Early in the afternoon of the same day, Mr. Holliday came home bearing a
large package in his arms. Not only seldom, but rarely, did anything
come into the Holliday homestead that did not afford the head of the
family a text for sermonic instruction, if not, indeed, rational
discourse. Depositing the package upon a hall table, he called to his
son in a mandatory manner:
"Rollo, come to me."
Rollo approached, but started with reluctant steps. He became
reminiscently aware as he hastily reviewed the events of the day, that
in carrying out one or two measures for the good of the house, he had
laid himself open to an investigation by a strictly partisan committee,
and the possibility of such an inquiry, with its subsequent report,
grieved him. However, he hoped for the worst, so that in any event he
would not be disagreeably disappointed, and came running to his father,
calling "Yes, sir!" in his cheeriest tones.
This is the correct form in which to meet any possible adversity which
is not yet in sight. Because, if it should not meet you, you are happy
anyhow, and if it should meet you, you have been happy before the
collision. See?
"Now, Rollo," said his father, "you are too large and strong to be
spending your leisure time playing baby games with your little brother
Thanny. It is time for you to begin to be athletic."
"What is athletic?" asked Rollo.
"Well," replied his father, who was an alumnus (pronounced ahloomnoose)
himself, "in a general way it means to wear a pair of pantaloons either
eighteen inches too short or six inches too long for you, and stand
around and yell while other men do your playing for you. The reputation
for being an athlete may also be acquired by wearing a golf suit to
church, or carrying a tennis racket to your meals. However, as I was
about to say, I do not wish you to work all the time, like a woman, or
even a small part of the time, like a hired man. I wish you to adopt for
your recreation games of sport and pastime."
Rollo interrupted his father to say that indeed he preferred games of
that description to games of toil and labor, but as he concluded, little
Thanny, who was sitting on the porch step with his book, suddenly read
aloud, in a staccato measure.
"I-be-lieve-you-my-boy,-re-plied-the-man-heart-i-ly."
"Read to yourself, Thanny," said his father kindly, "and do not speak
your syllables in that jerky manner."
Thanny subsided into silence, after making two or three strange gurgling
noises in his throat, which Rollo, after several efforts, succeeded in
imitating quite well. Being older than Thanny, Rollo, of course, could
not invent so many new noises every day as his little brother. But he
could take Thanny's noises, they being unprotected by copyright, and not
only reproduce them, but even improve upon them.
This shows the advantage of the higher education. "A little learning is
a dangerous thing." It is well for every boy to learn that dynamite is
an explosive of great power, after which it is still better for him to
learn of how great power. Then he will not hit a cartridge with a hammer
in order to find out, and when he dines in good society he can still
lift his pie gracefully in his hand, and will not be compelled to
harpoon it with an iron hook at the end of his fore-arm.
Rollo's father looked at the two boys attentively as they swallowed
their noises, and then said:
"Now, Rollo, there is no sense in learning to play a man's game with a
toy outfit. Here are the implements of a game which is called base-ball,
and which I am going to teach you to play."
So saying he opened the package and handed Rollo a bat, a wagon tongue
terror that would knock the leather off a planet, and Rollo's eyes
danced as he balanced it and pronounced it a "la-la."
"It is a bat," his father said sternly, "a base-ball bat."
"Is that a base-ball bat?" exclaimed Rollo, innocently.
"Yes, my son," replied his father, "and here is a protector for the
hand."
Rollo took the large leather pillow and said:
"That's an infielder."
"It is a mitt," his father said, "and here is the ball."
As Rollo took the ball in his hands he danced with glee.
"That's a peach," he cried.
"It is a base-ball," his father said, "that is what you play base-ball
with."
"Is it?" exclaimed Rollo, inquiringly.
"Now," said Mr. Holliday, as they went into the back yard, followed by
Thanny, "I will go to bat first, and I will let you pitch, so that I may
teach you how. I will stand here at the end of the barn, then when you
miss my bat with the ball, as you may sometimes do, for you do not yet
know how to pitch accurately, the barn will prevent the ball from going
too far."
"That's the back-stop," said Rollo.
