TOM HITS A “JOLLY CRASH”
They tried to give the appearance of persons hurrying to the station
to catch a train, but, since Tom was hatless and frequently applied a
handkerchief to his flushed face, the imitation was far from perfect.
When their course took them from the main thoroughfare Clif cast a look
behind and announced that the pursuit had ceased, and they slowed to a
walk, Tom puffing considerably. The station was in sight, a short two
blocks distant, and as there was plenty of time they proceeded slowly,
striving to regain composure before facing the eyes of their fellows.
“Say,” asked Clif while Tom paused to examine his countenance in a
window, “what the dickens did you do that for, anyway?”
“It was a patriotic duty,” replied Tom. “Didn’t you hear the nasty
cracks that goof was making? Besides, I’ve always hated those idiotic
caps that stick on the back of your head like a plaster!”
“Well, if you’re going to light into every fellow who criticizes our
team,” Clif grumbled, “you’ll have to travel alone. Gosh, you might
have started a regular riot!”
“Well, I didn’t. And anyway that hunk of cheese will keep his thoughts
to himself for awhile, I guess.”
On the train Tom sought a water cooler and performed first aid to his
face. But he did not, of course, escape observation, and, while he was
reticent and Clif vague, Jack, not having been bound to secrecy, gladly
entertained an enthralled audience with a dramatic and highly colored
narrative. Regret at having missed the event was loudly expressed on
all sides. Pat Tyson, of the first team, was plunged into a dejection
that lasted all the way home. Admiring friends clustered about Tom and
gloated over the evidence displayed by his battered face, and a few
were inclined to be rather peevish because he had not tipped them off
to the fracas beforehand. It was generally conceded that it would be an
excellent plan for him to remain out of sight of Mr. Connover, who, if
a coach, was also a faculty member, and so Tom settled himself as far
as possible from that gentleman, with his back turned, and played it
safe. Yet luck was against him, for when the hour’s journey was almost
over Steve arose and strolled to the water cooler at the rear of the
car. There, having appeased his thirst and exchanged a few words with
Al Greene, across the aisle, his glance wandered to Tom. Tom was gazing
absorbedly from the window, and continued to so gaze until, thinking
that the coach had returned to his seat, he glanced about to make
certain. Whereupon Mr. Connover spoke solicitously.
“What’s the matter with your face, Kemble?” he asked.
Tom feigned surprise and passed an inquiring hand over it. “Must be
dirt, sir.”
“It doesn’t look like dirt.” Mr. Connover shook his head slowly.
“Rather looks as if you’d had some sort of an accident.” Clif, at Tom’s
side, gazed steadily at the brass knob on the car door.
“Oh!” said Tom, enlightenment in his voice. “That, you mean? Yes, sir,
I――I did have an accident, sort of.”
“Ran into something, perhaps?” asked the coach gravely.
“Yes, sir, I――ran into――something.”
“Hm, something rather hard, too, I’d say. Perhaps you turned a corner
too soon. If I were you, Kemble, I’d go to my room at once and fix that
up. You’ll find arnica helpful. And it might be a good idea to use some
talcum before going to supper.”
“He’s a good scout,” muttered Tom as the coach retired.
Although he followed the advice carefully, the result was not all
he had hoped for, and whenever during supper he glanced up――which
was infrequently, since he kept his head well down most of the
time――he invariably encountered winks and grins. Also, he was made
uncomfortable by the certainty that Old Brad, the Greek and Latin
instructor, presiding at Table 13, was studying him with a suspicious
eye. However, all’s well that ends well, and nothing unpleasant
came of his indiscretion. By the next morning, save for an area of
discoloration which no amount of powder would hide, his face was
normal. As for the similar spots on his ribs, those fortunately didn’t
show!
By the middle of the following week Mr. Cooper had become a frequent
caller on Loring after supper time. It became quite the usual thing
to find him there when Clif and Tom went over from dining hall, and
Clif, for one, was disappointed when he wasn’t there. Sometimes he
played chess with Loring or Tom, but he was no master of the game,
and generally the hour or more between supper and study hour was
spent in talk. Mr. Cooper still remained something of a mystery, for
none of the Triumvirate was rude enough to ask questions. They did
learn quite a little about him, but their information came to them
in unrelated fragments. They learned, for instance, that he had been
in many countries in many capacities; in South America, at Bahia and
Pernambuco; in India at Bombay and as far north as Kashmir; in Italy at
towns they had never before heard the names of; in England and France
and Germany and other countries as well. Once――that was before the
World War――he had served in Algiers with the French Armée Coloniale.
