_Larry Clashes With the Coach_
Candidates for the Baseball Team
Report at the Athletic Field
at Three o’Clock To-day.
Bring Uniforms.
HAXTON, _Coach_.
The announcement, plastered prominently upon the bulletin board in the
main hallway of the administration building, attracted a swarm of youths
who read in it the opportunity for winning fame upon the athletic field.
The returning students had waited impatiently through four days of rain
and fog for the call for volunteers to defend the honor of the college
on the diamond. Since the opening of the term the chief topics of
conversation among the lower classmen had been as to the material from
which the team was to be made. Only five of the veterans of the
preceding spring were on hand, and the students demanded that a team be
organized that could regain the laurels lost in the annual game with
Golden University, the great rival school.
Larry Kirkland stood before the bulletin board. He was struggling
between his desire to rush forward and announce himself a candidate and
what he conceived to be his duty to his studies. He was behind with his
classes, and carrying a heavy burden of conditions that were yet to be
worked off. He had determined not to make any of the athletic teams
until he was abreast the others in his studies. Three years of careless
and unsystematic studying at the ranch under a tutor and in a
fashionable but not thorough private school, had left him in arrears to
his books. The discovery, made soon after he entered college, that he
was behind other boys of his age, had aroused his pride, and during the
autumn and winter, he had worked hard, and made rapid progress. In spite
of this, however, there remained a burden of extra work to carry before
he could leave the Freshman class, and he was debating whether or not he
dared take the time for baseball. But spring was in the air; the
California spring with its fogs and chills, broken by fevers of sunshine
and summer. The trades were blowing, sweeping the hills clean to let the
brightness and sunshine develop the flowers and renew the greenness,
then bringing the fog and chill from the sea to lay a gray blanket over
all.
But where winter and spring meet eternally, it is always spring in the
veins of the youth of the land. The baseball season was at hand, and the
delayed call was out. Larry was longing to get into his uniform, which
he had worn ever since Krag, the great Giant pitcher had presented it to
him, and flaunt Shasta View in the face of the college youths. The
thought that he would not be able to make the team never came to his
mind. He felt confident that he could win his way, and the only problem
was as to whether or not it would be the right thing to do. He was still
hesitating when Katsura came leaping down the steps of the hall.
“Are you going to try for the team?” he inquired laughingly. “Of course
you are.”
“No,” said Larry with sudden decision. “I’m afraid I won’t have the time
this spring. I’m behind in math, and have two conditions to work off,
and it will keep me grinding.”
“I hoped you would try,” said Katsura admiringly. “Shasta View ought to
be represented.”
“Why don’t you try, Katty?” asked Larry. “You ought to be able to make
it, with practice.”
“I have serious duties,” replied the brown boy gravely. “Besides I would
fear to arouse the feeling against my race. It is strong here among some
of the students.”
“Oh, I guess Haxton wouldn’t be that narrow, if you could pitch,” said
Larry. “He wants to win.”
“I distrust Mr. Haxton,” said Katsura. “He always is with the sporty
crowd. Those who have money are his friends.”
“That’s bad for the school,” replied Larry. “Let’s walk over and watch
the practice, anyhow.”
The two boys found a vantage spot on the grass at the edge of the wide
playing field and, reclining at ease, watched the efforts of the youths
who were straining every muscle to prove their ability and right to play
for the honor of the school. Both Katsura and Larry felt keenly the
renunciation they had made, and each laughingly accused the other of
purposely dragging him into temptation.
Boys of every height, of many ages, and many colors, creeds and races,
attired in makeshift uniforms, were working desperately to attract the
attention of the coach or his advisors. Some wore white shirts, with the
wreckage of old football or baseball trousers. Some wore trousers
abbreviated by the simple operation of cutting off at the knees. Many
wore socks, with great lengths of bare leg showing. Roommates possessing
one uniform had divided the treasure, one taking the trousers and one
the shirt. There were track suits, golf suits, white ducks, and one
youth drew a laugh by appearing in an undershirt and a wide pair of
Chinese trousers that flapped with every move. But all were in deadly
earnest.
Haxton, the coach, strolled around among the perspiring, eager
candidates, stopping frequently to watch the movement of some one.
Occasionally he caused some youngster to thrill by inquiring his name
and jotting it upon a pad of paper. He smiled at the awkwardness of some
who possessed more zeal than skill. At times he talked with the veterans
of the preceding season, directing them to watch certain of the boys who
had shown symptoms of skill in catching or throwing.
Larry, remembering his own trials in selecting the teams at Shasta View
ranch and at preparatory school, watched Haxton’s methods with keen
interest. He observed with a feeling of resentment that Harry Baldwin
walked with the coach offering advice, and sometimes pointing to some
youngster.
“Baldwin seems to be his right-hand man,” remarked Larry.
