seventh add to the score of either side. In the eighth the White Sox
captain got to third with two down and tried to tally on a bunt past
the pitcher’s box. But shortstop ran in, scooped up the ball and nailed
him a foot from the plate. The Juniors started their inning by a safe
rap that placed Cantrell on first base. Myers sacrificed neatly and
then the next man connected for a screeching liner that was too hot for
the Sox second baseman and Cantrell scored the Juniors’ twelfth tally.
But the score was still four runs to the advantage of the White Sox
when Stone hit into a double and ended the inning.
Captain Humbleton pretended a confidence he didn’t feel and assured
the team that all they had to do now was hold the Sox and then bat
out a victory. It sounded easy, but Billy felt defeat impending. He
tried to get a word with Arthur before that youth hurried off to his
infield position, but failed. The White Sox started by putting their
third baseman on first in consequence of Waldo Hutchins’ inability to
pitch strikes. Then a bunt was mishandled by the catcher and there
were runners on first and second, and things looked very bad. The next
player was thrown out, but the others moved up a base apiece. The
infield crept closer. The White Sox left fielder tried hard to slug,
missed two and finally popped up a silly little foul that dropped
comfortably in the catcher’s mitt, and the Junior nine’s adherents
cheered loudly, Captain Ezra’s voice dominating all like a fog siren.
There was another period of doubt and anxiety when, after knocking the
ball everywhere save between the foul lines, the Sox first baseman
finally whaled out a long, arching fly. The bases emptied and the
runners scuttled home, but Leo Smith arose to the occasion like a
veteran――which he was not――and pulled down the ball.
“Four to tie ’em and five to win!” shouted Arthur as he trotted in to
the bench. “Come on now, fellows! Let’s get this! We can―――― What is
it, Billy? Don’t bother me now!”
“I’ve got to, Arthur,” said Billy firmly, a tight clutch on the
captain’s arm. “You’ve got to listen a minute. If you want to win
this you must let me bat, Arthur. I can’t help hitting with this bat,
honest, and――――”
“You’re up, Waldo! Work him for a base. Get it somehow!” Arthur tugged
impatiently, but Billy held like glue. “You see, it’s a hoki-moki wood
bat, Arthur, and hoki-moki wood has a――a infinity for horsehide. All
you got to do is just swing the bat and the ball comes right up and
hits it. It’s the greatest discovery of――――”
“What are you talking about?” demanded the captain. “Let’s see your
old bat. ‘Hoki-Moki Wood,’ eh?” he jeered. “Where’d you get this
contraption?”
And, still holding him firmly, Billy told him, and in spite of his
expression of incredulity Arthur was secretly a little bit impressed.
“Oh, shucks,” he said, “I don’t believe it, Billy! It ain’t possible!
’Course, you might have luck――――” He paused and frowned intently and
then, with a short laugh, added: “Maybe I’ll give you a chance, Billy.
We’ll see.”
Billy had to be content with that. Meanwhile Waldo Hutchins had waited
and walked. An attempted sacrifice, however, failed to work and Waldo
was cut off at second. The runner was safe on first. With one gone the
audience began to disperse slowly. Then the Juniors’ right fielder
landed squarely and rapped past third and hope crept back into the
breasts of his team-mates. The departing onlookers paused in their
flight. The Sox second baseman let the throw from the pitcher pass
unchallenged over his head and the runners advanced to second and
third. The cheering grew frantic. The coachers shouted and danced.
“Slim” Gaynor did his best but only laid the ball down in front of the
plate and was tagged out before he had taken two strides toward his
base. Two on, now, and two gone!
Billy, his heart racing and jumping, watched Arthur anxiously. But
Joe Ware was allowed to take his turn. Joe was an uncertain batter.
The White Sox pitcher tempted him with a low one and with one on the
outside, but Joe refused them. Then came a fast one that went as a
strike. Then one that hit the dirt just back of the plate. The pitcher
frowned and would have sent the next offering in the groove had not the
catcher signalled for a pass. Joe walked to first, filling the sacks,
and cheers filled the air. Arthur himself followed Joe Ware, and the
bunt he trickled along the first base line was a veritable marvel, for
it sent a tally across, moved runners from first and second and left
Arthur himself safe on his bag!
