A DOUBLE DEFEAT
Highland School was defeated, 6 to 4, at Highland, on Wednesday, in a
loosely played game in which errors on both sides accounted for most
of the tallies. Frost was in the box for Wyndham and might have stayed
through the whole contest had he had good backing. As it was, miscues
in the sixth inning let in three Highland runs, and Frosty got wobbly
and was relieved by Erlingby. Tom helped pile up the Dark Blue’s total
of three errors, contributing an unfortunate fumble which, like most
of his errors, was due to over-eagerness. Highland got no more tallies
after Erlingby’s arrival on the mound, and, in the eighth, Wyndham
combined a hit, a sacrifice and a stolen base with a Highland error and
put two more runs across, bringing the score to 6 to 4, at which it
remained. Catcher Cobham emerged from the battle with a split finger on
his throwing hand, an injury destined to keep him out of baseball for
nearly two weeks. Gus Risley, who had taken Cob’s place in the seventh
inning, was a far less dependable backstop although a distinct addition
to the batting strength of the team.
On Saturday Horner Academy came over from across the New York border to
prove her superiority in both rowing and baseball. The enemy’s colors
were so much in evidence that forenoon that Freeburg took on a most
festive appearance. Every one who could went over to the lake shortly
after noon and witnessed the visitor capture the lion’s share of the
water contest. Loring’s father and mother arrived in the car, and he
and Wattles and one of the Junior School boys motored over. Mr. Bingham
also came up that morning, unexpectedly, and filled his car with Clif,
Walter Treat and three others. Tom couldn’t go, for the first team
players were to have an hour’s practice before the game.
The junior eight’s contest was held first, and once more the second
crew showed their gameness. In spite of their showing against Highland,
they were not looked on as winners to-day, and so it was a distinct
surprise when the dark blue oars flashed into the lead at the start,
held the lead to the quarter flag, lost it just beyond, though by no
more than a few yards, and recovered it before the half-way marker.
That was a pretty race all the way, for, while Wyndham was never
headed, Horner rowed desperately and was no more than a boat’s length
behind when the final quarter began. For a space a gallant rally
carried her to almost even terms, but Wyndham also hit up her stroke
and maintained it to the line, something Horner was incapable of, and
shot across, to the shrieks of her adherents, not quite two lengths
ahead.
Wyndham accepted that result as a good augury for the big event, but
the latter, which started at two-thirty, proved a reversal of fortune.
It was Horner who got away to a fine start this time and Wyndham
who trailed all the way to the finish. Billy Desmond and his seven
companions in the Dark Blue’s shell rowed themselves out before the
distance was three-fourths covered, went on heroically but raggedly and
fairly collapsed with the coxswain’s shout of “Let her run!” Horner had
showed a generous six lengths of water behind her boat at the finish.
Wyndham had to be satisfied with the minor victory of the junior eight
as she hustled back to school for the ball game. Mr. Cooper joined Clif
and his father and Walter Treat and the quartet witnessed this contest
from seats behind third base. Mr. Cooper and Mr. Bingham, it must be
acknowledged, failed to manifest unflagging interest. They seemed to
find a number of subjects more interesting than baseball, and there
were moments when Clif was rather impatient with his father because the
latter allowed his attention to wander. Walter was a nice chap, and
Clif liked him a lot, but Walter was no baseball fan and displayed at
times the crassest ignorance.
The game was well played and almost every inning supplied a thrill,
but after the fourth frame only the most optimistic of Wyndham rooters
dared predict a victory for the home team. The Wyndham infield was
playing together like a well-oiled machine, Jeff Ogden was holding the
visitors to a few scattered hits and Fortune remained impartial. But
while Horner had failed during four innings to get a man as far as
third base, Wyndham had failed to get one to first! It was plain enough
to be seen that Horner’s aggressive batters were destined to come into
their own ultimately, and when that happened the boy at the score board
was going to stop hanging up goose eggs!
It happened in the first half of the fifth inning. The Horner
shortstop, second man on the list, hit safely past Captain Leland and
went to second on a sacrifice out, Tom to Van Dyke. The visitor’s third
baseman fell on one of Ogden’s curves and poled out a two-bagger into
left field, scoring the first run of the game. Hurry handled the next
out, an easy grounder, throwing to first. A sharp liner through the
box scored the second tally. On an attempted steal the last hitter was
pegged out at second by Risley.
