WATTLES IS CARELESS
The Broadmoor game brought the first week of June to an end. Extremely
warm weather held New England, and warm weather, as usual, produced
a let-up of scholastic ambition in many cases. Tom, for one, found
studying more difficult than ever, and for the third time that
year received a grave warning from Mr. Wyatt, the English teacher.
Remembering only too well what had occurred on one previous occasion,
Tom braced up for several days and, with many protests and groans,
labored back into Alick’s good graces. But it required the assistance
and encouragement of Clif and Loring to get him there, and it was the
Triumvirate rather than Tom who succeeded. With final examinations
impending, it was no time, as Loring pointed out, to get penalized.
Loring was getting a great deal of enjoyment out of life those days.
That discussion with Coach Connover had led to others. Steve, although
he was perhaps never swayed by Loring’s views, seemed to find the
boy’s theories and judgments interesting. It was at his suggestion
that Loring’s chair was rolled to the end of the players’ bench of an
afternoon, and frequently the coach slipped into the seat beside him
and conversed. He was genuinely surprised when Loring confessed to
having witnessed but four baseball games previous to this spring and
to having obtained what knowledge of the game he possessed from the
perusal of every book on the subject that he had been able to lay hands
on and from watching the practice. In defense Loring said one day:
“Of course, Mr. Connover, I understand that I don’t really know much
about the game. A fellow can’t, I guess, unless he plays it. All I’ve
got is a lot of theoretical stuff. It――it’s mighty good of you not to
laugh at me, sir.”
“Laugh at you? Nonsense, Deane. What you call theoretical stuff is
perfectly sound, and I find it remarkable that you have absorbed so
much of it without――how shall I put it?――without more incentive. Here
you are, physically barred from playing, with a full knowledge of
baseball, and all around us are fellows actually engaged in playing
who don’t know the rules of the game, to say nothing of the strategy.
No, you don’t owe any one an apology for being able to talk baseball
intelligently, Deane, and if I don’t always agree with you it isn’t
because your theories are wrong but because no theory――no baseball
theory, at least――is always applicable in practice. A certain situation
may call for one procedure to-day and a different procedure to-morrow,
and that is largely because theories do not take into consideration
the personal equation. I am not, of course, speaking now of the few
hard and fast――er――tenets of the game; laws firmly established by
experience; but of the more hypothetical theories that we call ‘inside
stuff.’ Given a certain situation, Deane, the coach or the captain
has to measure the book theory against all sorts of conditions; the
opposing team’s reactions to certain moves, the abilities of his own
players to perform those moves, many things. A play that might succeed
in the early innings would fail in the later for any one of a number
of reasons. Even weather is a factor, and as for psychology――” Steve
sighed――“once a coach starts on psychology he’s lost!”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand that,” said Loring.
“Well, what I meant is that it’s so plaguy easy to overdo that part of
it, Deane, so easy to let psychology take the place of common sense.
Besides, what does any one know about it, after all? As a practical
aid to winning ball games it’s been a good deal overrated, I think.
Baseball writers like to use the phrase ‘the psychology of the game,’
but more than likely what they call a psychological manifestation――or
whatever they _do_ call it――if tracked down will resolve into some such
chance happening as a ball hitting a pebble and bounding wrong or a
pitcher having a twinge in his elbow as he lets the ball go. All the
psychology in the world won’t win a ball game, Deane, or lose one; not
unless we call psychology by a shorter name.”
“You mean――luck, sir?”
“Chance,” said Mr. Connover. “Chance, the finest baseball and football
general in the histories of the games!”
Wattles, seated slightly behind the wheel chair, listened in rapt
attention to the talks and discussions. There were times during a
debate on the proper play with which to meet a situation when Wattles
allowed himself a slight compression of the lips or a faintly eloquent
elevation of the eyebrows. Occasionally Wattles might express agreement
of a hearty character by placing an immaculate handkerchief to his
nose and trumpeting loudly. But he knew his place, did Wattles, and no
matter how vehemently he might agree or disagree with the contentions
of either the coach or Loring he kept his mouth tight. Perhaps it was
not easy, either, for Wattles, too, had delved into baseball lore,
reading word for word with Loring, and had formed opinions. Then, too,
Wattles had one advantage over Loring. Wattles had played the game!
