TOM CONFIDES
After that, while they walked up the curving drive, between rows of
leafless trees, Tom was unusually silent. Nearing West Hall, Clif
suggested continuing on and paying a call on Loring, but Tom shook his
head. “Let’s go up to your room,” he said.
Number 17 looked out on the court formed by the old building, known as
Middle Hall, and the two wings, East and West, and even at midday was
none too well lighted. Now, at half-past four, it was decidedly gloomy,
and Clif would have turned on the light had not Tom protested. “Lights
hurt a fellow’s eyes,” he said. “Besides, I like twilight, anyway.”
“Sounds so,” said Clif. “You’re as cheerful as an undertaker!” Walter
was still absent and the window-seat and the floor beside it were
littered with Sunday newspapers. Tom swept them from the cushion and
stretched himself out and Clif drew up a chair so that he might rest
his feet beside Tom’s. Across the court, the wall of East Hall was in
purple shadow. On the slates of the roof three pigeons walked pompously
to and fro, cooing softly, while below, in the shrubbery, sparrows
chirped in noisy argument.
“Fathers,” observed Tom after a moment, “are a great institution,
aren’t they?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” answered Clif. “But how do you mean?”
Tom didn’t elucidate. Instead: “Say, remember how mad you were with me
the day you came?” he asked. “You were saying good-by to your father
down there at the car and I was sitting on the steps. Remember? You
wanted to fight.”
“Why not?” inquired Clif warmly. “You sat there, grinning like a Hindoo
idol, and told me to go and have a cry and I’d feel better. Of course I
wanted to fight!”
“Sure,” said Tom soberly. “I don’t blame you. I did act sort of rotten.”
“You sure did,” agreed Clif, but without animus. “And I certainly did
dislike you a lot. But, of course, you were funking a date with Alick,
who was going to tell you whether you were to beat it back home or
stick around awhile――”
“Yes, but that wasn’t the reason I was nasty,” interrupted Tom. “I
said, that night in recreation room, that maybe I’d tell you about it
some time, and I guess I’d like to do it now. I feel sort of melancholy
and――and confiding. Maybe I’ve got a touch of indigestion. Or maybe
it’s the effect of the twilight.”
“Let’s light up and forget it,” offered Clif cheerfully.
“No, I want to talk. Listen, Clif. The real reason I was nasty that
time was because I was――was――heck, I don’t know just how to put it.
Guess I was sort of jealous.”
“Jealous!” echoed Clif.
“Well, envious then. I could see what corking pals you and your dad
were, and what a lot you thought of each other and how you were both
kind of choked up about saying good-by, and it made me feel like the
dickens. You see, I never had any father, Clif.”
“Never had――” gasped Clif.
“None that I can remember,” said Tom gloomily. “He――went away when I
was five years old.”
“Oh,” murmured Clif. “I wondered. You never spoke of him, although you
did tell me that your mother was dead and that you had a guardian.”
“Mother died when I was about ten. From what I can make out we’re a
queer lot, us Kembles. As far as I know I haven’t a relation living,
and about all I’ve learned of the family is what old Winslow has told
me; and he’s not much of a talker. He’s a lawyer; one of the sort who
hates to say anything unless you pay ’im a fee first. But I do know
that my mother was born in this country and my father in England. He
met her over here and they were married. He had something to do with
cotton; represented an English firm and traveled around for them.
Mother traveled with him. I was born in Mobile, Alabama. Then, five
years later, my dad up and beat it. Of course I don’t know the rights
of it, Clif. Mother never spoke of him more than a couple of times that
I can remember, and Winslow didn’t know him. I suppose he was a rotter.
Still――”
Tom relapsed into silence. Then, after a moment or two he went on. “I
was pretty fond of my mother, Clif, although I was only a kid when she
died, but when I look back and remember things it seems to me that
perhaps it wasn’t all his fault; my father’s I mean. A fellow hates
like the dickens to say anything against his mother, and――well, I’m
not going to. She was always a corker to me. But what I mean is――well,
father might have found her trying. Heck, I don’t know! I ought to hate
him, and sometimes I do, but maybe he had some excuse for lighting out.”
“He never came back?” asked Clif.
