A STRANGER LOOKS ON
The first team defeated Granleigh High School in a slow game marked
by many errors on both sides and then played Murray School and lost,
7 to 2. Murray had a field day with the Wyndham pitchers, knocking
Jeff Ogden out of the box in the third, by which time four markers
had been put on the scoreboard, and hitting Sam Erlingby so hard that
he, too, was wisely retired in the seventh. Although Murray made only
three runs off Sam, he yielded six hits and three passes and was only
saved from a worse fate by some really fast fielding at times. Sam was
a right-hander and had been offered on the supposition that, since
the enemy had severely punished Ogden, a left-hander, it would find a
starboard artist more difficult. But Murray showed that he could hit
them all, right or left, and gathered in thirteen hits in the process.
Bud Moore, who pitched the game out, didn’t escape unscathed, but he
managed to keep the clouts scattered and witnessed no tallies. Wyndham
looked feeble that afternoon as an offensive team, making but five hits
off the opposing pitcher, two of which were credited to Captain Leland.
Of Wyndham’s brace of runs, one was put across in the second inning
as a result of Wink Coles’ single, an error by shortstop and Hurry
Leland’s two bagger into right. The other tally didn’t materialize
until the ninth, when the home team attempted a rally and, after
Raiford had been thrown out at first, got Talbott and Van Dyke on
second and first. Cobham, the Blue’s catcher, bunted along the first
base line and made the second out, advancing the runners, however.
Pierce, batting for Bud Moore, drove a liner at second baseman, who
fumbled long enough for Talbott to score. Van Dyke, though, was beaten
by a few inches in his race for the plate, and the rally flivvered.
It was on the Monday following the Murray game that the second took
the first into camp in a six-inning contest by a score of 6 to 5.
The first’s line-up was rather patched and was subjected to frequent
alterations, but still it was the first team just the same and the
second derived much satisfaction from that victory. Frost pitched for
the scrub and did a good job, getting into many bad holes only to pull
himself out by cool-headedness and canny judgment. Every one on Mr.
Wadleigh’s roster got into action at one time or another, and Clif made
his first hit against an opposing team in the eighth when he smashed
a red-hot liner past Tyson, at third. Tom was again tried at the last
corner and made two assists, but his only trip to the plate resulted in
a fly-out to shortstop. Needless to say, he forgot all that Tusks had
tried to teach him as soon as the first ball had been pitched to him
and his batting form reverted to his famous imitation of Clouter Hearn.
Reminded of this by his fellow members of the Triumvirate that evening,
Tom was at first impatient and then dejected. “It’s no use,” he
declared finally in extenuation. “I mean well, but I just can’t get the
hang of it.”
“But you don’t remember,” said Clif. “You start all right, and then you
forget and back away and crouch. You don’t keep your mind on the job,
Tom.”
“Well, why won’t he let me hit the way I want to? Heck, if I ever coach
a baseball team――”
“That’s got nothing to do with it,” interrupted Clif. “Tusks may be all
wrong, but he’s the boss and it’s up to you to do what he tells you to
do.”
“But I forget!”
“You mustn’t forget,” Loring assured him earnestly. “When you forget
it’s because you’re not doing as you agreed to do. You’re not putting
your mind to work. Now what were you thinking about when you were at
bat this afternoon?”
“Thinking about?” Tom ran his fingers through his hair in puzzlement.
“Why, part of the time I was wondering what Moore was going to shoot at
me, and part of the time I was wondering if I could hit it, and part
of――”
“There! That’s just it! You had the wrong thoughts all the while. You
should have been concentrating on the thought: I am going to hit it!
You shouldn’t have wondered about anything. Wonder means doubt, and you
don’t doubt, you _know_!”
“Oh, I do, do I? Is that so? Well, let me tell you I didn’t know!
And you wouldn’t have known, either. That guy’s got a mean hook, and
if you don’t know when it’s coming you’re a gone coon! Besides that,
suppose I’d done all that concentrating you talk about; all that
‘I-know-I’m-going-to-hit-it’ stuff; how would that have helped me to
stand up-close to the plate and put my feet together and all the rest
of it? Huh?”
Tom was a dull student, and frequently very trying to Loring and
Clif. Much valuable time was spent in pounding the philosophy of the
“Work and Will” idea into his marble dome. To-night, as on several
preceding occasions, Tom agreed to mend his ways and promised to “trot
out the old Will Power.” So far no appreciable results had accrued to
the Triumvirate from its campaign of “Work and Will,” but, as Loring
pointed out, a week was too short a time to prove anything. Besides,
it was probable that none of them was yet concentrating and willing as
effectively as he might with more practice. It doubtless took some time
to warm up a fellow’s will power and get it “hitting on all six.”