He had never mentioned that lapse from dignity, nor had Loring ever
questioned. Wattles had had more than thirty minutes of thrills that
Saturday afternoon when, jokingly invited by the boy who clerked in
Burger’s drug store, he had cast discretion to the winds, removed part
of his apparel and chased about over a dusty field in pursuit of an
elusive ball. Afterwards he had regretted the affair. Or had he? He
was never quite certain as to that. Certain it was, however, that the
memory of those wild moments still brought a glow; and certain it was,
although Wattles sternly refused to acknowledge it, that if a like
opportunity occurred again he would once more forget his dignity and
his derby!
The first team was now down to seventeen members, its roster
including Ogden, Moore, Erlingby and Frost, pitchers; Cobham and
Risley, catchers; Van Dyke, Kemble, Tyson, Leland, Coles and Jackson,
infielders; Raiford, Greene, Talbott, Pierce and Lester, outfielders.
Two or three players who had survived the middle of the season had gone
to the second, displacing others or, after a brief test, retiring to
private life. The second kept sixteen men. On the Saturday afternoon
that the first had journeyed away to play Broadmoor the second had met
Freeburg High School in the first contest of its three game schedule
with outside teams and had met with a sound drubbing. The second was
woefully weak in its pitching department, and the opponent had batted
Purdy from the mound in the fourth inning and treated his successor no
more kindly. The only thing that prevented Coach Wadleigh from putting
in a third twirler in the seventh was the fact that there wasn’t any
third. Clif had a busy afternoon, running after balls until he quite
lost his breath in the seventh inning. He had six chances during the
engagement and accepted them all. If he could have done as well at bat
he would have completed a very satisfactory day’s work, but he didn’t
have much luck against the High School pitcher, getting but one hit,
a two-bagger. The other three times at the plate he struck out. Some
of his companions saw nothing deceptive in the pitcher’s offerings and
found them frequently, but he remained an enigma to Clif all through
the game except in the third when the latter managed to connect with a
fast one. Freeburg won in the end by the lop-sided score of 11 to 4.
During practice these days Clif was utterly deserted by his fellow
members of the Triumvirate, for Tom had long since departed to the
other diamond and now Loring, facetiously termed by Clif the Advisory
Council, spent his afternoons hobnobbing with Coach Connover. Even Mr.
Cooper’s lean brown face was no longer to be seen above the rail of
the first base stand, for he, too, had found the attractions of the
big team superior. Or perhaps it was his interest in Tom which caused
him to desert his old friends, for there was no blinking the fact that
he and Tom were getting to be as thick as thieves. Clif resented that
a little. It really didn’t make a bit of difference in the relations
between Tom and him, for the companionship Mr. Cooper offered was that
of an older person and didn’t in the least endanger Tom’s regard for
Clif, but the latter couldn’t help feeling a trifle jealous at times.
Why, it had got so of late that Tom went over to the Inn three or four
mornings a week! Clif didn’t like Mr. Cooper any the less, however;
indeed, those pangs of resentment were neither frequent nor profound,
and he did his best to discourage them. Bit by bit they were learning
more of Mr. Cooper. They knew now that he had served in the English
Army during the War, had been invalided twice, once for wounds and once
for gassing, and had been discharged with the rank of lieutenant. This
information came from Tom and was the result of his visits to the Inn.
Tom declared, also, that he was plumb certain Mr. Cooper had all sorts
of decorations, although he had neither heard of nor seen any of them.
As an indication of how the gentleman stood with Loring and Clif, it
may be mentioned that neither of them doubted for a moment that Tom was
correct in his surmise.
Mr. Cooper had made other friends and acquaintances beside the members
of the Triumvirate and had become a familiar figure about the school.
Mr. Clendennin, head of the Junior School, and “Lovey” McKnight, who
was the chemistry instructor and, incidentally, Clif’s advisor, were
among Mr. Cooper’s growing circle of intimates, while, to the surprise
of the Triumvirate, he was discovered by them one evening at supper
with Doctor Wyatt. That in itself was not so astounding, since “J. W.”
frequently acted as host to school visitors, but the fact that Mr.
Cooper had made no mention of the incident to them and went through
with it so casually perplexed the boys. Later, apprised by Tom that he
had been seen in dining hall, he merely said: “Oh, really? I thought
the food remarkably good.”