But three runs were still needed to tie and four to win, and there
were two gone. Billy arose, pale but resolved on sacrifice. He meant
to offer the precious hoki-moki bat to Steve Sawyer, next up, but as
he moved toward the plate Arthur, dusting himself on first, saw him
and recalled that half promise. And perhaps he had what he would have
called a “hunch.” At all events his voice reached Billy just as he was
about to present the bat to Steve’s notice:
“All right, Billy! Hit it out! Let Billy bat, Steve!”
And so Billy, with a fast-beating heart, went on to the plate and faced
his fate. Surprise and condemnation floated from the bench in mutters.
The Sox pitcher observed Billy’s small form with a puzzled frown. Then,
noting the boy’s evident nervousness, he laughed in derision “See who’s
here, Jim!” he called to his catcher. “Home-Run Baker, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s Tris Speaker! Be good to him, Tom!”
“All right! Try this one, kid!” The pitcher wound up. Billy pushed his
bat around over his shoulder. On bases the three runners danced and
shouted. The coachers yelled incessantly. The infield jabbered. But
Billy didn’t hear a sound. Now the pitcher’s arm was shooting forward.
The ball was singing its way toward him. He tried to watch it and
couldn’t. But he swung the hoki-moki bat around just as hard as he
knew how, putting every ounce of his strength into it, and something
happened. There was a resounding blow, electric tingles shot up Billy’s
arms, he staggered and then, first.
Far into right field sped the ball, just inside the base line. In raced
the runners. Billy raced too. Pandemonium assailed his ears. As he
reached the first bag he sent a final look after the ball and his heart
leaped with joy. Straight behind Mr. Bannerman’s garden fence it fell,
right amongst the early peas and bush limas!
“Take your time, Billy!” shouted the coach at first. “It’s a home run,
kid!”
* * * * *
They never did find that ball, for Mr. Bannerman appeared on the scene
most inopportunely, but it didn’t matter and no one cared. The Juniors
had won, 17 to 16! The hoki-moki bat had proved itself! And Billy Mayes
was a hero!
There were unbelievers who denied to Billy’s famous bat any special
virtue, but Billy knew what he knew and had seen what he had seen, and
his faith was unshakable. But, and here is the sorry part of my tale,
it was several years before Billy made another home run, for, although
he became a regular member of the team and, as time passed, became a
fairly dependable hitter, the hoki-moki bat had lost its cunning. It
was not the bat’s fault, however. It was due to the fact that, owing to
the war, baseballs were no longed covered with horsehide!
THE TWO-MILER
We were sure of winning that spring. John Blake, the manager of the
team, said that if we did not win he should walk home when school
closed. And as John lives in the western part of Ohio and is a man of
his word, you can see that we were pretty cocksure.
We met Maynard College and Chamberlain College every June in what we
at Preston called the “Tri-Track,” which was a quick way of saying
Triangular Track Meet. The year before, Maynard had beaten us by five
and a half points. Chamberlain usually did not produce a strong team,
although it had a way now and then of upsetting our calculations in an
irritating manner.
We had been hard at work all the spring, and when the Saturday of the
“Tri-Track” came we had seventeen men ready to do their best. The meet
that year was at Chamberlain, and in consequence we put Chamberlain
down for twenty points, five more than she had ever won. There were
one hundred and seventeen points in the thirteen events; to win first
place in any event counted five, second place three and third place one.
As I say, we allowed Chamberlain twenty points, mostly seconds and
thirds, although we did think that her man Cutler would capture first
in the high jump. Then we put ourselves down for seven firsts. That
made thirty-five points. We felt likewise sure of five seconds. That
gave us fifteen points more, making fifty in all――more than enough to
win. We conceded the rest to Maynard.
Of those seven events in which we expected firsts, only one seemed in
the least doubtful; that was the two-mile race.
Carl Atherton, the captain of the team, had run the distance the year
before in 10 minutes, 41⅘ seconds, and had cut that down a second this
spring in practice. But all the year we had been hearing a good deal
about a new runner at Maynard named Beckner, who was said to have done
the two miles in forty “flat.” We felt willing, however, to trust Carl
for the two miles.
John Blake decided that for once the whole team should go to
Chamberlain. Usually our funds were low, and only the men who were
absolutely necessary were taken; but this year the subscriptions had
been more liberal.
Bobby Hart was almost as much pleased as anyone at John’s decision.
Bobby had worked hard during the two years he had been in school, and
deserved to get into a real race. He was not a great runner, but there
is plenty of room on the track in the “distance” runs.
