BASES FULL!
By RALPH HENRY BARBOUR
_Yardley Hall Series_
FOURTH DOWN
FORWARD PASS
DOUBLE PLAY
WINNING HIS Y
GUARDING THE GOAL
FOR YARDLEY
AROUND THE END
CHANGE SIGNALS
_Purple Pennant Series_
THE LUCKY SEVENTH
THE SECRET PLAY
THE PURPLE PENNANT
_Hilton Series_
THE HALF-BACK
FOR THE HONOR OF THE SCHOOL
CAPTAIN OF THE CREW
_Erskine Series_
BEHIND THE LINE
WEATHERBY’S INNING
ON YOUR MARK
_The “Big Four” Series_
FOUR IN CAMP
FOUR AFOOT
FOUR AFLOAT
_The Grafton Series_
RIVALS FOR THE TEAM
HITTING THE LINE
WINNING HIS GAME
_North Bank Series_
THREE BASE BENSON
KICK FORMATION
COXSWAIN OF THE EIGHT
_Wyndham Series_
THE FIGHTING SCRUB
BASES FULL
HOLD ’EM, WYNDHAM!
_Books Not In Series_
THE LOST DIRIGIBLE
FOR THE FREEDOM OF THE SEAS
KEEPING HIS COURSE
THE BROTHER OF A HERO
FINKLER’S FIELD
DANFORTH PLAYS THE GAME
THE ARRIVAL OF JIMPSON
FOR THE GOOD OF THE TEAM
UNDER THE YANKEE ENSIGN
BENTON’S VENTURE
THE JUNIOR TROPHY
THE NEW BOY AT HILLTOP
THE SPIRIT OF THE SCHOOL
THE PLAY THAT WON
INFIELD RIVALS
FOLLOW THE BALL
[Illustration: JEFF WOUND UP AND PITCHED]
BASES FULL!
BY
RALPH HENRY BARBOUR
AUTHOR OF “THE FIGHTING SCRUB,” “INFIELD RIVALS,” ETC.
[Illustration]
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
NEW YORK :: 1925 :: LONDON
COPYRIGHT, 1925, BY
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
CONTENTS
PAGE
I. THE WINNING GOAL 1
II. THE TRIUMVIRATE 11
III. CANDIDATES FOR THE NINE 24
IV. MR. BINGHAM ENTERTAINS 36
V. TOM CONFIDES 48
VI. PSYCHOLOGY 59
VII. A STRANGER LOOKS ON 72
VIII. VACATION VISITS 85
IX. “THE OLD WILL POWER” 99
X. “FIGHT! FIGHT!” 112
XI. TOM HITS A “JOLLY CRASH” 122
XII. THE BATTLING FLIVVER 134
XIII. TOM PAYS A CALL 146
XIV. INSIDE STUFF 158
XV. WATTLES IS CARELESS 168
XVI. A DOUBLE DEFEAT 179
XVII. LORING GOES SCOUTING 190
XVIII. WYNDHAM WINS 204
XIX. WALKING PAPERS 214
XX. CLIF GETS AN ERROR 232
XXI. WATTLES INTERVENES 243
XXII. THE FINAL GAME 254
XXIII. BASES FULL! 262
BASES FULL!
CHAPTER I
THE WINNING GOAL
“_Shoot! Shoot!_”
The Wyndham forwards had swept down the rink, successfully eluding
Wolcott’s defense, and now Captain Cooper slid the puck gently to the
left as the enemy point checked desperately, and from the audience, for
the moment forgetting chilled feet and numbed fingers, the shout came
exultantly, imploringly:
“Shoot! Shoot!”
Ogden took the pass, but a Wolcott wing slashed wildly at his stick and
the defending cover point dashed back to the beleaguered goal and the
chance was gone. Ogden did shoot, but the puck struck the end of the
net and a Wolcott skater hooked it to him and, pursued by Ogden, swept
behind the goal. A fracas in the further corner followed and then a
brown-legged player was off down the rink and Wyndham hastened to cover.
It was the last period and only a few minutes remained. The score was
still a tie at 6 to 6. The visiting team had started the game in
whirlwind fashion, scoring twice before the Blue had found its pace.
Then Wyndham had tallied on a lift from near the center of the rink by
Raiford, and that lucky shot had nerved the home team to faster play.
Wolcott had scored a third tally from a furious mix-up in front of goal
when the rubber had slid from some one’s skate and edged past a corner
of the net. At 3 to 1 the game had stayed until, close to the end of
the period, Wyndham, using a five-man attack, had overwhelmed the
adversary and netted a clean shot from directly in front of the goal.
Captain Cooper, Wyndham’s right wing, had put that in.
After the intermission Wolcott had again forced the fighting, and
Craigie, goal keeper for the home team, had been fairly battered with
the puck until at last it got by him for Wolcott’s fourth score. Coach
Hilliard had substituted Cowden for Jensen at cover point then, and
subsequently the enemy had experienced more difficulty in reaching
shooting distance. Cowden had proved himself more alert than his
predecessor on attack, as well, and Wyndham’s next tally was a result
of his “get away” followed by a quick backward pass to Raiford and a
sizzling shot from a hard angle. Wyndham had again scored less than
a minute later when Captain Cooper had taken the puck into enemy
territory, skating along the boards, and, after bowling over the outer
defense, passed to Raiford in front of point and then, when the center
slid it back to him, slipped it craftily past the goal keeper’s feet
with a mere flick of his stick.
