MR. BINGHAM ENTERTAINS
Well, that first fortnight of work for the baseball candidates _was_
a good deal like drudgery. As Tom said, it wasn’t so hard, but it was
blamed monotonous. Led by Coach Connover, or sometimes by Captain
Leland, they went through a daily program of calisthenics that seemed
designed to acquaint them with the possession of muscles they had never
before even suspected. The ordinary setting-up exercises, amended to
suit the coach’s notions, began the session. After that they swung
clubs――at first in imminent danger from each other――and went through
strange exercises with dumb-bells, the latter to limber up wrist and
forearm muscles. Toward the latter part of the fortnight the day’s
program ended with instructions on holding and swinging the bat, but it
was not until the beginning of the third week that they abandoned the
gymnasium floor and moved into the cage.
There were then forty-six candidates; not so many for a school which
held that term one hundred and eighty-four students. Still, as some
eighty of the latter number were either Junior School pupils or members
of the fourth class, and in both cases ineligible for school teams,
perhaps the showing wasn’t so bad, after all. Of the forty-six, eleven
had played with last season’s first team at one time or another,
although only five had taken part in the Wolcott series, and seven
more had been second team members. Most of the rest had had more or
less experience playing scrub baseball or, like Clif and Tom, were
newcomers at Wyndham. A number had won fame in other sports, for the
squad included nearly a dozen football players, several of the recently
disbanded basket ball team, several track men and three fellows who had
aided in the defeat of Wolcott on the ice. The latter were, besides
Clif, Raiford and Coles. In spite of the monotony, those drills usually
provided some amusement before they were over, and, on the whole, it
was all pretty good fun.
Encouragingly, winter withdrew over the blue hills to the north during
the first week of March, and, while it took many mild days to thaw the
ground out, by the middle of the month word came that, barring more
rain or snow, the baseball candidates could count on getting out of
doors by the nineteenth. That announcement was cheering, for, although
in lieu of the diamond the cage provided a fine practice space, every
one longed to feel the spring of the turf under his feet and the wind
in his face. It was evident that the latter longing was due to be
satisfied, for no windier March ever visited Freeburg than this one.
But, since neither rain nor snow intervened before the anxiously
awaited Wednesday, the wind proved a friend rather than a foe, ably
aiding the sun to dry the already greening sod of the field. And on
Wednesday, in the face of a tearing westerly gale, but under the bluest
of blue skies, the Wyndham baseball squad romped out of the locker room
and across to the practice diamond as gayly as a lot of colts turned
out to pasture.
I would like to be able to narrate that Clif and Tom had applied
themselves so diligently to the work in hand and showed such aptitude
for baseball that they were now marked members of the squad. But I
can’t. Their diligence had been――well, let us say normal. At times
it had been plainly in evidence; at other times it had waned. Indoor
practice doesn’t arouse enthusiasm, as a rule, after the novelty has
worn off. In short, when the squad went out to the field that Wednesday
afternoon Clif and Tom were just two possibilities amongst two score.
The coach didn’t seem to take practice very seriously to-day. A number
of balls were given out and for twenty minutes or so these were tossed
about from one player to another, usually for a distance of no more
than twenty feet. A simple, easy appearing pastime, this, but one
which nevertheless, if correctly indulged in, called nearly every
muscle of the body into play and speedily warmed one up to the point
of perspiration――or beyond. In tossing as a preliminary to real work,
the ball, as Clif soon discovered, was not delivered you where you
could reach it the easiest but where you had to exert yourself to get
it; at one side, overhead, shoe-high; in brief, anywhere save where you
might reasonably expect it. Having caught it――or missed it――your play
was to snap it back as soon as possible in the general direction of
the next catcher; and the more general the direction the better. For
awhile this sort of thing seems real fun, and there is much laughter,
much shouting and many gymnastic performances, but after, say, ten
minutes the laughter subsides, suppressed groans succeed the shouts
and extraordinary attempts to capture the ball become fewer and fewer.
And by this time your body is in a healthy glow, you are probably
perspiring from every pore and you wish to goodness that Coach would
think up a new stunt!
And presently he did. The candidates for pitcher went off by
themselves; Jeff Ogden, last season’s ace, Bud Moore, Erlingby, Frost.