Loring attended practice nearly every day. With the excellent Wattles
as chauffeur, the chair was wheeled across to the second team diamond
and installed in a sunny corner near the end of the stand and about
opposite first base. It was a location from which Loring could watch
the plate and the infield equally well, and its one disadvantage was
due to the frequency with which foul balls invaded it. Loring himself
was not at all troubled by that disadvantage, but Wattles was on
tenterhooks constantly. Wattles was almost certain that he could catch
a baseball if it came within reach, and there were moments when he
would have welcomed a chance to prove his ability. But there were many
more moments when he devoutly prayed that no such opportunity would
be afforded him. Wattles was a dignified person, and the fear that he
might, in spite of what was almost a conviction to the contrary, fail
to make the catch and thus lose his dignity and become a laughing stock
filled him with dread. Every time a ball glanced from a bat Wattles
shot a hand to the brim of his black derby, stiffened with suspense and
prepared to sell his life dearly.
During practice Loring had many visitors. He was well liked and
thoroughly respected. There was, however, in spite of his friendly
countenance, something about him that deterred merely casual
acquaintances from claiming the privileges of friendship. Mr. Wadleigh
always walked over and talked a moment, and so did several of the
others from the bench. Frequently one or more friends would occupy the
bench at his elbow and keep him company during part of the practice.
Later, when he and Wattles followed the second team to the first team
diamond, Coach Connover approached for a few words, or Hurry Leland or
Pat Tyson paused a moment coming off the field. To-day, the Thursday
after the Murray game, a warm, sparkling mid-April afternoon, a
stranger to Loring seated himself a few feet away on the first row of
the stand. He was a fairly tall, bonily-thin man attired in a loose
suit of gray tweed that had undoubtedly seen service and seemed somehow
to have gained honor and distinction in the process. Loring’s glance of
uninterested inquiry became a somewhat prolonged study. The stranger’s
face, like his body, was thin, with high cheek bones and a rather more
than adequate nose. The skin was sallow, pronouncedly so, yet did not
suggest unhealthiness. Nor did the many tiny wrinkles about the eyes
and around the corners of the mouth suggest age. The stranger was,
Loring decided, no more than thirty-six, or, well, thirty-eight at
the most. It was difficult to guess with certainty the age of those
wiry, thin men. This particular specimen looked as if he had seen a
good deal with those bright, brown, half-veiled eyes, and Loring could
imagine him looking quite as much at home on the back of a swaying
camel or huddled in an Arctic shelter as he did here, leaning forward,
slowly revolving a cane between his knees with thin, brown hands and
gravely surveying the efforts of Jack Cooper to get a hit. The stranger
interested Loring from the first glance, and he found himself hoping
that the other would presently offer an excuse for conversation. But
that hope seemed due to frustration, for the minutes passed and the
sallow man watched the scene in silence. More than once, after that
first look, Loring stole glances at his neighbor, something which,
since the neighbor was looking away from him, was possible without
detection. After one such glance Loring turned back puzzled by the
absurd thought that, despite utter dissimilarity, there was――was――well,
there was something about the stranger that reminded Loring of Wattles!
Of course it was absurd, for when he stole a look at Wattles there was
no single feature of the latter which in the slightest manner suggested
any feature about the stranger on the stand; and Loring’s fancy was
dissipated. But three minutes later, the stranger proving more of an
attraction for him than batting practice at the net, and, Loring having
stolen another surreptitious glance out of the corners of his eyes, the
fancy returned with full force. Yes, sir, while you couldn’t put your
finger on the point of resemblance――although resemblance was too strong
a word for it――you just couldn’t look at the stranger without recalling
Wattles! It was mighty funny!
Presently the second was called across to the other field, and Wattles
folded up the seat which he had occupied, hung it on the handle-bar of
the chair and followed sedately with his charge. The stranger arose,
paused to fill a pipe with tobacco and made his way from the stand in
the wake of the wheel chair. Once out of his hearing, Loring spoke
eagerly to Wattles.
“Did you notice the man sitting near us, Wattles?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Wattles.
“Do you know who he is?”
“No, Mr. Loring, I can’t say that I do.”
“You can’t say? Well, geewhillikins, Wattles, you either know him or
you don’t know him! Which is it?”
Wattles cleared his throat deprecatively. “Beg pardon, sir. What I
meant to convey was that I do not know the gentleman’s identity but
that it’s barely possible I’ve seen him before, sir.”
“You have? Where?”
“That’s just it, Mr. Loring. I can’t seem to recall the occasion.”
“You’ve probably seen him around here then.”
“Quite likely, sir,” agreed Wattles obligingly.
“Well, but――but do you think you did see him here? Or was it somewheres
else?”
“I fancy it might have been somewheres else, sir.”
“Wattles, you certainly are the prize package!”
“Thank you, sir.”
The subject of this discourse chose a seat high in the third base
stand, and Loring’s opportunities for further observation were few
since Loring and Wattles were well beyond first base and across the
diamond. In the course of the five innings that ensued――the game went
only to five since the first had a batting fest in the fourth and
delayed matters――Loring forgot the interesting stranger. Recalling him
again during supper, he decided to ask information of Tom and Clif, but
other matters sidetracked his curiosity.
