Ned sat on the bench. With him were Hovey, the manager, who was
keeping score, Hill and Kesner, substitutes like himself, and, at the
farther end, Simson, the trainer, and Page, the head coach. Page had
pulled his straw hat far over his eyes, but from under the brim he was
watching sharply every incident of the diamond, the while he talked
with expressionless countenance to “Baldy.” Back of them the grand
stand was purple with flags and ribbons, but at a little distance
on either side the purple gave place to the brown of Robinson. Back
of third base, at the west end of the stand, the Robinson College
band held forth brazenly at intervals, making up in vigor what it
lacked in tunefulness. In front of the spectators the diamond spread
deeply green, save where the base-lines left the dusty red-brown
earth exposed, and marked with lines and angles of lime, which gleamed
snow-white in the afternoon sunlight. Beyond the diamond the field
stretched, as smooth and even as a great velvet carpet, to a distant
fence and a line of trees above whose tops a turret or tower here and
there indicated the whereabouts of town and college.
Ned had sat there on the bench during six innings, the sun burning
his neck and the dust from the batsman’s box floating into his face.
In those six innings he had seen Erskine struggle pluckily against
defeat--a defeat which now, with the score 12-6 in Robinson’s favor,
hovered, dark and ominous, above her. Yet he had not lost hope; perhaps
his optimism was largely due to the fact that he found it difficult
to believe that Fate could be so cruel as to make the occasion of his
first appearance with the varsity team one of sorrow. He was only
seventeen, and his idea of Fate was a kind-hearted, motherly old
soul with a watchful interest in his welfare. Yet he was forced to
acknowledge that Fate, or somebody, was treating him rather shabbily.
The first half of the seventh was as good as over, and still he kicked
his heels idly beneath the bench. Page didn’t seem to be even aware of
his presence. To be sure, there were Hill and Kesner in the same box,
but that didn’t bring much comfort. Besides, any one with half an eye
could see that Stilson should have been taken off long ago; he hadn’t
made a single hit, and already had three errors marked against him. Ned
wondered how his name would look in the column instead of Stilson’s,
and edged along the bench until he could look over Hovey’s shoulder.
The manager glanced up, smiled in a perfunctory way, and credited the
Robinson runner with a stolen base. Ned read the batting list again:
BILLINGS, r. f.
GREENE, l. f.
MILFORD, 2b., Capt.
LESTER, p.
BROWNE, ss.
HOUSEL, c.
MCLIMMONT, 3b.
LEVETT, 1b.
STILSON, c. f.
There was a sudden burst of applause from the seats behind, and a
red-faced senior with a wilted collar balanced himself upon the railing
and begged for “one more good one, fellows!” The first of the seventh
was at an end, and the Erskine players, perspiring and streaked with
dust, trotted in. “Lady” Levett sank down on the bench beside Ned with
a sigh, and fell to examining the little finger of his left hand,
which looked very red, and which refused to work in unison with its
companions.
“Hurt?” asked Ned.
“Blame thing’s bust, I guess,” said “Lady,” disgustedly. “Oh, Baldy,
got some tape there?”
The trainer, wearing the anxious air of a hen with one chicken, bustled
up with his black bag, and Ned watched the bandaging of the damaged
finger until the sudden calling of his name by the head coach sent his
heart into his throat and brought him leaping to his feet with visions
of hopes fulfilled. But his heart subsided again in the instant, for
what Page said was merely:
“Brewster, you go over there and catch for Greene, will you?” And
then, turning again to the bench, “Kesner, you play left field next
half.”
Ned picked up a catcher’s mitt, and for the rest of the half caught
the balls that the substitute pitcher sent him as he warmed up to
take Lester’s place. Greene didn’t keep him so busy, however, that he
couldn’t watch the game. Milford had hit safely to right field and
had reached second on a slow bunt by Lester. The wavers of the purple
flags implored little Browne to “smash it out!” But the short-stop
never found the ball, and Housel took his place and lifted the sphere
just over second-baseman’s head into the outfield. The bases were full.
The red-faced senior was working his arms heroically and begging in
husky tones for more noise. And when, a minute later, McLimmont took up
his bat and faced the Robinson pitcher, the supporters of the purple
went mad up there on the sun-smitten stand and drowned the discordant
efforts of the Robinson band.
McLimmont rubbed his hands in the dust, rubbed the dust off on his
trousers, and swung his bat. Dithman, who had puzzled Erskine batters
all day and had pitched a magnificent game for six innings, shook
himself together. McLimmont waited. No, thank you, he didn’t care for
that out-shoot, nor for that drop, nor for-- What? A strike, did he
say? Well, perhaps it did go somewhere near the plate, though to see
it coming you’d have thought it was going to be a passed ball! One and
two, wasn’t it? Thanks; there was no hurry then, so he’d just let that
in-curve alone, wait until something worth while came along, and--_Eh!_
what was that? Strike two! Well, well, well, of all the umpires this
fellow must be a beginner! Never mind that, though. But he’d have to
look sharp now or else----
_Crack!_
Off sped the ball, and off sped McLimmont. The former went over
first-baseman’s head; the latter swung around the bag like an
automobile taking a corner, and raced for second, reaching it on his
stomach a second before the ball. There was rejoicing where the purple
flags fluttered, for Captain Milford and Lester had scored.
But Erskine’s good fortune ended there. McLimmont was thrown out while
trying to steal third, and Levett popped a short fly into the hands of
the pitcher. Greene trotted off to the box, and Ned walked dejectedly
back to the bench. Page stared at him in surprise. Then, “Didn’t I tell
you to play center field?” he ejaculated.
Ned’s heart turned a somersault and landed in his throat. He stared
dumbly back at the head coach and shook his head. As he did so he
became aware of Stilson’s presence on the bench.
“What? Well, get a move on!” said Page.
Get a move on! Ned went out to center as though he had knocked a
three-bagger and wanted to get home on it. Little Browne grinned at him
as he sped by.
“Good work, Brewster!” he called, softly.
Over at left, Kesner, happy over his own good fortune, waved
congratulations. In the Erskine section the desultory hand-clapping
which had accompanied Ned’s departure for center field died away, and
the eighth inning began with the score 12-8.