With them went two others to catch their easy offerings. Manager
Longwell hit slow bunts to a selected few. For the rest there was
labor on the diamond or at the plate. With five men playing infield
and six sharing the further territory, with Pat Tyson in the box and
Assistant Manager Cotter behind him to feed the balls to him, the
remaining candidates took turns with the bat. They were warned against
slugging the ball, and it was infrequent that it went beyond the
infield. Long or fast throws were prohibited by the fielders and more
than once a too-energetic or too-ambitious player was reprimanded. The
outfielders caught or chased flies sent up by Gus Risley, but they
were not allowed to return the ball all the way to him in the air, and
when one committed that breach of the law he was fiercely called to
order by Jimmy Cunningham, catching for Gus. Jimmy was Second Assistant
Manager and fully aware of the dignity and authority connected with his
position. Frequent changes were made, and in the course of a half-hour
every one made the journey to the plate twice. When practice ended,
which it did very early, there were many tired youths among those who,
obeying instructions, trotted all the way back to the gymnasium; and,
despite that preliminary work indoors, there were many, many sore
muscles.
By Saturday outdoor conditions were better. The turf lost its
sogginess, the base paths hardened and a chill wind no longer
endangered overheated bodies. By Saturday, too, most of the restrictions
had been removed and practice looked more like the genuine article.
There was even a three-inning game that afternoon between the newly
formed first and second squads, and, while no score was kept, there was
plenty of hard playing. Tod Raiford, outfield candidate playing with the
first squad, landed against one of Frost’s straight ones and hit it
almost to the center of the football field for four bases. To be sure,
second-squad members protested loudly that it had fallen foul, but since
the foul-line flags had not yet been put into place they couldn’t prove
it and Tod was given the benefit of the doubt. “Bi” Longwell,
officiating as umpire from behind the pitcher, gravely proclaimed it
fair, although since he had not left his position to judge its flight
there were those impolite enough to say that he didn’t know anything
about it. Cooper, catching for the second squad, good-naturedly offered
to settle the question after practice, with or without gloves, but Bi
threatened to fine him and Cooper subsided.
Clif and Tom were allowed a few minutes of participation in that brief
contest, but their appearance with the second, Clif in left field and
Tom on third base, could not truthfully be said to add perceptible
strength to the team. Of the two only Tom went to bat, and the best
he could do was pop an easy foul to Catcher Cobham. Clif failed to
distinguish himself by even that much, since the first team batsmen
thoughtlessly failed to hit the ball anywhere near his position.
Nevertheless both boys ended that week with increased ambition and
enthusiasm. Also, it must be added, with decreased expectations of
winning renown on the diamond. There was no doubt but that, viewed
without prejudice, they were pretty small fry in the baseball sea. Tom
pretended, however, to believe that as the season progressed those in
command would discover his now concealed talent and install him at
some post of honor on the big team, preferably second base. Clif, on
the other hand, might easily have lost courage about that time and
modestly withdrawn from competition had it not been for Tom and Loring.
Tom’s argument was that you never could tell what was going to happen
and that an epidemic or an earthquake or something equally devastating
might any day wipe out a couple of handfulls of Clif’s rivals. “Then,”
added Tom reasonably enough, “you’d be mighty sorry you didn’t stick!”
Loring’s argument was that it would be the part of wisdom to stay with
the squad just as long as he was allowed to stay and learn all he could
so that next year, if not this, he would be all set to accept the
captaincy or any other little job that might be lying around! Perhaps
Clif’s own inclinations weighed more than advice, though, for, although
he was frequently discouraged by his own ineptitude and certain that
he wouldn’t survive the final cut in the squad, he had always believed
in finishing what he started. Not a bad belief to hold, that, for
persistence has often won where courage has failed.
Clif’s father made one of his frequent visits to school the following
Sunday. Clif’s mother was dead, and he was the only child. In
consequence he and his father had been pretty close for many years,
and, until weather conditions had prevented during late January and
early February, Mr. Bingham had averaged two trips a month from
Providence by automobile. The present visit was the first for over
three weeks, and Clif forgot the self-consciousness that was likely
to assail him at such times and squeezed his father’s hand so hard
that Mr. Bingham flinched perceptibly. He rolled up to the Inn shortly
before church time, the blue car well spattered with mud, and Clif
didn’t have much time for conversation then. A few questions and
replies, an appointment for dinner at one――to be kept, however, as
soon as church was over, and accompanied by Tom――and Clif had to hurry
back to school. As the Freeburg Inn was only a block from the school
entrance he was able to make the journey in three minutes flat.