After the War, as he had told them earlier, he had been in the English
Army in Scotland. What had gone between they didn’t discover then,
although they knew he had seen service. Lately, how lately was not
established, he had been in British Columbia; he referred to it as
“B.C.” and confused Tom horribly. These facts appeared casually in the
course of reminiscences. He never appeared to be trying to impress
them with his experiences. Something reminded him of an incident, and
he told it carelessly but always interestingly. His very manner of
dismissing a whole glamorous land with a word or a phrase was in itself
fascinating to the audience. But he was not always reciting yarns.
More frequently he was listening to the doings of the boys, chuckling
over the funny happenings of the day or giving grave attention to
their problems. He showed no preference for any one of them, although
he and Loring, seeing each other nearly every day at the field, had
attained to an intimacy not wholly shared by Tom or Clif. Sometimes
Clif received the impression that Mr. Cooper laid more store by Tom’s
interest or applause than on his or Loring’s; but that was probably
because Tom had shown himself more difficult. That Tom was gradually
growing to share his companions’ hearty liking for Mr. Cooper was soon
apparent. And that respect went with liking was proved by something
which happened one evening that week.
Tom had played a very good game at second base that afternoon, which,
since the former incumbent of the position, Stu Evans, had returned
to school two days before, was considered most fortunate. Stu wasn’t
yet in condition to play baseball, but he soon would be according to
report, and the Triumvirate were hoping――and willing――that Tom would
meanwhile prove his right to retain the position. But they realized
that he wouldn’t do so unless he improved his hitting considerably.
That was dwelt on this evening, and Tom grew quite pathetic over his
inability to get a hit off the first team pitchers. “That’s what’s
going to queer me,” he said sadly. “That fellow Evans doesn’t have to
play second any better than I do, because he’s got the edge on me when
it comes to batting.”
“What I can’t understand,” said Clif rather hopelessly, “is why you
don’t get onto yourself. Tusks shows you how to bat his way and you say
‘Yes, sir,’ and then go right on giving your famous impersonation of
Clouter Hogan, or whatever his silly name is!”
“My sainted Aunt Jerusha!” exclaimed Tom despairingly. “Haven’t I been
telling you that I’m mighty near worn out trying to remember to do like
Tusks says? I just can’t, that’s all! I get so balled up trying to
think what it is he wants that I can’t hit the ball, and then I forget
his way and swing like I’m used to swinging, and still I don’t hit it!
Heck, I’d――I’d do it if I could!”
Mr. Cooper said, in his quiet way: “Kemble, if I were you I’d stop
thinking about it entirely, and when it came my turn to bat to-morrow
I’d just step up and do it.”
“Huh?” ejaculated Tom.
Mr. Cooper smiled. “The quickest way to do a thing is to――_do_ it. Try
it to-morrow.”
Tom opened his mouth, closed it again, cast an inquiring glance at
Loring and relapsed into thoughtful, somewhat puzzled, silence. Loring
swung the conversation to another channel, and baseball was not
mentioned again that evening. During the quarter of an hour or so that
passed before the gong rang Tom was noticeably detached.
The next afternoon, at the field, Wattles said: “Mr. Kemble certainly
hit it on the nose that time, didn’t he, sir?” Wattles was acquiring
quite a baseball vocabulary. Loring started and looked around.
“What did you say about Tom?” he asked.
Wattles repeated his observation with relish, adding: “I fancy you
didn’t see it, sir. He took quite the approved stance and gave the ball
a jolly crash, Mr. Loring.”
“Probably you mean smash, Wattles. No, I didn’t see it, but I’m glad to
hear it. Do you mean that he stood up to the plate, like the others,
and didn’t crouch?”
“Absolutely, sir. I was quite surprised!”
Loring chuckled. “So I’d have been if I’d seen it. I was wondering
what’s happened to Mr. Cooper to-day. He has seemed so interested
in Tom’s try for second that I was sure he’d be out this afternoon.
Perhaps he thought it was going to rain. It did look like it awhile
back, but――――”
Loring’s ruminative flow was abruptly checked. Slim Scott had knocked a
foul into the air, and the descending ball was making straight for the
wheelchair. There was a desperate ejaculation from Wattles, his stool
fell backward and there was a loud _smack_ as the sphere struck his
cupped hands and――marvel of marvels――stayed there!
“Fine work!” exclaimed Loring gleefully. An audience of two score on
field and stand laughingly applauded, and Wattles, his long countenance
expressing mingled surprise and triumph, stepped forward and with a
sweep of his arm bowled the ball toward the pitcher. There was a sharp
exclamation of dismay from that youth as he sprang nimbly aside, and
the bounding missile sped on into the outfield.
“Well bowled, sir!” shouted Tom from the bench, joyously. “Oh, very
well bowled, sir!”