On Friday the stranger again made his way along the length of the stand
and again established himself close to where Loring’s chair was placed
on the grass. Again, save for a gravely smiling glance of recognition
on the stranger’s part, nothing passed between them. The man seemed
to like to watch the practice, and yet Loring would have sworn that
he was fairly ignorant of baseball; little puzzled frowns, momentary
expressions of blankness convinced him of that. Once Loring caught
Wattles observing their neighbor intently, and later he asked: “Well,
solved the mystery, Wattles?”
Wattles shook his head. “No, sir.”
“Still think you’ve seen him before, though?”
Wattles hesitated. Then he answered evasively: “Well, Mr. Loring, it’s
hard to say. One encounters so many persons, sir. And sometimes a
likeness deceives one, sir. Oh, very frequently.”
“What I like especially in you, Wattles,” said Loring dryly, “is your
frankness of speech, your――your communicativeness, I might say. One has
only to suggest a subject to you, and you fairly burst into artless
prattle. Nothing――er――secretive about you, eh, Wattles?”
Wattles merely coughed.
On Saturday rain descended in torrents from eight in the morning until
well after eleven, and the first team’s trip to Minster to play the
Minster High School team was abandoned. Although the rain ceased before
noon the field was too wet for practice, and so first and second team
players found themselves with an unexpected holiday confronting them.
A few scrub nines did slip and paddle around on the diamonds that
afternoon, but the regulars sought other forms of recreation. There was
a Douglas Fairbanks picture at the movie theater, and, after Tom had
excitedly broached the scheme, he and Clif and Loring――without Wattles
in attendance――went. Tom pushed the wheel chair, and, fearing to be
late, whizzed Loring along at a reckless clip, with Clif reminding
him of the existence of such things as speed laws. Loring might well
have experienced nervousness during that journey had it not been
that the sidewalks for most of the way were practically deserted. In
fact, the only person encountered between the entrance of East Hall
and what Tom called “the heart of the metropolis” was Loring’s sallow
and fascinating stranger. They passed him near the Inn, strolling
imperturbably along with pipe in mouth, swinging his crook-handled
cane. That tweed suit looked baggier about the knees than ever, but
it still challenged criticism. As he passed he darted a twinkle of
recognition at Loring before his gaze moved on to Tom, but made no
other sign. For an instant Loring thought he was going to speak or at
least nod, and he was disappointed when he didn’t. He turned eagerly
to Clif for information, and Clif, who had recognized the passer-by,
supplied what he could.
“That’s Mr. Cooper,” said Clif. “Jack Cooper’s father. You know Jack.”
Loring found the information disappointing, and his interest in the
stranger waned. One simply couldn’t associate romance with the second
nine’s catcher, round-faced, freckled and eminently commonplace. After
a moment he asked: “Is he living here?”
“Must be,” was the answer. “I saw him dining at the Inn more than a
week ago.”
“Oh,” said Tom, “is that the man your father pointed out? I remember
him. But, listen, why doesn’t Jack look after him? I’ve seen him
mooning around alone two or three times. He passed me on the drive the
other day, and blamed if he didn’t look like he was downright lonesome!”
Further pursuit of the subject was prevented by their arrival at the
theater, but that evening, recalling it, Loring announced to Wattles:
“Well, another mystery is solved, Wattles. That man we were wondering
about turns out to be the father of one of the fellows, the heavy chap
who plays catcher for the second team, Jack Cooper.”
Wattles paused in the act of smoothing Loring’s light coat preparatory
to putting it away and turned an expressionless countenance to the
speaker. “He might be, sir,” he said after a space.
“Might be! Hang it, Wattles, I’m telling you he is.”
“Very good, sir.”
Monday turned out to be no sort of day on which to watch practice
inactively, and Loring remained indoors save for a brief journey to
the post office to mail some letters. By Tuesday noon, however, the
chill east wind of the previous day had departed, and the wheel chair
was rolled again to the second team field, being overtaken and passed
on the way by a violently careening Ford from the seat of which Mr.
Wadleigh waved a greeting. Practice was well along when Loring, from
his accustomed place behind first base, saw Mr. Cooper enter the stand
and, although row after row of empty benches intervened, make his way
to a seat some two yards distant from the chair. Loring experienced a
return of the former interest, despite the fact that the stranger was
no longer a mystery, and quite brazenly smiled a greeting. Mr. Cooper
smiled back and nodded. No, it was more than a nod, it was a very
courteous bow. But the gentleman didn’t speak, and Loring, regretting
his overture, turned his gaze hastily away. Some minutes passed
during which the rap of bat against ball and the cries of the players
constituted the only sound. Then, at last, a pleasant voice came from
beyond the railing.