Usually Clif made up a quartet for dinner at the Inn by inviting two of
his friends, generally Tom and Walter Treat. Walter was Clif’s roommate
in Number 17 West Hall, a quiet, studious, rather self-contained youth
of seventeen. Clif liked him thoroughly, although not so well as Tom,
and Clif’s father had long since fallen victim to his attractions,
the greatest of which, in Mr. Bingham’s judgment, being an ability to
converse intelligently on subjects other than school athletics. To-day,
however, as frequently happened, Walter’s own folks were visiting
school, and while Clif would have liked to have had Loring to dinner in
Walter’s place, Loring wouldn’t be persuaded. Not generally sensitive
about his condition, Loring disliked displaying his infirmity in
public dining rooms. So when at a few minutes past one Mr. Bingham’s
party seated itself at table it consisted only of the host, Tom
and Clif. Whatever was to be said of the Inn’s Sunday dinners――and
much that was complimentary might have been said――they could not be
criticized on the score of astounding originality. You always knew just
what to expect. To-day’s dish of olives and pickles looked exactly
like last Sunday’s, the cream of tomato with rice tasted exactly like
the soup of a week ago, and so it went right down the menu, through
the fish and the broiled milk-fed chicken and the three vegetables and
the combination salad and the harlequin ice-cream to the demi-tasse
and the far too pliable crackers, which, aided by a square of yellow
cheese, ended the banquet. But it was good, that dinner, and especially
toothsome to fellows who for nearly a month had subsisted on a possibly
more appropriate but far plainer diet. Tom, as always, lost no time
in approaching the task at hand, nor wasted strength on conversation.
Where dining was concerned Tom’s was a one-track mind!
Clif and his father, however, found leisure for talking; leisure, too,
to regard the other occupants of the big, sunny room and to exchange
bows with a few of them. At a near-by table Walter Treat, his father
and mother and a kid brother were dining. Several others of Clif’s
acquaintances were also on hand, while, over by an open window, a
thin, somewhat sallow-looking man who ate alone glanced up and nodded
as he encountered Mr. Bingham’s eyes. “Rather an interesting chap I
ran into this morning,” said Mr. Bingham, responding to Clif’s mute
inquiry. “Cooper, I think his name is.”
“There’s a Cooper on the scrub team,” answered Clif. “Jack Cooper.
Maybe his father. Doesn’t look like Jack much, though.”
“Probably is, however. At least, I gathered that he’s staying at the
Inn more or less permanently. For that matter, son, you don’t look an
awful lot like your dad.”
“I don’t suppose I do,” said Clif. “I favor mother more, don’t I?”
Mr. Bingham nodded, thoughtfully studying his son’s face. Tom,
supposedly deaf, burst into speech. “Heck, Clif, you and your father
are dead ringers, only you’ll never be as good looking as he is.”
Mr. Bingham laughed. “Thanks, Tom,” he said. “I appreciate that even
though I recognize it as rank flattery. When you reach forty you become
grateful for any kind word.”
“’S all right,” replied Tom stoutly. “I know what I’m talking about.
When we came in here all the girls, and the old dames, too, began to
sit up and take notice, and I’ll bet it wasn’t Clif that made ’em do
it, nor me either!”
Well, Mr. Bingham _was_ a fine-looking man, and if he was forty――or
nearly forty――you’d never have suspected it. Clif was very proud of his
father, and Tom’s compliment, even if a bit crude, pleased him. Looking
about the room he saw that Mr. Cooper’s gaze was directed toward their
table. The gaze was courteously but unhurriedly withdrawn the next
instant, and Clif tried to discover a resemblance between the lean,
pleasantly grave countenance and the round, freckled face of the second
nine catcher, and failed. Probably Jack Cooper, too, took after his
mother, he reflected.
After dinner, while Mr. Bingham smoked a short cigar on the porch
before taking his guests to ride, Walter Treat brought his father
and mother up and there were introductions all around. When they had
presently departed Mr. Bingham looked about searchingly. “Wonder where
that Cooper chap is,” he said. “Told him I’d like to have him meet you,
son, and he seemed quite anxious to. But he doesn’t appear to be about.”
“Maybe,” responded Clif, “he will be around when we get back, dad.” He
was far more concerned with the approaching automobile ride than with
meeting strangers, no matter how interesting the latter might seem to
his father. Tom, tilted back in a porch chair, was somnolent, but Clif
watched his father’s cigar and reflected that he had never seen one
which diminished more slowly. Eventually, though, Mr. Bingham arose
with a sigh and dropped the cigar over the railing.
“Well, boys, let’s go,” he said. “What part of the world do you want to
see to-day?”
It was after four when they returned to the Inn. The elusive Mr.
Cooper was not in sight, and presently Mr. Bingham said good-by and
sped away, the boys waving him out of sight before turning their steps
toward school. With a long sigh for the departed glories of the day,
Tom thrust an inquiring finger under his belt, “That was a great feed,
Clif,” he murmured.