“I’m going to try for third in the mile,” Bobby confided to me on
Friday night. “I think I can do better than I ever have done.”
“Yes, but I’m afraid you can’t get third. First will go either to Carl
or to Dick Bannet, and Maynard’s sure to have a man close to them. I
shouldn’t wonder if Carl let Bannet have the mile and saved himself for
the two.”
“Well, anyway, I’ll have the fun of trying,” answered Bobby.
We went over to Chamberlain Saturday morning, and nearly the whole
school went with us.
Bobby was in great spirits. He kept us laughing all the way over, and
I could not help thinking what a difference there was between him and
Carl Atherton. There was Bobby, as happy as a clam because they had
entered him for the mile and the two mile with no chance in the world
of his winning better than third, and small hope of that; and there was
Carl, happy, too, perhaps, but not showing it a bit, just sitting down
at the end of the car talking to the trainer or reading a magazine, yet
knowing all the time that he was sure of one cup, if not two. I could
not help thinking that of the two perhaps Bobby would have made the
better captain, if getting close to the fellows and heartening them up
had anything to do with it.
We had luncheon at twelve o’clock, and at half-past one we piled into a
coach and drove out to the field. The old village was much decorated,
and the crimson of Preston was more plentiful than the Maynard blue. Of
course the orange and gray of Chamberlain was everywhere.
We went into our dressing tent, put on our running clothes, and then
went out and limbered up a bit.
At two o’clock the half mile was started, and we were pretty well
pleased with ourselves when it was over. Maynard got third place, but
the one point for Maynard did not look important against eight that we
won.
Then came the trials for the hundred yards; two of our men qualified.
We did not expect much from the sprints, and we did not get much. In
the finals we took third place; Maynard won first and Chamberlain
second. That started the cheering, for the orange and gray was pretty
well represented on the stands, where Maynard and Preston had each only
a handful of fellows. When they called us for the trials of the high
hurdles, I did not have any trouble in winning from the two Chamberlain
runners and the one Maynard man opposed to me. Then came the mile run.
Each school was allowed three starters; our entries were Carl Atherton,
Dick Bannet and Bobby Hart. I heard the trainer giving them their
instructions.
“This is Bannet’s race if he can get it,” he said. “But if Bannet can’t
win it, you must, Atherton. Hart, here, will start in and make the pace
for you two, and at the end of the third lap you must draw up to the
front. Save yourself for the two miles if you can, Atherton; but if you
have to win this, do it. We can’t take any chances. And you see if you
can’t take third place, Hart.”
The nine runners did some pretty maneuvering for the pole. When they
went down the back stretch on the first lap, Bobby was making pace and
Carl and Bannet were running fourth and fifth. That was the order for
two laps. Then a Maynard chap named Green sprinted and took the lead.
Bannet pushed up to third place.
Bobby held on for a while, then dropped back. He had just about used
himself up. Beckner, the Maynard “crack,” was running strongly in sixth
place, and Carl was watching him closely at every turn.
When the last lap began only five men were left in the running――Green,
Bannet, Fuller of Chamberlain, Carl and Beckner.
That was a pretty race; but it did not come out right for us. When the
home stretch began, Fuller passed Bannet and Beckner got away from
Carl. Then it was Fuller, Bannet and Beckner all the way to within
twenty feet of the tape, with a couple of thousand spectators yelling
like mad, and crimson and blue and orange flags waving.
Carl was trying hard to come forward, but he had waited too long
and was out of it; just as much out of it as Bobby, who was jogging
doggedly along half a lap behind. Twenty feet from the finish Fuller
spurted again and left two yards between him and the two others, who
were fighting hard for second place.
“Come on, Dick!” we shrieked. “Come on! Come on!”
But Bannet could not do any more, and Beckner drew slowly away from him
in the last half dozen strides. Bannet was used up when we caught him.
And Fuller, too, was pretty tired. Only Beckner seemed fresh, and we
knew then that he could have had first place if he had wanted it, and
that he was saving himself for the two miles.
Things did not look so bright for us after that race. And after the
next one, the finals in the one-hundred-and-twenty-yard hurdles, they
looked worse; for all I could do was to get second by a hair’s breadth;
Maynard took first by several yards and Chamberlain third.
I was pretty well cut up over that, but there was still the
two-hundred-and-twenty, and I vowed that I would do better in that.