"Do not try to be funny, my son," replied his father, "in this great
republic only a President of the United States is permitted to coin
phrases which nobody can understand. Now, observe me; when you are at
bat you stand in this manner."
And Mr. Holliday assumed the attitude of a timid man who has just
stepped on the tail of a strange and irascible dog, and is holding his
legs so that the animal, if he can pull his tail out, can escape without
biting either of them. He then held the bat up before his face as though
he was carrying a banner.
"Now, Rollo, you must pitch the ball directly toward the end of my bat.
Do not pitch too hard at first, or you will tire yourself out before we
begin."
Rollo held the ball in his hands and gazed at it thoughtfully for a
moment; he turned and looked at the kitchen windows as though he had
half a mind to break one of them; then wheeling suddenly he sent the
ball whizzing through the air like a bullet. It passed so close to Mr.
Holliday's face that he dropped the bat and his grammar in his
nervousness and shouted:
"Whata you throw nat? That's no way to pitch a ball! Pitch it as though
you were playing a gentleman's game; not as though you were trying to
kill a cat! Now, pitch it right here; right at this place on my bat. And
pitch more gently; the first thing you know you'll sprain your wrist and
have to go to bed. Now, try again."
This time Rollo kneaded the ball gently, as though he suspected it had
been pulled before it was ripe. He made an offer as though he would
throw it to Thanny. Thanny made a rush back to an imaginary "first," and
Rollo, turning quickly, fired the ball in the general direction of Mr.
Holliday. It passed about ten feet to his right, but none the less he
made what Thanny called "a swipe" at it that turned him around three
times before he could steady himself. It then hit the end of the barn
with a resounding crash that made Cotton Mather, the horse, snort with
terror in his lonely stall. Thanny called out in nasal, sing-song tone:
"Strike--one!"
"Thanny," said his father, severely, "do not let me hear a repetition of
such language from you. If you wish to join our game, you may do so, if
you will play in a gentlemanly manner. But I will not permit the use of
slang about this house. Now, Rollo, that was better; much better. But
you must aim more accurately and pitch less violently. You will never
learn anything until you acquire it, unless you pay attention while
giving your mind to it. Now, play ball, as we say."
This time Rollo stooped and rubbed the ball in the dirt until his father
sharply reprimanded him, saying, "You untidy boy; that ball will not be
fit to play with!" Then Rollo looked about him over the surrounding
country as though admiring the pleasant view, and with the same
startling abruptness as before, faced his father and shot the ball in so
swiftly that Thanny said he could see it smoke. It passed about six feet
to the left of the batsman, but Mr. Holliday, judging that it was coming
"dead for him," dodged, and the ball struck his high silk hat with a
boom like a drum, carrying it on to the "back-stop" in its wild career.
"Take your base!" shouted Thanny, but suddenly checked himself,
remembering the new rules on the subject of his umpiring.
"Rollo!" exclaimed his father, "why do you not follow my instructions
more carefully? That was a little better, but still the ball was badly
aimed. You must not stare around all over creation when you are playing
ball. How can you throw straight when you look at everything in the
world except at the bat you are trying to hit? You must aim right at the
bat--try to hit it--that's what the pitcher does. And Thanny, let me say
to you, and for the last time, that I will not permit the slang of the
slums to be used about this house. Now, Rollo, try again, and be more
careful and more deliberate."
"Father," said Rollo, "did you ever play base-ball when you were a young
man?"
"Did I play base-ball?" repeated his father, "did I play ball? Well,
say, I belonged to the Sacred Nine out in old Peoria, and I was a holy
terror on third, now I tell you. One day--"
But just at this point in the history it occurred to Rollo to send the
ball over the plate. Mr. Holliday saw it coming; he shut both eyes and
dodged for his life, but the ball hit his bat and went spinning straight
up in the air. Thanny shouted "Foul!" ran under it, reached up, took it
out of the atmosphere, and cried:
"Out!"
"Thanny," said his father sternly, "another word and you shall go
straight to bed! If you do not improve in your habit of language I will
send you to the reform school. Now, Rollo," he continued, kindly, "that
was a great deal better; very much better. I hit that ball with almost
no difficulty. You are learning. But you will learn more rapidly if you
do not expend so much unnecessary strength in throwing the ball. Once
more, now, and gently; I do not wish you to injure your arm."