For Wyndham, Raiford fouled out to third baseman, Tom flied out to
first and Talbott fanned. There was no more scoring until the eighth.
Then Horner sent her third tally over the plate on a hit, a sacrifice
and a long fly-out to left fielder. Yet every inning between had seen
men on bases and runs apparently imminent. Even Wyndham revived the
hopes of her supporters in the seventh by getting Tyson as far as third
on a scratch hit, a sacrifice bunt by Captain Leland and an out. Risley
went to bat amidst loud acclaim. Clif, red-faced from recent vocal
exertions, begged Gus to “make it a homer!” But the best the substitute
catcher could do was arch a tremendously long fly into the outfield
where, having been warned of Risley’s batting prowess, the Horner
center fielder was playing well back toward the running track and had
only to step a few yards to his left to make the catch.
Horner failed to threaten in the first half of the ninth, and Wyndham
went to bat with the Blue’s adherents imploring a victory. But although
Tom started things going, after Raiford had fouled out, with a hot
liner through shortstop’s legs and got to second when Talbott hit along
the base path and was safe when the baseman juggled the hurried throw,
nothing came of the rally. Van Dyke struck out, and Jackson, batting
for Jeff Ogden, lifted a high fly to shortstop, and the game was over,
the score 3 to 0.
Wyndham had played an errorless game, had made five hits and had been
defeated. Horner had made two errors, batted safely ten times and had
won. From which it was fairly adjudged by a somewhat indignant student
body that what the home team needed were a few fellows who could hit
the pellet! That was also the decision arrived at that evening when Mr.
Bingham and Mr. Cooper played hosts to the Triumvirate at the Inn. Tom,
who had made one of the Wyndham hits, attempted a rather vague excuse
for the first team but was squelched by Clif and Loring. He finally
confessed that something ought to be done, adding brightly: “We might
put our thoughts on ’em, Loring. Maybe we could will a bunch of bingles
the next time, eh? What price psychology?”
Clif begged him not to be a giddy ass.
“I don’t suppose,” acknowledged Loring, “that it’s quite practical to
work mental suggestion on a whole baseball team but we might pick out a
few of the worst batters and try it on them.”
The idea seemed to amuse Mr. Bingham immensely, and he chuckled and
chuckled over it, the glowing end of his cigar waggling up and down
in the darkness of the porch. Clif said, almost accusingly: “I don’t
see that psychology has done me a whole lot of good. I’m still on the
scrub!”
“But,” responded Tom gently, “think where you’d be without it! Playing
with the West Hall Terriers, probably.”
“I didn’t know that you were keen about promotion,” said Mr. Bingham.
“Thought you were doing pretty well where you are and quite satisfied,
son.”
“Oh, well,” said Clif, “I’d rather make the first, of course. Any
fellow would, I guess. Besides, if Tom gets on I don’t see why I can’t.
Every one knows I’m far superior to him.”
“My Sainted Aunt Jerusha!” breathed Tom in awe. “Hear that boy talk!
Mr. Bingham, I used to be known as ‘the King of the Diamond’ when Clif
was in rompers!”
“Let’s see,” chuckled Mr. Bingham, “what’s the difference in your ages,
Tom?”
“More than five months,” replied Tom impressively.
“In whose favor?” asked Mr. Cooper innocently, and brought a laugh.
“Anyway,” said Tom, returning to gravity, “our gang’s got to learn to
hit better than it’s been hitting before next Saturday or we’ll be gone
coons. Wolcott’s been swatting the old apple hard all the season. Look
what she did a week ago Saturday. Got fourteen hits off that Goodwin
pitcher, what’shisname!”
“Deering,” said Loring. “But he’s nothing much.”
“Just the same, we couldn’t hit him when we played there during
vacation. Well, maybe our fellows did touch him up a bit, but we didn’t
get anything like fourteen off him, and we lost the game.”
“You play Wolcott next Saturday?” asked Mr. Bingham. “Does Wolcott come
here, or――”
“Yes, sir,” answered Clif. “That’s the first game. We go to
Cotterville Tuesday for the second and then play here again Wednesday
in case of a tie.”