“No. I don’t know whether mother ever heard from him again, but Winslow
says he provided decently for her and me. Put some money in a bank,
you know, and mother received so much every month. She was sort of
extravagant, though, I guess, because a couple of years before she died
she tried to get hold of the――whatyoucallit――principal. That’s when
old Winslow came into it. She got him to try to get the money for her.
He didn’t succeed, but he kept on trying, and he was still at it when
mother died. That’s how she came to make him my guardian. She thought
he was the eel’s whiskers.”
“I’ve heard,” said Clif when Tom had been silent a space, “that the
English are great folks for traveling about. Englishmen especially.
Maybe your father was like that, Tom. Wasn’t contented to stay put, you
know.”
“I’m pretty sure of it,” answered Tom. “I’m that way myself, worse
luck. I can’t hear a train whistle or a steamship toot without getting
a thrill, I can be happy for hours looking at a map and I never see a
road that I don’t feel my feet itching to find out what’s at the end of
it. Ever feel that way? Well, I guess I get all that from my father.
Oh, I could forgive him for leaving my mother, because, as I’ve told
you, there might have been some excuse, but what I can’t forgive him
is not showing up or sending some word after she died. You’d think he
might be at least faintly interested in me, Clif. That’s what I’ve got
in for him, and I’d like mighty well to see him some day just long
enough to tell him what I think of him!”
“But, Tom, doesn’t it seem probable that――that he’s dead? It’s――how
long?――eleven years, isn’t it, since he went off?”
“Yes, he may be dead. I suppose he is. That is, sometimes I do, and
other times I’m plumb certain he isn’t. Winslow wanted to spend a lot
of money and find out about him; who he was and what had become of
him; but I wouldn’t let him. Told him if he did he’d have to spend his
own money. He wasn’t keen for that. Oh, I don’t really care now. I’ve
got along without a father for nearly twelve years and I guess I can
keep on. Only――only sometimes――when I see other fellows with theirs――”
Tom relapsed into silence. Clif, searching for words that would express
the sympathy he felt without offending the other’s pride, said nothing.
Presently Tom broke the silence with: “Well, that’s that. Sorry to
have bored you, old scout, but I rather wanted you to know the real
reason why I acted so like a bounder that day. I’ve wanted to tell you
ever since, but a fellow sort of hesitates to talk about his private
affairs.”
“I’m very glad you did tell me,” answered Clif through the dusk. He
wanted to say more, but again the right words eluded him. After a
moment or two Tom swung his feet to the floor with a bang.
“Heck, let’s have some light,” he exclaimed. “This is enough to give a
fellow the willies!”
On Tuesday the second team came into official existence, and Mr.
Wadleigh took charge as coach. Mr. Wadleigh lived in Greenville, some
twenty miles distant, and made the daily pilgrimage to Freeburg in a
dilapidated Ford car whose mudguards were so loose that they flapped
up and down like wings and gave the battered vehicle the appearance
of flying. As Mr. Wadleigh seldom drove under thirty-five miles an
hour――his record between the two villages was alleged to be thirty-two
minutes――the illusion was enhanced. Many years before he had played
baseball on the Wyndham team. No one could discover that he had
distinguished himself, however. He was in business of some sort in
Greenville――real estate, rumor had it, and for several years past had
donated his services to his old school, doubtless at some sacrifice. He
was a tall, awkward-looking man of perhaps thirty-three or -four years
with a very prominent nose set in a long face. He was rather bald, a
fact especially noticeable because he was never seen wearing a hat.
Some held that the hair had been blown from the front and top of his
head by the wind during his wild, careening flights over the road. He
constantly wore an amiable smile which exposed a number of long teeth
below a ragged mustache of a faded brown. That smile, however, was
not to be taken――no pun is intended――at its face value. It persisted
even when “Tusks” was not pleased with things. The nickname implied no
disrespect, for, while Mr. Wadleigh was not beautiful to look upon, nor
possessed graces of manner, he was, in school parlance, “a wow of a
coach.”
