variation of a
very small number of curves. When Owen repeated McLennan's assertion
that three or four good balls, with brains, were enough for any pitcher
to use, Patterson believed him and strove for the three good balls;
when Owen explained that the most deceptive ball for a good batsman is
not a new one with an unexpected curve, but a familiar one with speed
disguised, Patterson set to work to acquire a change of pace with the
same apparent method of delivery. In the beginning Owen would hold his
hands where the ball was to come, and hold them there again and again
until the right ball did come. When a certain accuracy with the three
bread and butters was attained, the catcher would place his hands over
the plate shoulder high, and require a certain ball to be thrown at
them, repeating the exercise a foot to the right and to the left at the
same height, and in the three corresponding positions just above the
level of the knee. Sometimes he got in a batter to add distraction to
the problem. Having early discovered that Patterson could throw a very
good jump ball, he made him practise on the "initial cutter," a ball
which just skims the breast of the batsman, and which even an expert
is frequently tempted to strike at, though he knows he cannot hit it
safely.
The mere fact of Patterson's implicit dependence would have been enough
to impress Rob with a sense of responsibility. As the weeks went by,
however, another fact which gradually forced itself into recognition
added seriously to this feeling. Patterson was splendid raw material,
which the catcher was either developing or spoiling in the course
of his lessons. To become a superior pitcher, one must be physically
capable of applying great power suddenly and convulsively. This ability
may be expected only in an intensely nervous temperament, in which
muscles are doubly powerful under excitement, or in one of absolutely
cold blood, which grows colder and more tense and more silently fierce
as the strain of the contest increases. Patterson was of the former
class, quick and snappy in movement, with concentrated impulse and
muscles answering instantly to stimulus. In addition to the right
temperament he was blessed with the ability to "get up," that is, to
start the ball with a full arm swing which makes it possible to bring
the body into the movement and increase greatly the radius of the
throwing arc. His curves, moreover, came easily, and his arm did not
readily lame.
Over against these excellences were to be set lack of experience in
the field, and an inclination to nervousness and faint-heartedness
which only a series of unquestioned successes or the quiet support of a
trusted battery mate would be likely to dispel.
While the third string battery was thus busy with its serious but
unregarded work, Carle was riding hard along the road of popularity.
He was rarely by himself these days, except when he slept. He loafed
away many study hours in other fellows' rooms, spoke contemptuously
of serious work, trotted his lessons whenever possible, loved to show
himself in the company of supposed swells, was frequently seen lounging
in druggists' windows or standing in a group of noisy fellows at the
crossings with hands bulging the pockets of his wide trousers, talking
loudly and swaggering. Though Carle as a scholarship man was expressly
debarred from smoking, Poole neither by admonition nor exhortation
could succeed in keeping the cigarette wholly from the pitcher's
lips--and why indeed? Did not most of the great professionals smoke
even in their playing season!
"He's a dead sport, that Carle!" remarked Duncan Peck one day during an
interval between plagues. "I don't see how he can pitch."
"But he can," replied Owen, to whom the remark was made, "or at least
he could last year."
"Oh, I know he can," Duncan made haste to reply. "Haven't I seen him
do stunts in the cage. It's great, but he doesn't seem quite the kind
of fellow that makes a fine athlete, like Laughlin, for example, or
Lindsay, or Strong, or any of those fellows."
Owen did not reply. He held no brief for his townsman. Carle had long
since ceased to manifest any desire for Owen's society, and Owen,
in natural pique, would make no advances on the basis of their old
friendship. Their ways seemed destined to lie apart.
One day early in March a letter was delivered at Rob's room, addressed
in an unfamiliar hand, yet bearing the well-known postmark "Terryville,
Pa." He had just come in from the gymnasium, where Strong had announced
to him the final decision as to the make-up of the relay team which
was to compete in Boston on the following Saturday. Owen was the
choice for fourth man over Jacobson, who, though perhaps no slower,
had been adjudged less capable of holding up under strain. With
thoughts fluttering excitedly under a variety of emotions, among which
half-hearted regret and a sort of dread had place with elation, Rob
gazed at the address on the envelope, and vaguely wondered who could be
the sender. He felt for the moment actual resentment at being compelled
to exchange the temporarily glorified Seaton atmosphere for the
uninteresting common air of Terryville. The letter, however, had much
more to do with Seaton than with Terryville. It ran as follows:--
"Dear Robert,--
"Is anything the matter with Ned? We are worried about him. I have
just had a letter from the secretary of Seaton saying he has been
put on study hours, whatever that is, for unexcused absences and for
neglecting his work. The dining hall also sent me another notice that
the last bill had not been paid. I sent Ned the money for it more than
two weeks ago. He keeps writing for money, but don't say much about
himself, and can't seem to answer any questions at all. We've lived
awful close this winter to keep Ned away to school, and the last money
I had to take from the bank, which I really hadn't ought to do. What
makes the school cost so much more than they said it was going to?