Rollo leaned forward and tossed the ball toward his father very gently
indeed, much as his sister Mary would have done, only, of course, in a
more direct line. Mr. Holliday's eyes lit up with their old fire as he
saw the on-coming sphere. He swept his bat around his head in a fierce
semi-circle, caught the ball fair on the end of it, and sent it over
Rollo's head, crashing into the kitchen window amid a jingle of glass
and a crash of crockery, wild shrieks from the invisible maid servant
and delighted howls from Rollo and Thanny of "Good boy!" "You own the
town!" "All the way round!"
Mr. Holliday was a man whose nervous organism was so sensitive that he
could not endure the lightest shock of excitement. The confusion and
general uproar distracted him.
"Thanny!" he shouted, "go into the house! Go into the house and go right
to bed!"
"Thanny," said Rollo, in a low tone, "you're suspended; that's what you
get for jollying the umpire."
"Rollo," said his father, "I will not have you quarreling with Thanny. I
can correct him without your interference. And, besides, you have
wrought enough mischief for one day. Just see what you have done with
your careless throwing. You have broken the window, and I do not know
how many things on the kitchen table. You careless, inattentive boy. I
would do right if I should make you pay for all this damage out of your
own pocket-money. And I would, if you had any. I may do so,
nevertheless. And there is Jane, bathing her eye at the pump. You have
probably put it out by your wild pitching. If she dies, I will make you
wash the dishes until she returns. I thought all boys could throw
straight naturally without any training. You discourage me. Now come
here and take this bat, and I will show you how to pitch a ball without
breaking all the glass in the township. And see if you can learn to bat
any better than you can pitch."
Rollo took the bat, poised himself lightly, and kept up a gentle
oscillation of the stick while he waited.
"Hold it still!" yelled his father, whose nerves were sorely shaken.
"How can I pitch a ball to you when you keep flourishing that club like
an anarchist in procession. Hold it still, I tell you!"
Rollo dropped the bat to an easy slant over his shoulder and looked
attentively at his father. The ball came in. Rollo caught it right on
the nose of the bat and sent it whizzing directly at the pitcher. Mr.
Holliday held his hands straight out before him and spread his fingers.
"I've got her!" he shouted.
And then the ball hit his hands, scattered them, and passed on against
his chest with a jolt that shook his system to its foundations. A
melancholy howl rent the air as he doubled up and tried to rub his chest
and knead all his fingers on both hands at the same time.
"Rollo," he gasped, "you go to bed, too! Go to bed and stay there six
weeks. And when you get up, put on one of your sister's dresses and play
golf. You'll never learn to play ball if you practice a thousand years.
I never saw such a boy. You have probably broken my lung. And I do not
suppose I shall ever use my hands again. You can't play tiddle-de-winks.
Oh, dear; oh, dear!"
Rollo sadly laid away the bat and the ball and went to bed, where he and
Thanny sparred with pillows until tea time, when they were bailed out of
prison by their mother. Mr. Holliday had recovered his good humor. His
fingers were multifariously bandaged and he smelled of arnica like a
drug store. But he was reminiscent and animated. He talked of the old
times and the old days, and of Peoria and Hinman's, as was his wont oft
as he felt boyish.
"And town ball," he said, "good old town ball! There was no limit to the
number on a side. The ring was anywhere from three hundred feet to a
mile in circumference, according to whether we played on a vacant
Pingree lot or out on the open prairie. We tossed up a bat--wet or
dry--for first choice, and then chose the whole school on the sides. The
bat was a board, about the general shape of a Roman galley oar and not
quite so wide as a barn door. The ball was of solid India rubber; a
little fellow could hit it a hundred yards, and a big boy, with a
hickory club, could send it clear over the bluffs or across the lake. We
broke all the windows in the school-house the first day, and finished up
every pane of glass in the neighborhood before the season closed. The
side that got its innings first kept them until school was out or the
last boy died. Fun? Good game? Oh, boy of these golden days, paying
fifty cents an hour for the privilege of watching a lot of hired men do
your playing for you--it beat two-old-cat."