From 4 to 4 the score had leaped quickly to 6 to 6, each team winning
alternate goals. Couch, Wyndham’s point, had been sent off for illegal
checking and a Wolcott forward for loafing off-side. Jeff Adams, who
had taken Couch’s position, had proved an improvement, for, although
light, he had broken up several attacks. Still later Coles had relieved
Cragie at goal. Now, with the score still even and only a handful
of minutes to play, all indications pointed toward an extra period.
Wyndham wanted to win to-day’s contest, for it was the deciding test in
the three-game series with her old rival――Wolcott Academy. Wyndham had
lost the first, played on her home rink, but had romped off with the
second, played at Cotterville. So far this school year the Dark Blue
had proved supreme in football and had been defeated in basket ball;
the deciding contest of the latter sport was still only a week old. A
victory in hockey would atone for the basket ball repulse; indeed, more
than atone, since at both Wyndham and Wolcott hockey was a major sport
and basket ball a minor. Besides, Wolcott had carried off the hockey
palm last winter, and while that fact might be forgotten by many of the
onlookers it was well remembered by the players.
Sitting on the bench, sweatered and blanketed, Clifton Bingham
cast increasingly anxious glances toward the coach. Clif was only a
substitute left wing; whether a first or second substitute he had
never been able to determine; but he had taken his place in four of
the eleven games played since ice had formed on the little pond and
hadn’t done so badly. That was Clif’s opinion, at least. It was also
the opinion, perhaps, not wholly unprejudiced, of Messrs. Kemble
and Deane, who, with Clif, constituted what they themselves termed
“The Triumvirate,” an offensive and defensive coalition of a month’s
standing. It was undoubtedly natural that Messrs. Kemble and Deane
should think well of their comrade’s hockey and that they should say
so, and it was just as natural that Clif who, in spite of inherent
modesty, liked to think well of himself and his deeds, should be
impressed by their judgment. But what bothered Clif sometimes was
that admiration for his hockey playing seemed not to extend to the
coach. The coach was “Pinky” Hilliard, instructor in modern languages
and Junior English. “Pinky” was new at this job. As an assistant
football coach he had made good for several years, but not until last
December had he been selected by a puzzled Athletic Committee to take
charge of the hockey team. Good hockey coaches, unlike football or
baseball coaches, don’t grow on every bush! But Mr. Hilliard had done
well. There was no doubt as to that. After a poor start, the team had
entered the third week in January and a winning streak simultaneously,
and since the Lovell game, the third consecutive defeat, had come
triumphantly through seven contests, losing only the first game
with Wolcott. Just the same, in Clif’s opinion at least, Pinky was
handicapped by one fault: he was blind――or perhaps near-sighted――to
the abilities of Clifton Cobb Bingham, Third Class. Not that Pinky
hadn’t used Clif, for he had; there had been the Horner game in which
Clif had, miraculously as it seemed to him, shot a clean goal from a
forty-degree angle just before the enemy point had sent him rolling
over on the ice. And two or three other games, as well, in one of which
he had also scored, although less spectacularly. But here it was the
last contest of the year, the biggest game of the big games, and the
time was almost up! And Ogden was still playing left wing and Clif
Bingham was still huddling on the bench with his skates in a snowbank
and his stick clasped by gloved but slowly congealing fingers. Clif,
hazarding another glance at the coach’s rapt but calm countenance,
reflected that the other two members of the Triumvirate were going
to be seriously displeased with Pinky if he didn’t soon recall the
existence of a certain substitute!
Play stopped while the Wolcott cover point and captain recovered from
the effects of a violent collision with the boards and the Wyndham
team gathered panting about Captain Cooper and indulged in hurried,
low-voiced conversation. Clif watched and speculated and hoped that
Cooper would notice him; and then, lest he might seem to be courting
recognition, relapsed against the back of the bench, partly obscuring
himself behind Joe Hanbury’s broad bulk. Some one further along the
bench asked about the time and Mr. McKnight, timekeeper, responded
callously with “Four minutes and twenty seconds!” Gee only four
minutes! Clif leaned forward again into sight. So did at least five
other youths. This was no time for reticence! Captain Cooper pushed
from the group and skated toward the barrier. Planting his stick in
the bank of snow beyond it, he leaned forward and spoke to Pinky. Clif
couldn’t hear what he said, but when the captain’s eyes swept along
the huddled, blanketed line on the bench he met them squarely. Perhaps
Cooper had been seeking some one beyond Clif, but his gaze stopped. For
an instant he stared back at Clif, still talking. Then he smiled very
suddenly and nodded. Ever after that Clif insisted that Cooper had the
most wonderful smile in all the world! Coach Hilliard leaned forward
and his gaze, too, rested on Clif. Then he said something else to
Cooper and waved a hand, and Clif, arising suddenly, tripped over his
stick and fell across the barrier. Both Cooper and Pinky were grinning
when Clif reached them, although they pretended they weren’t.