Are they sticking us, or ain't Ned doing right? I've talked with your
father, but he don't seem to know. I wish you'd talk with Ned and
put him straight if there's anything the matter. He thinks a lot of
you. When he was home Christmas everything was fine; but there's been
a change somewhere. I'm a poor man, and can't do for him like your
father does for you, so I wish you'd be careful not to put him up to
being extravagant. He's free-handed and easy led, and likes to do the
same as his friends. Now, Robert, just remember his ma and me kind of
hold you responsible for the boy, and try to help him and us.
"Yours truly,"
John H. Carle.
Throwing the letter with a violent snap into the corner of the room,
Rob rested his elbows on the table, dropped his chin into his two
hands, and contemplated the rows of books in the case with eyes that
saw nothing and a mind upheaved in indignant protest. Relay team and
baseball were forgotten, and along with them the French verbs which he
had failed on at the last exercise, and the appointment for an English
conference which it was hazardous to miss. Vehement thoughts like
his insist on sole possession. He tempt Carle to extravagance, have
influence with him, be responsible for him! What an utterly false and
unfair assumption! What right had Mr. Carle to send him that kind of a
letter, or suppose any such thing, when for two months Ned had done no
more than nod to him when they chanced to meet in the street? It was
outrageous! It would be better to write the father plainly the facts in
the case, incredible as they might appear, rather than suffer longer
under the unjust imputation.
To this the feeling of loyalty, strongest and most unreasoning of all
healthy student instincts, interposed its veto. He could not write the
father of the shortcomings of the son, any more than he could declare
them to the school authorities. Indeed, it was not necessary to do
so. He had given Mr. Owen in his yesterday's letter a tolerably full
account of conditions, and his father might tell Mr. Carle as much as
he chose. It was tough business for Mr. Carle.
Rob rose and went to the window, his thoughts now diverted from his own
side of the matter to the sacrifice and disappointment of the Carles.
It was certainly hard on the parents; he felt sincerely sorry for them.
How could Ned play them so false!
Rob turned from the window, picked up the crumpled letter, took his
hat, and went out. Mr. Carle had asked him to have a talk with Ned. He
hated above all things to do it, but sooner or later his conscience
would drive him to it, and it was better to have the disagreeable task
over at once than to worry for days and then do it.--Besides, there was
very little probability that Carle would be at home.
Haynes White was just coming out of Carter 13 as Rob approached. White
was a clever senior who did tutoring in upper middle subjects. The
query flashed into Rob's mind, as he knocked at the door, whether White
was there to help Carle get ready for the history examination which was
due on the following day. There was nothing wrong in this, to be sure,
though it was hardly to be expected that scholarship men would have
money to spend in tutoring.
Carle greeted him with politeness and visible surprise; then waited
to learn the reason of his visit. Rob also, suddenly confronted by
the necessity of putting his plea into fitting words, stood for some
seconds speechless, unable to think of any diplomatic way of broaching
an unpleasant subject. The constraint at last grew too painful to be
endured. Abandoning all hope of devising a proper opening, he held out
Mr. Carle's letter and said: "Read it!"
In silence, but with flushed face and a defiant hardening at the
corners of his mouth, as if he expected reproof, Ned took the letter
and read it through. When he had finished, the flush was deeper, and
anger as well as defiance displayed itself in his face.
"What does he want to write you all that stuff for! I don't see what
business it is of yours."
"He seems to hold me responsible."
"The old man is all off; I should think you'd know enough to let the
thing alone."
"But, Ned, he isn't all off," answered Rob, sailing blindly in. "He's
wrong if he thinks you're following my lead, but he's right about the
main thing. You're living the wrong kind of a life here. A fellow in
your place can't run with the fast gang you're going with. You simply
can't do it; you'll ruin yourself trying to."
"That's easy enough for you to say," retorted Carle, hotly, "when you
can have whatever money you want, and aren't in with anybody. If you're
in the swim you've got to spend something. My old man ought to have
kept me at home if he didn't mean to give me what's necessary. I'm no
long-haired grind."
"But he can't give you more; he says so in the letter. He hasn't it to
give."
This was an unfortunate fact against which argument was as powerless as
acid against oil.
"Is that all you've got to say?" asked Carle, sullenly, after a brief
period of silence. "Because if it is, I've got something I'd like to
do."
Yes, that was all. Owen could think of nothing else to say, and took
his dismissal willingly. It had been an unpleasant scene, but brief;
he had tried to do his duty in the matter, and even if he hadn't been
wholly skilful, he felt relieved that it was all behind him. Poor Mr.
Carle!