Curiosity prompted Clif to seek information of Mr. McKnight one
evening, and so, after the instructor’s opinion had been obtained on
a matter regarding the approaching examinations, Clif introduced the
subject of Mr. Cooper. “You know, sir, we like him a lot,” said Clif.
“It’s funny, but he doesn’t seem much older than we are. I mean he
isn’t――isn’t stodgy a bit; doesn’t try to make a chap realize that he’s
just a kid and doesn’t know much of anything. You know, some men _are_
like that!”
The last sentence was added defensively in response to Lovey’s smile.
“Yes, I guess they are,” Lovey agreed. “And I can easily see that
Cooper wouldn’t be. I found him very interesting and likable, too,
Clif.”
“Yes, sir.” Clif hesitated. “He didn’t tell you―― I mean, you don’t
happen to know why he’s here, sir?”
“Here? In Freeburg? Why, no, he didn’t say. And I didn’t ask him. In
fact, it didn’t occur to me, Clif. But why shouldn’t he be here?”
“I suppose there isn’t any reason why he shouldn’t,” laughed Clif,
“only it seems sort of a dead place to _live_ in. I mean to say, if you
hadn’t some _reason_ for doing it, sir, you wouldn’t hit on this place
as a――a residence, now would you?”
“I wouldn’t,” agreed the instructor, “but another man might. I could
imagine a chap who was looking for the quiet life in an attractive
village being quite satisfied with Freeburg. The Inn isn’t so bad,
Clif, and you’ve got to own that this part of the country is mighty
pretty in spring. Perhaps Mr. Cooper is doing some writing or――well,
reading. I understand there are still a few in this country who
sometimes read.”
“I don’t think it’s that, though,” pondered Clif. “Tom goes to see him
pretty often, sir, and he says Mr. Cooper hasn’t many books in his
room. Awhile ago he borrowed one from Loring Deane, a book on baseball.”
“Well, he will doubtless tell us if he wants us to know, Clif. After
all,” he added with a twinkle, “it’s rather more his affair than ours.”
“Yes, of course,” Clif flushed slightly. “I guess you think I’m sort of
cheeky, sir, but――”
“No,” Mr. McKnight laughed, “I just think that you’re a whole lot like
the rest of us, Clif; that is, extremely curious about things that
don’t really concern us. That is a lamentable feature, old chap, of our
national character.”
So Clif departed better informed on the national character, but with
no new information regarding Mr. Cooper.
Yet new information was forthcoming. From Mr. McKnight’s study in West
Hall Clif made his way, through the dim corridor of Middle, to East
and down the stairs to Loring’s room on the first floor. Mr. Cooper,
Tom, Loring and Wattles were on hand when he entered in the middle of a
debate on Wyndham’s chance to win from Horner Academy in the boat races
to be held a few days later. Wattles, of course, was not taking part
in the discussion, being busy in a corner of the room with a bottle of
odorless cleanser and a couple of dozen of Loring’s neckties, but he
looked as if ready to supply an opinion if it was asked for. Wattles in
the past eight months had become an ardent Wyndhamian and was firmly
convinced that the Dark Blue could whip anything on land or water; or,
discounting the future, in the air, for that matter!
This was an election year, and the newspapers were giving much space to
the impending national conventions. Loring was greatly interested in
politics, a subject which bored Tom supremely, and after the boat races
had been exhausted Loring asked: “Who are you going to vote for for
President, Mr. Cooper?”
Mr. Cooper smiled a little. “I can tell you which of the candidates I
fancy I’d vote for if I were going to vote,” he replied.
“If you were going―― But do you mean that you aren’t, sir?” Loring
sounded outraged. “Why, don’t you think that every citizen――”
“Absolutely, Loring! But, you see, I’m not a citizen.”
“How do you mean, sir?” asked Tom.
“I mean that I’m not an American citizen. I thought you chaps knew.”
“Why, no, sir!” exclaimed Tom. “I thought of course you were. Heck,
that’s a blow! May I ask why you aren’t? I mean, what――”
Mr. Cooper chuckled. “I was born in Derbyshire, England, Tom. And
although I’ve lived over here a good part of my life, and in other
countries another good part, I’m still a subject of His Majesty King
George.”
There was a suppressed exclamation from Wattles in the corner of the
room, followed by the thud of the bottle of cleansing fluid against the
carpet and the _glug-glug_ of its wasting contents.