“Left wing, Bingham,” said the coach. “Watch Houston and cover him
close every minute. Go in and see if you can beat him. Don’t be afraid
of smashing into him. He can’t hurt you. All right, Ogden! That’s
enough!”
Clif was over the boards in record time, shorn of his blanket but still
battling with a reluctant sweater. A kind-hearted schoolmate reached
across the barrier and helped him out of it; Clif panted “Thanks!”
and swung off, tapping his stick, trying hard to get his cold muscles
limbered up in the brief moments remaining. Afraid of Houston! Where
did Pinky get that stuff, he wondered. He wasn’t afraid of the whole
Wolcott team. Of course they might be better than he; skate better,
handle their sticks better, shoot better; but they couldn’t any of them
_try_ harder!
The Wolcott captain, once more on his skates, ambled groggily about,
watched anxiously by his team mates, and at last signified his desire
to continue hostilities. The referee skated away from the boards and
lifted his whistle. Players hurried to positions. There was a shrill
twe-e-et and the battle went on. Wolcott snared the puck from the
face-off and shot along the ice, forming quick formation. Cover point
went over to the left, tried desperately to stop the hurtling disk and
found himself passed. The attack swept into goal. Clif hovered about
Houston, but the puck went across to the other side and there was a
quick shot. Coles slipped to the right and the disk bounded away
from a leg guard. Clif pushed toward it, but Raiford swung past and
hooked it. A Wolcott player challenged him and Raiford fed the puck
down the rink. Skates ground and clanged as the teams sped in pursuit.
The audience, mostly home-team sympathizers, yelled continuously. The
puck shot hither and yon, back and forth, banged against the boards,
flew through the air, skimmed the ice, yet remained safely away from
both nets. Precious moments sped. Time and again overeagerness brought
the shrill whistle for off-side. Both Blue and Brown were striving
desperately now, sacrificing science for main force. The playing grew
more and more ragged as it became harder. Teamwork almost disappeared,
in spite of the captains’ frantic appeals, and individual effort, save
for brief flashes of cohesion, took the place of formation play. One
minute passed and another. The period entered its final two and still
the game was undecided and, from all indications, likely to remain so
until an extra “sudden-death” period arrived.
Clif had followed instructions implicitly, holding to the tall,
fast-skating and elusive Houston like a limpet. The big brown-hosed
right wing had more than once showed impatience and more than once
vented his wrath by ungentle administrations of his stick against
Clif’s legs. But Clif didn’t feel the blows; at least not then. He
continued to dog Houston’s every move, and such covering, while it
mitigated against Clif’s usefulness as an attacking player, certainly
mitigated quite as much against Houston’s value in a similar capacity.
Twice at least Clif was able to tell himself with grim satisfaction
that his close attention to the big Wolcott chap had prevented a shot.
Captain Cooper stole the puck close to the Wolcott goal and set off
with it, alone for the moment and unaided, while shrill shouts and
yells of triumph hailed his progress. Dodging right and left, skating
from side to side of the rink, he eluded the enemy defenders until, at
last, he had an unchallenged shot. Just before a Wolcott man plunged
at him he slammed the puck viciously at the net. But the Brown’s goal
keeper threw himself in front of it and it rebounded, and before a
second Wyndham player could reach it the Wolcott point had whipped the
disk to the boards and another attempt had failed.
There was a frantic struggle for possession in the corner and then
the disk went flying back up the rink to be knocked down by Cowden
who, in spite of a hundred protests, fed it back to the forwards. It
was Houston who tried for the puck, touched but missed it and put
Clif on-side. Clif hooked the rubber from just in front of Houston’s
reaching blade, slid it to the right for a team mate to take, saw to
his consternation that no team mate was there and so went after it
again himself. Houston was beside him, very free with his stick, but
Clif only blinked when the blows met his shin guards, and pulled the
puck toward him.
What happened after that will always remain a great mystery to Clif.
To his surprise the puck was in front of him, traveling right, left,
straight ahead, at the direction of his stick. But surprise lasted
only an instant. Then came chaos. He was threatened in front and from
the right, forced to the boards, forced away from them, half checked
once. Yet by some marvelous chance the little hard-rubber disk lay
always right at the tip of his stick. Somehow he kept his feet, he who
had so often fallen ingloriously with far less excuse, and somehow he
wormed and dodged and battered his way to the Wolcott goal. At the
last moment, when cries from Cooper and from Raiford imploringly urged
him to pass, he slid the puck a yard to the left, staggered under the
impact of the point’s desperate check, whirled precariously around on
one skate and, the goal keeper’s scowling countenance looming large and
close, made a despairing sweep with his stick. After that he crashed
against an iron of the net, rebounded, and slid across the ice in a
sitting position until brought up by the boards. But the goal umpire
had flung up a hand, Wyndham was shrieking like mad and to Clif, still
dazed, came the sweet knowledge that the puck had been caged and that
the Dark Blue team had won!