A CAPTAIN'S TROUBLES
Poole stood in the middle of the room, his lips still parted, his eyes
staring. His expression, as Owen saw it, and as it would have appeared
if reproduced by instantaneous photography, was almost idiotic,
so stunned was he by the incredible news. In a moment, however,
intelligence returned.
"Do you mean to say that Carle has sneaked off home for good, and sold
his things to you?" he demanded fiercely, taking a threatening step
forward upon poor Jenks, as if the dealer were to be held responsible
for Carle's disappearance.
Mr. Jenks edged away. "I dunno about sneakin'," he replied resentfully;
"I said he'd gone home for good and sold his things to me. I s'pose
he's got a right to go if he wants to."
"Did he tell you he wasn't coming back?"
"Yes, he did, three days ago, right in this very room. He didn't want
me to come for the stuff till to-day, because he said the boys would
bother him with questions. I'm going to send him the money as soon as I
get the things down to the store."
Poole stood silent, but his eyes, angrily snapping, remained fixed
upon the furniture dealer, and his lips, tightly shut, twitched at
the corners. Mr. Jenks looked puzzled; suddenly a ray of intelligence
flashed over his face. "None of the furniture was yours, was it?" he
asked eagerly, thinking to have found the reason for Poole's emotion.
"He said it was all his except what belonged to his room-mate."
"None of it's mine," returned Poole, turning abruptly on his heel.
"Come on, Owen!"
He went plunging down the stairs, with Owen following closely. At the
outside door he turned on his companion.
"What do you think of that?" he demanded hotly. "That's a fine trick to
play us, isn't it!"
"If his father sent for him I suppose he had to go," remarked Owen,
thinking for the moment rather of Mr. Carle's plight than of that of
the school.
"Why did he have to go?" shouted Poole, whose wrath, already at the
boiling-point, bubbled furiously over at the suggestion of excuse
for Carle's defection. "Why did he have to go? Why couldn't he stay
here and earn his way as well as Laughlin and Jeffrey and White and
Barrington, and lots of other fellows that are better than he is? Why
did he have to join that Standard Oil crowd and play the sport, when he
knew, and everybody knew, that he had no money to spend? Why couldn't
he live within his means, like any decent fellow? Think of his knowing
for a week that he was going to clear out, and letting us tend him and
tutor him and guard him like a confounded little prince! Why, he was in
the cage with Borland yesterday afternoon!"
These were obviously rhetorical questions, to which answers were not
expected. But Rob, though he felt no temptation to undertake the
defence of Carle, could not refrain from remarking: "You fellows were
partly responsible. You've done nothing but flatter him and pet him
since he came."
There was some truth in this charge, and Poole was honest enough to
recognize it. He passed abruptly from vituperation to lament:--
"But he could pitch--you know he could. I never saw a fellow in the
cage like him--and he's let us waste all the winter on him, the beggar,
and now crawls off just when we rely on him most. What's O'Connell or
that green Patterson compared with him? Borland's simply thrown his
winter away."
The references to Patterson and Borland were not pleasing to Owen; the
first, because he knew that the contemptuous opinion was not deserved,
the second, because it emphasized once more the contrast between his
own position and that of Borland. It had apparently not occurred to
Poole that Patterson might have developed under Owen's tuition.
"I call Patterson a very promising man," he blurted out, stung by the
captain's slur, and regardless of his secret.
Poole shot a quick glance at his companion.
"Better than Carle, perhaps," he said with a mocking smile.
"Better than Carle two years from now, if not better to-day," Owen
retorted hotly. "I've caught them both and I ought to know something
about it."
Poole sniffed,--in pity rather than contempt. That a fellow who
evidently had seen good ball, and who usually showed common sense,
should group Carle and Patterson together as equals, or likely to be
equals, seemed unaccountable. "He'll do me a heap of good two years
from now, won't he? I want some one for now." And then, after a few
moments of silence, during which he kicked away at the marble entrance
step, while his thoughts dwelt gloomily on the desperate situation, he
added in discouraged tones: "I suppose the first thing to do is to ask
Grim whether the chap has really gone for good, though I haven't any
doubt about it myself."
[Illustration: The Principal's House.]
So they parted, Poole to visit the Principal and receive confirmation
of Jenks's story, Owen to return to his room and upbraid himself for
boasting about Patterson. He felt all the confidence in his protégé
that his words implied, but he had no desire to see his pitcher taken
from his hands and turned over to Borland as Carle had been. When
Patterson was tried out he wanted to be on hand to support him and keep
him up to his best; likewise to receive a just share of the glory of
the achievement, should the achievement prove glorious--but of this he
tried not to think.
Borland's task during the short spring recess was not what he had
imagined it when he had said good-by to his admiring friends, sharing
sincerely in their belief that he was to constitute at least one-half
of the best battery that the school had ever possessed. Instead,
he found himself doomed to partake of the disgrace of O'Connell's
failures. And alas! it was the same old O'Connell, conceited,
obstinate, uncertain as a primitive blunderbuss! He did indeed take
seriously the new responsibility devolving upon him through the
departure of Carle; he really meant to do everything within his
power to "make good." He laid aside the airs of superiority and
self-satisfaction which had been so offensive to Owen; he was not
unwilling to consider Borland's advice; he endeavored to keep his
inflammable temper well shielded from stray sparks. Unfortunately,
however, he was not by nature teachable, nor was Borland a wise
instructor. When two drops in succession landed on the plate, Borland
would protest and O'Connell promise to do better. When, a little later,
O'Connell would persist in shooting his high ones at the batsman's
head, or throwing ridiculous outs that showed themselves clearly wide
long before they came within reach of the bat, Borland would reprove
sharply, O'Connell retort with asperity, Borland sputter and growl,
O'Connell drop all fire protection and let his temper blaze away!
Whether peace was patched up immediately or not, that day's practice
was ruined.
To say that the captain was discouraged would be an understatement
of poor Poole's condition. He was desperate. Laughlin cheered him
somewhat by assuring him on general principles that the opportunity
usually produces the man, and so some one would probably be found to
fill Carle's place, if not better than the renegade, at least as good.
But Laughlin knew nothing of baseball, and Poole had little faith in
general principles. He took the first chance that offered to watch
Patterson and Owen at their practice, hoping to find substantial reason
for Owen's assurance. But Owen, obstinately true to his purpose never
to show off his man, kept Patterson working away on the morning's
task,--a slow ball which was to be thrown with the exact motions used
in throwing a swift one, but about ten feet slower,--and disregarded
the spectator. The captain had at last to ask for something different,
and was of course obeyed. Though what he saw would hardly represent
Patterson's possibilities as a pitcher, Poole left the cage with the
feeling that Patterson was, after all, not so bad.
"Ten feet slower!" he said to himself as he strolled back to his
room. "That's drawing things pretty fine! If it's too slow it's bad,
of course, for a man gets ready to hit, stops himself, makes a fresh
start, and very likely catches it squarely and drives it out. It's got
to be slower than a swift one, and not too slow; but how does Owen know
that the difference is just ten feet? The chap understands handling a
pitched ball all right, and Patterson minds him as a Japanese soldier
minds his officer, but I don't believe that he's so mighty wise that he
knows the difference to a foot between a swift ball and a slow one."
Poole resolved to see the whole of the next pitching practice. But,
unhappily, Patterson was called home the next day because his family
were unwilling to forego the pleasure of his society during the few
days of liberty that the school offered,--so there was no practice
to watch except that of O'Connell and Borland, who quarrelled daily,
and daily made up under the pressure of their joint responsibility,
each blaming the other for lack of progress. It was not pure joy to be
captain of the Seaton nine!