RECOGNITION
Was there a celebration?
Ask Wally Sedgwick, who ought to be able to furnish a detailed account
of it, for he followed the procession from its formation, and having
stayed out an hour longer than the time set in the parental permission
was in consequence compelled to go to bed at seven every day during the
following week. He didn't complain; it was inconvenient, of course;
but, after all, the celebration was worth it.
Rob saw three of the newspaper accounts of the game. The first paper,
which had previously predicted an easy victory for Hillbury, declared
that Seaton played in great luck, "bunching hits for tallies and being
helped out of several deep holes by stupid Hillbury base-running." The
second asserted that the victory was due to "Patterson's steadiness
and the fine all-round work of the Seaton infield, in which McPherson
was the bright and particular star." The third, after commenting on
the fact that Hillbury men were frequently on bases but seemed unable
to get round to the home plate, added: "Patterson showed himself, if
not a great pitcher, at least one who can use his head as well as his
arm. Men on bases never fazed him; the more there were, the better he
pitched. Coach Lyford deserves great credit for the excellent team
work. Owen threw well to bases."
Owen threw well to bases! And only one paper had discovered that! Rob
laughed scornfully as he tossed the papers down. So this trifling
mention was all the glory his achievement was to yield him. For a
moment he felt hurt--but only for a moment. Soon his good sense and
natural modesty reasserted themselves. He had not sought glory; he had
not striven to display himself. His ambition had been first to help win
the game for Seaton and then to vindicate himself as against Borland.
Both these objects had been attained; what more could he fairly ask?
Poole and Patterson and Lyford evidently appreciated his work; his
friends and acquaintances, from Lindsay and Laughlin down through a
whole range to the Pecks and the Moons and even Payner, had all, in
one form or another, expressed to him their admiration. That ought to
satisfy him.
"Who's going to be captain next year, Rob?" asked Simmons, a few days
afterward.
"I don't know yet--probably McPherson. He's been two years on the nine,
and after that bully game he put up on Saturday, he deserves it."
"The fellows were saying it would be McPherson," said Simmons, looking
up into Rob's face with an expression of keen regret. "I was hoping
you'd get it. You know so much about the game, and have helped them all
so."
Rob flushed. The suggestion touched him in a sensitive spot.
"Nonsense!" he retorted sharply. "What put that idea into your head?
I'm no better than any one else. For heaven's sake don't suggest that
to any one outside; they'd think it came from me."
On his way over to the baseball meeting that afternoon Rob was waylaid
by Laughlin and Ware who insisted that they had something important to
say to him.
"Well, what is it?" demanded Rob.
"You're coming back next year, aren't you?" asked Ware.
"Of course, if they'll let me," Owen replied in a tone of surprise.
"Why?"
"We were just talking about the prospects of the teams for next year,"
said Ware, smiling shrewdly. "When our class goes, there'll be a pretty
big hole to fill."
"Oh, a few poor sticks will be left," Owen observed sarcastically. "In
baseball McPherson and Ames and Patterson and I form quite a bunch.
Then there's Hendry and Milliken and Buist as a foundation for the
eleven. They're about as good as you find 'em. Rohrer and Wolfe are
pretty respectable left-overs for the track. If any one can get new
material out, Rohrer can. We might be worse off."
"That's a fact," nodded Laughlin. "You've got two good captains in
Hendry and Rohrer anyway."
"And McPherson will be just as good," added Rob, promptly. "That makes
three."
"Yes, that makes three," repeated Laughlin, with a look of amusement
stealing over his broad face. "Only I'm not so sure about McPherson."
"Well, the baseball men are, and we ought to know," retorted Rob.
"What's this important thing you wanted to tell me?" he added, turning
on Ware.
Ware grinned across at Laughlin. "What was it, Dave? I can't think, can
you?"
"I'm sure I don't know," replied the football man.
"Here! let me through!" commanded Rob, who now perceived that the pair
were holding him up for their own amusement. "I'm ten minutes late for
the meeting already." And he charged past the two triflers toward the
room at the end of the corridor.
"You're late!" declared Poole, as Rob opened the door of Number 7. "The
election's over."
"I'm sorry. Dave and Ware tackled me outside and wouldn't let me by."
"Your vote wouldn't have been any use, anyway," remarked Durand. "It
was a unanimous vote."
"All right, then," said Rob, looking round at the row of smiling faces.
He didn't see why they should all grin so and stare at him. "I'm with
the rest."
"Glad to hear it," said Poole, with a wink at his neighbor. "Here's the
result."
Rob took the slip of paper and read with a thrill of astonishment and
joy that for a few seconds deprived him of the power of speech:--
"Unanimous choice for Captain of the Nine--Robert Owen."
And here we leave our embarrassed catcher vainly struggling for fitting
words in which to express his gratitude. His experiences as a Seaton
senior, with the vicissitudes of the captains three, are recorded in
the chronicles of "The Great Year."
End of Project Gutenberg's With Mask and Mitt, by Albertus T. Dudley