There was need of improvement, for we had thirteen points to Maynard’s
fourteen, with Chamberlain not far behind with nine. Things were not
happening at all as we had figured them.
We had counted on eight points in the quarter-mile race, but all we
got was three, for almost at the start Carstein of Chamberlain left
everyone behind and won by fully thirty yards! That was the trouble
with Chamberlain; you never could tell what mischief it would cause.
They called us out for the two-hundred-and-twenty-yard hurdle race.
The Maynard man and I were nip and tuck at the second hurdle. I was
a little quicker on the cinders than he, but he hurdled a good three
inches lower than I, and that made things even. But at the fourth
hurdle he got down too low and went over the bar. That put him out of
pace a little, and I ran for all I was worth. I tipped the next hurdle
myself, but not enough to throw me out.
At the seventh, I think it was, I was running even with the chap at the
far side of the track and the Maynard fellow was behind. After that I
put every ounce into beating the unknown――for there was no time to see
who he was――and we had a battle royal. We came over the last hurdle
right together, and only my speed on the ground beat him, and then by
very little. Maynard finished a close third. And when I turned round
and looked at the chap I’d beaten, I found it was one of our own men.
Bert Poole, who had never won a place before in his life!
We felt better after that, for those eight points put us ahead;
but when presently Maynard won six points in the furlong dash and
Chamberlain got the remaining three, we began to worry again. The
results from the field events then began to come in, and added to our
anxiety. Chamberlain had taken first in the high jump, as we expected,
but Maynard had left us only third place. In the broad jump Maynard
had won first place and third, and given us second. In the pole vault
that troublesome Chamberlain had again taken first; Maynard had taken
second and Preston third. In the shot put we had first and second, and
Maynard had taken third. In the hammer throw Maynard had beaten us for
first, we had taken second and Chamberlain third. When we had finished
figuring we could hardly believe our eyes. The score stood:
Preston 40
Maynard 40
Chamberlain 28
The two-mile run, the last event, would decide the meet. And there was
Beckner.
Of course we had not lost faith in Carl, but big, strong Beckner was
clearly the freshest man on the field, and he would take a lot of
beating. We had to have first place to win the meet. Second and third
would not be enough, unless Fuller of Chamberlain got first. In that
case the championship would go to the school that took second. We did
not know whether Fuller was going to run or not, and we were pretty
anxious to find out. Only Bobby seemed cheerful.
“We can beat them,” he said. “Why, Carl can make circles round Beckner,
and as for Fuller, that mile run used him all up.”
“Maybe you will do something yourself, Bobby,” said I.
“I shouldn’t mind trying, but I guess they’re not going to let me
enter. I didn’t show up very well in the mile; you can’t go in and set
the pace and have anything left for the end. I came in fifth, though.”
Bobby really looked pleased with himself.
“All out for the two-mile run!” called the clerk of the course, and we
went down to the start. John Blake was looking blue.
“It’s a long way out to Ohio,” he said ruefully. “And the roads are
dusty, too.”
“Fuller’s going to run, isn’t he?” I asked.
“Yes, and I don’t know whether that makes it better for us or worse.”
“Answer to your names!” called the clerk.
There were seven entries there: Carl and Bannet of our school, Beckner,
Green and another Maynard runner, and Fuller and one other Chamberlain
fellow.
“On your marks!” called the starter.
“Hold on, please,” said our coach. “We have another man coming. Where’s
Hart?”
“Here,” said Bobby, stepping out from the group beside the track.
“Get in there,” said the trainer.
So Bobby, much pleased, took his place in the second line.
“Get ready!” said the starter.
“Set!” Then the pistol popped and they were off.
[Illustration: THEN THE PISTOL POPPED AND THEY WERE OFF]
For the first mile and a half a two-mile race is generally rather
uninteresting; but when the meet depends on it, that is different. We
turned and watched the runners jog round the turn and come along the
back stretch.
When they had covered a quarter of the distance, Fuller was no longer
dangerous. He was running in short strides and had dropped back to
seventh place. At the end of the first mile the runners were strung
out all round the track. Green was making the pace. Behind Green was
Beckner, running with a fine long stride, and almost treading on
Beckner’s heels was Carl. Carl was not quite so pretty a runner to
watch as the man in front of him.
Ten or twelve yards behind Carl ran Bannet; Bobby was following close.