“There won’t be any game next Wednesday,” declared Tom pessimistically.
“If we can’t hit a poor fish like that fellow who pitched against us
to-day we certainly can’t touch that left-hander of theirs, Osterman;
or Rice either. Those guys are _good_! And I guess that fast ball
artist of theirs isn’t much worse.”
“I don’t believe that Osterman is a bit better than Jeff Ogden,”
said Loring stoutly. “And here’s another thing, Tom. We’ve got three
left-hand pitchers to Wolcott’s two.”
“What of it? They’ve got a second-string outfield of left-hand batters!”
“Where do you get all this dope?” asked Clif.
“I read the papers, son. Wolcott had five out of nine fellows in her
batting-list hitting left-handed a couple of weeks ago against Brown
Prep. Brown put in a left-hand twirler, and Wolcott switched half her
gang and punched out enough hits to win. I call that strategy, what?”
“Gosh,” said Clif, “the trouble with our team is that there aren’t five
on it who can hit right-handed, to say nothing of left! Just the same,
I’ll bet we cop the first game anyway, and if we lose the second we’ve
still got a chance in the third; and playing on your own field, with a
lot of fellows cheering you and every one pulling your way, is bound to
help.”
“Sure, and we’re going to need that help,” said Tom grimly. “I wish
Steve would change the batting order and see how it would go. Greene
isn’t any good as a lead-off man. Hurry would be a lot better. If the
first fellow up doesn’t draw his base one way or another, what good
is he? And Al Greene’s got his base when he’s led off just about once
since I joined the team.”
“I’d like to see Coach try you there,” observed Loring.
“Me?” Tom sounded a trifle startled. “Well, at that I’ll bet I’d get my
base oftener than Greene does. I may not be any――any――”
“Clouter Hearn,” offered Clif.
“Shut up! What I mean is, I――I――well, call it luck if you like――”
“What else could it be?” chuckled Clif.
Tom aimed a kick at him, missed by inches and subsided.
“Well,” declared Loring with conviction, “you chaps are going to see a
big improvement in our team’s hitting next Saturday. You may depend on
that.”
“Is that _so_?” inquired Tom. “You and Steve have got it all settled,
eh? I suppose Miller Huggins is going to loan us Babe Ruth for the
afternoon!”
“Maybe, but I haven’t heard of it. No, what I mean is just this, Tom.
There isn’t a fellow on the team who can’t hit if he wants to; I mean
there isn’t one who hasn’t the ability to hit. You fellows have got
in a slump, that’s your trouble. You started out pretty well and went
along all right until about the sixth week of the season. It was the
Greenville game that started you on the down grade. Ever since then
you’ve been off your game. Including the Greenville game, you’ve lost
five and won two, I think.”
“Your statistics are absolutely correct,” said Tom, “only I object to
the――the inference you suggest.”
“What inference?” asked Loring.
“That the blamed old team was getting along all right until I joined
it!”
“Facts speak for themselves,” said Clif.
“All right, then. Facts narrate that Wyndham won six games, lost three
and tied one before she played Greenville. I’m just telling you this to
prove that I wasn’t the hoodoo. I didn’t go to the first until after
the Peebles game.”
“Since when,” remarked Clif maliciously, “we’ve been licked four times.”
“Just how many games have been won and how many lost?” asked Mr.
Bingham, lighting a fresh cigar.
“It’s pretty bad, Mr. Bingham,” said Loring. “We’ve won eight, lost
eight and tied one. If we win all the remaining games we can’t finish
with better than eleven victories. I remember that Mr. Connover said
that first day in the cage, Clif, that he expected the team to win at
least fourteen out of twenty-two.”
“That was bluff,” said Tom. “Coaches always make cracks like that at
the start of the season.”
“Well, then, what about your enemy?” asked Mr. Bingham. “What has
Wolcott been doing?”
“I don’t know exactly, sir,” Loring replied, “but I think she has won
about two-thirds of her schedule so far. Oh, she’s made a much better
showing than we have, there’s no doubt of that!”
“Mustn’t think about that,” murmured Mr. Cooper. “Always start a scrap
with the conviction that you’re better than the other chap.”
“That’s right,” agreed Loring; and,
“Yeah, psychology,” grunted Tom.