Tusks took over twenty-four candidates from Coach Connover, conducted
them to the second-team diamond, looked them over in thoughtful, if
smiling, silence and set them to work. Three days later, still smiling
amiably, he dismissed seven of the twenty-four. Through some, to them,
inexplicable miracle, Clif and Tom survived the cut. The next day,
Saturday, the second shortened practice and watched the first play six
innings of its game with the local High School nine. The day was a
miserable one from a baseball viewpoint, with cloudy skies and a brisk
north wind, a day far too chill to permit of good playing had either
of the contesting teams been capable of it, which they apparently were
not. The five pitchers, of which three wore the dark blue of Wyndham,
were hit hard at all times, and hits coupled with numerous errors and
many misplays which didn’t appear in the error column fattened the
score of each side. The bulk of the audience survived the last of the
seventh inning, by which time the home team had a five-run lead, but
after that it disintegrated rapidly. When, in the first half of the
ninth, High School staged a rally only a corporal’s guard of devoted
adherents remained in the stand to witness it.
Erlingby, who had taken Ogden’s place in the box for Wyndham at
the beginning of the eighth inning, started out with a pass to the
visitor’s third baseman. He followed that with a wild throw in an
effort to catch the runner off the bag, and the High School player
went all the way to third. That worried Erlingby and heartened the
visitors. The next man up laid a slow bunt down on the first base line
and Erlingby handled it. The man on third faked a dash to the plate,
delaying the pitcher just long enough to make his hurried throw to Van
Dyke, at first, too late. The High School left fielder hit to short
right and scored the first runner, the latter beating Coles’ shot to
the plate by an eyelash. A pinch hitter batted for the next on the
list and cracked the first ball pitched into deep left. Talbott made
a pretty running catch, but another run tallied. The enemy’s catcher
fouled off four balls before he straightened one out right across
second base. That brought in the third score of the inning. In trying
to reach second on Greene’s peg to the rubber, however, the Freeburg
catcher was caught a yard off the cushion, and, with two down and the
pitcher up, Wyndham breathed with relief. A second pinch hitter took
the pitcher’s place, though, and several bad moments ensued. Erlingby
failed twice to cut the corners and then scored a strike on a long
foul down the left base-line. Another ball, and then a fast one across
the platter and a second foul-strike. A third foul, back of the plate,
just escaped Cobham’s glove. Then the batsman crashed against the next
delivery and drove it high and far into left field. Once again Sid
Talbott won applause from the remaining handful of spectators, this
time by sprinting far to his right and getting under the ball just as
it came to earth, foul by more than a yard.
That ended the rally and the game, giving Wyndham the contest, 13 to 11.
The following Monday the second team faced the first and wallowed
through five innings of horrible baseball. Mr. Wadleigh smiled through
it all, but none of his charges labored under the mistaken assumption
that his smile denoted approval. About every second nine player made
at least one error that afternoon. Burden, playing third base through
three of the chapters, made four! Jones, who succeeded him, did a
little better, although he managed to make himself accountable for one
of the nine runs accumulated by the enemy. The one thing that kept
the first from piling up twice nine runs was their inability to run
bases. They had no difficulty in hitting Frost and Purdy, but, once on
first, they didn’t seem to know what to do. Purdy caught runners off
five times, and in the fourth inning Leland and Raiford couldn’t decide
which of them was entitled to possession of second base, and pending
a decision Carr tagged them both and then, to make certain, threw to
third. Twice, too, headless running spelled disaster for the first,
once when Al Greene sought to score from third on a bunt to pitcher and
once when Pat Tyson, a slow runner, tried to stretch his single into a
double and was caught ten feet from second.
Neither of the second team’s pitchers showed anything that day but
willingness. Frost, a left-hander, went well for one inning and then
became wild, allowing four hits, passing one man and landing the
sphere against Cobham’s ribs. Purdy, who took over the job with two
on bases, retired the side without further damage, but Billy only
possessed a couple of good curves and a slow ball and after the first
team batters got acquainted with him in the fourth inning he was hit
hard.
Tusks tried out most of his talent before the fifth inning was over,
and both Clif and Tom saw service. Tom played second base for half an
inning and Clif center field. Tom made a good stop of a hard bounder
and then fumbled it long enough to let the runner reach first safely.
Clif had no chances. Neither of the two reached the plate with a bat.
Afterwards, in the gymnasium, Mr. Wadleigh astounded all hands by
smilingly remarking that although they needed practice they had the
making of a fine team. At first they suspected him of bitter sarcasm,
but later they agreed that he had meant just what he had said, and they
hoped hard that he was right!