A third Maynard runner and Fuller were disputing sixth place. A long
way behind them the last man, a Chamberlain chap, was lagging along.
And that was still the order when the sixth lap began.
Beckner alone seemed untired. Carl’s cheeks were white, and had two
spots of crimson in them. Bannet was looking pretty well used up, but
Bobby seemed not yet fagged and hung on to Bannet closely. He had never
tried himself to any extent in the two miles, but I thought that he
was doing better than he had done in the mile.
Getting tired of making pace Green swung aside and let Beckner take the
lead. Green fell in behind Carl, who was still treading in Beckner’s
tracks. Then the distance between the first group and the second began
to open; Bannet was tiring. For a while Bobby regulated his speed by
Bannet’s, but soon he went round outside Bannet and passed him. That
seemed to do Bannet good, for he spurted and kept close behind Bobby
all round the track. The third Maynard man and Fuller were out of it
for good by this time, and the eighth man had left the track.
There were only two laps left now, and the shouting was pretty
continuous. Up at the head Beckner seemed to want Carl to take the
lead, but Carl refused. That cheered us considerably, for it seemed
to show that Beckner was weakening. Finally Green went to Beckner’s
rescue; but he almost pumped himself out in doing it, and only set the
pace for a few hundred feet, making it so slow that Bobby and Bannet
closed up half the distance between them and Carl. Then Green fell out
again and Beckner was once more ahead, but Carl was holding on grimly.
So it was when they turned into the home stretch. The shouting was
tremendous now, for the spectators had left the stands and lined up
along the track.
“Last lap! Last lap!” shouted the judges.
We shouted to Carl to keep it up! And the Chamberlain people, who liked
us better than they liked Maynard, shouted the same thing. Even Bobby
and Bannet were applauded, and I shouted to Bobby to go on and win.
On the turn Bannet stumbled and half fell, and lost several yards; that
seemed to take the heart out of him. When the runners turned into the
back stretch, Bobby was all alone a dozen yards behind Beckner, Carl
and Green.
About the middle of the stretch Beckner started to draw away from Carl;
but he only opened up about three yards before Carl was after him. That
put Green out of it. We saw him wabble once and then throw up his arms
and go over on the turf.
“Bobby’s going to get third place!” cried John. And, sure enough, there
was Bobby still running, and running strong.
But our eyes were on Carl and Beckner. They were having it out, and as
the turn began Carl crept up to the blue runner and tried to edge past;
but he couldn’t quite do it, and Beckner held the lead by a few feet
until they were in the straightaway and headed for the finish. Then
Carl actually got in front. A lot of us had gone halfway down the track
to meet them and were yelling ourselves hoarse.
“Come on, Carl! Come on! You can do it!”
The Maynard fellows were shouting to Beckner at the top of their lungs.
Carl was just about holding his lead, when suddenly he staggered, got
one foot on the raised board that runs along the inside of the track,
and fell on the cinders. He was up in a second and running again, but
he had lost three or four yards, was limping and was plainly exhausted.
And Beckner, none too fresh himself, came on down the home stretch all
alone, wabbling a bit, but apparently an easy winner.
“Look at _Bobby_!” cried John. “Oh, _look_ at Bobby!”
How he ever got there I don’t know, but there was that blessed Bobby
coming along only a few yards behind Beckner and gaining on him at
every stride. Now he had passed Carl; now he was almost up to the
Maynard man; and we were racing alongside, leaping and shouting, while
twenty yards ahead at the finish the judges were leaning forward with
excited faces and their fingers on the “stops.”
Stride by stride Bobby overhauled Beckner. Now he could have touched
him with his hand. Now he was running even. Now――
“_Preston!_” we cried. “_Preston! Preston!_”
And then there was the finish――Bobby flying down the turn and Beckner
falling into the arms of his fellows.
“Who won?” I shouted, dancing about in the crowd.
“Hart, by two feet!” said some one.
And John and I grabbed each other and danced.
“Hurray!” shouted John. “I don’t have to walk home!”
“Did you hear the time?” cried Poole, hitting me on the back. “Ten
minutes, thirty-six and four-fifths seconds! It breaks the record!”
We did an unusual thing that Spring. We elected a track-team captain
who was not a senior. His name was Robert Hart.
THE END
Transcriber’s Notes:
――Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
――Printer’s, punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently
corrected.
――Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.
――Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.