“They are friends,” said Katsura. “It is said that Baldwin goes with him
around the cities, and spends large sums of money.”
“The sports seem to control athletics here.”
“There was much complaint last year,” remarked Katsura gravely. “The
rich and the sporty ran the teams—and we were beaten. Many blamed
Haxton.”
Haxton blew his whistle at that moment and ended further discussion. The
candidates gathered around the big coach, and he quickly divided them
into teams, pairing off pitchers and catchers, and telling them to work
easily. The fielders whose names he had taken were placed in double
lines for infield and outfield, and two of the veterans were set to
batting balls for them to field.
The dozen or more pitchers and catchers had lined up near where Larry
and Katsura were sitting and the boys watched with considerable
amusement the efforts of some of the boys, and commenting upon the speed
and ability of others. They laughed as they talked of their own first
efforts.
“We probably would have looked greener than these fellows,” said Larry.
“Yet we thought we were good.”
“I remember,” Katsura replied, smiling, “that when you told me to bat,
my idea was to stand on the plate and face the ball.”
“We learned rapidly, though,” laughed Larry. “Mr. Krag’s letters of
advice were worth a month of ordinary coaching.”
“Do you ever hear from Mr. Krag now?”
“No.” Larry’s face became troubled. “He never has written me since the
day the Giants released him. He wrote that his arm had snapped while he
was pitching and was useless. Then he stopped writing.”
“I wish I could have known him,” said the little brown boy. “To think of
a famous pitcher taking an interest in us, way out here!”
“I’m afraid he is in ill luck,” said Larry. “He never saved money—he
was too generous. The papers said he had little saved when the accident
ended his career. I wrote and offered to help him, but he never
replied.”
“Trying to make it curve?” Larry broke off his recital quickly and
called to a tall, slender young fellow who was working hard, and who
caught as if playing patty cake, patty cake, baker’s man.
“Yes, but somehow I can’t do it. I seem to have lost the knack. I’m sure
I made it curve a few days ago.”
“Let me show you how,” Larry volunteered, springing to his feet and
running forward, unable longer to resist the impulse to play. “Come on
Katty. Catch a few minutes and we’ll show them how.”
He took the ball and explained to the tall youth the proper manner of
gripping it for the different curves, and the method of releasing it
from the hand.
“For the real curve—the fast breaking one that darts down and out—let
it go this way,” he said, hooking his arm in a wide swing, that ended
with a sudden snap of the wrist that sent the ball darting down and
outward into Katsura’s hands.
“Now watch him,” he remarked, as Katsura lazily floated a slow twisting
curve back at him.
“I can’t do much until my arm warms up,” said Larry. “Must start easy. I
was foolish to throw that curve first, but couldn’t resist the
temptation.”
For five minutes he explained and demonstrated, showing the tall youth
little tricks and motions, until finally the slender boy sent a curve to
Katsura.
Both Larry and Katsura were warmed, and as their muscles unlimbered they
entered into the spirit of the sport, and instead of retiring to their
seats on the grass, they continued throwing and catching with vast
enthusiasm, while the two candidates watched them with respectful
admiration and accepted their advice.
“Oh you Katty,” cried Larry. “That curve certainly is better. You ought
not waste it. That slow curve twists more, I believe.”
“I am stronger,” called Katsura, “and my hand grip is more powerful.”
“Get out of here!” rasped a voice sharply behind them.
The boys whirled quickly. Half the players overheard the sharp rebuke.
“What are you doing here?” demanded Coach Haxton angrily. “Neither of
you reported as candidates.”
“I—I—We”—Larry hesitated, confused and angry. “We didn’t intend to
try for the team. I was just trying to show this pitcher how to throw a
curve, and I got interested and forgot I was intruding.”
“When I want any assistant coaches I’ll let you know,” snapped the coach
angrily. “Either come out and try for the team, or keep off the
grounds.”
“Very well,” said Larry, flushed, angry and yet, knowing himself in the
wrong, unable to reply as he desired to do, “I will not trouble you
again.”
“Hold on, don’t go off mad,” said the coach, relenting a little. “You
look as if you could play. If you’re in college why don’t you come out
and try?”
“I have conditions to make up,” replied Larry, soothed by the change in
tone. “I’m sorry I intruded.”
“You owe it to the school to play if you can,” retorted the coach. “We
need some fellows who know something. Where did you ever play?”
“We played together on a team up in Oregon,” responded Larry. “Katsura
here was the pitcher”——
“Oh,” said the coach, his voice changing again as he looked at Larry
sneeringly, “I’ve heard of you. You’re that fresh young fellow Baldwin
was telling me about. We need players, but not yellow ones of your
kind.”
He turned quickly, leaving Larry standing in helpless anger.
“Come,” said Katsura. “You see how it is.”
“It is a good thing we decided not to try for the team,” laughed Larry
mirthlessly. “Baldwin evidently expected we would.”