Wattles resumed his seat with dignity, resettled his disturbed derby,
wiped his hands with a handkerchief and tried very hard to look as if
nothing had happened. But he didn’t succeed, for the feat had left a
glow of exaltation on his countenance. He had faced the oft threatened
crisis, had met it, had won! There was, in fact, a new and strange
light in his eyes as he rubbed his tingling palms gently together, such
a light as may perhaps have shone in the eyes of Columbus as he first
sighted the shore of a new continent!
“Gee,” said Loring enviously, “I wish I could have caught that,
Wattles! Say, I’ll bet it felt good, didn’t it?”
Wattles cleared his throat. “Er――yes, sir, I think I may say that the
sensation was surprisingly agreeable.”
After that whenever a ball was pitched to a batsman in front of the net
Wattles became tense and expectant. But although fouls were frequent
they usually struck the hood of the net and not again was Wattles
allowed to experience the agreeable sensation.
When Tom made his second trip to the net Loring was sorrier than ever
that Mr. Cooper wasn’t on hand, for Tom behaved most remarkably.
Instead of standing away, with widespread feet, and crouching, he stood
straight, almost toeing the rubber. And instead of waving his bat
around continuously he kept it almost still. Doubtless Clouter Hearn
would have wept or gnashed his teeth had he been there to see! Having
disdainfully allowed the first offering to pass him, Tom met the next
one and hit it straight over second. A moment later he lifted a fly to
short left, and then, to complete a perfect exhibition, bunted nicely.
Scarcely crediting his eyes, Loring shouted his delight so loudly that
even Tom, making his way back from the plate, heard and waved. “What
do you think of that?” Loring demanded of Wattles. “He hasn’t hit like
that all season! Wasn’t that corking, Wattles?”
“Oh, quite, sir,” replied Wattles warmly. “He certainly poked out a
remarkably nice bingle, Mr. Loring.”
There was great rejoicing amongst the Triumvirate that evening, and
Clif spoke for all when he said: “Gee, I wish Mr. Cooper was here
with us!” But Mr. Cooper didn’t appear and so didn’t hear Tom’s frank
acknowledgment of indebtedness to him.
“You see,” he explained earnestly, “I got to thinking over what he said
last night; about the right way to do a thing being to _do_ it, you
know. Say, there’s a whole lot in that, fellows. He said a mouthful!
Well, I got to thinking about it, as I said before, and I just made up
my mind that I’d quit all the funny business, all the psychology stuff
and the ‘I-Will’ rot, and――”
“Do you mean,” demanded Loring in pained tones, “that you didn’t――didn’t
have your mind on――”
“You bet I didn’t,” answered Tom triumphantly. “I didn’t use my mind
at all. I didn’t think about anything! I just stepped out there and
walloped the old apple!”
“But you must have subconsciously determined――”
“I didn’t even think of the old subconscious,” declared Tom brutally.
“I tell you I kept clear of all that stuff. I――”
“Hold on a minute,” laughed Clif. “Just awhile ago you said you ‘made
up your mind to quit all the funny business.’”
“Huh?” said Tom blankly. “Well, but, hang it, that was last night!
To-day I didn’t make up my mind to anything! I didn’t have any mind!
That’s why I came across, I’m telling you.”
But Loring was smiling again. “It’s perfectly simple,” he explained.
“You made up your mind last night what you were going to do to-day. So,
of course, you didn’t have to think any more about it this afternoon.
See what I mean? You’ve got your will power working so perfectly now
that it’s good for twenty-four hours, Tom!”
“I have?” Tom looked startled at first, and then very proud. “Is that
how it was? Just like a clock, eh? I wind it up to-night and it runs
until to-morrow night? Say, that’s great! I always suspected I had a
grand little mind!”
“Never mind your grand little mind,” said Clif. “What we want to know
is whether you can keep it up. Hitting the ball, I mean, and hitting it
the right way.”
“Sure, I can! Heck, there’s no trick to it after you learn how.”
“Still, I noticed you got only one hit off Sam Erlingby in three times
up.”
“What of it? That hit was a humdinger, wasn’t it? Tyson didn’t get
within three feet of it! The other times Sam fooled me with a slow one
once when I was up, and then Tusks told me to bunt and Sam kept them
all low the next time. Heck, that’s no――no criticism!”
“You mean criterion, I suppose,” said Clif, “but never mind. Just you
keep it up, Tom, and Stu Evans will have to whistle for his job. I
don’t care an awful lot for that chap, anyway. It was sort of hard
luck, his getting banged up like that, but he shouldn’t have been
joy-riding with Cox. Any one could see that Cox couldn’t drive a car!
You keep right on winding up the old will power every night, Tom, and
you’ll be a ball player yet!”
“Is that _so_?” asked Tom with stinging sarcasm.