LORING GOES SCOUTING
Monday found the school deep in examinations, with anxious countenances
everywhere in evidence. Practice didn’t commence until four o’clock,
and games with the second were canceled for the rest of the season. The
second team played two games that week, one with Granleigh High School
on Tuesday, which went to only five innings, and one with Waterside
on Thursday. The latter spread over seven good, fast innings and was
captured by the home team in the sixth. The Granleigh contest resulted
in a 4 to 4 tie. On Wednesday the first played its second game with
Freeburg and won it, 8 to 2. There was only time for six innings, but
those six showed Wyndham’s superiority to the High School and brought
back a glimmer of hope to the Dark Blue’s supporters. The Freeburg
pitchers were not difficult, perhaps, but eleven hits in six frames,
even against mediocre twirlers, was held to be encouraging. And with
the first Wolcott contest but three days distant a little encouragement
went a long way!
Tom was not enjoying himself very much those days. He expressed the
conviction, a rather faint conviction, that he would get good enough
marks in his studies to pass, but since by Wednesday he had accumulated
nothing better than _D’s_ his friends weren’t so sanguine. “Of course
I’ll flop in English,” he explained resignedly, “but I ought to get a
_B_ in Hygiene and a _C_ in History, and if I do I’ll pull through.
Anyhow, if I don’t I should worry. Old Winslow says I can’t come back
if I don’t pass, and I’m not letting that trouble me, either. I don’t
believe he has any notion of letting me go to college, so why kill
myself getting through here?”
“But you’d rather come back next year than not, I fancy,” said Mr.
Cooper. They were sitting in the stand while the rest of the team
gathered for practice.
“Oh, well, I don’t know,” replied Tom carelessly. “I guess I’d rather
go into the Navy or something. I’d like to see the world, Mr. Cooper.”
“Of course, but there’d be time enough after college. Or you could do a
bit of travel in summer.”
“Swell chance with old Winslow holding the purse strings!”
“Really? But he wouldn’t object to your going across now and then,
would he?”
“He’d object if I wanted to cross the Hudson River,” said Tom. “Oh, I
suppose there isn’t much money in the old sock. He never will tell me
how much I’ve got. When I ask him he just hems and haws and shakes his
head and looks like a dying fish. He seems to think I ought to earn a
scholarship. Can’t you see me doing it?” Tom grinned at his companion.
“His idea is that unless I get swell marks here there’s no use in my
staying. He’s going to throw a fit when he sees what I get in finals!”
“If you fail to pass I dare say you could do a bit of tutoring this
summer and get back again, eh?”
“Oh, sure, I could, but―― Well, Mr. Cooper, it’s like this. I’ve sort
of made up my mind that if I don’t pass I’ll just take a sneak. Honest,
there’s not much fun at home in the summer. Mr. Winslow sticks there
all through the hot weather, and if I want to go anywhere for more than
a day he blame near faints. By gosh, I’d just like to know how much
money my mother did leave me!”
“Well, Tom,” said Mr. Cooper, tapping the ashes from his pipe, “I’d
rather like to see you go through here at Wyndham. I have a fancy that
Winslow will――I mean to say that you’ll get to college all right, old
chap. Fact is, I’d really appreciate it if you’d try real hard to pass
these examinations, Tom. Might consider it as a sort of favor to me.”
Tom looked a little surprised, but a little pleased, too. He turned his
gaze to Pat Tyson, who was doing a juggling act with four baseballs for
the benefit of a group of early arrivals down by the bench, and after
a moment said: “All right, sir. Sure, I’ll do my best, only――only I
wouldn’t think it would make much difference to you, sir.”
“Why not?” asked Mr. Cooper quietly. “You and I―― Well, to be frank,
Tom, I’ve got to liking you. Quite a lot. I hope you don’t mind me
saying that.” Mr. Cooper reddened and his voice held embarrassment.
“No, sir, I don’t,” replied Tom stoutly. He still stared into the
diamond, though. “I――I like it.” He turned and gave the man a brief
glance and then, with a little nervous laugh, added: “It’s fifty-fifty,
sir.”
“Honestly, old chap?” Mr. Cooper’s tone was so eager, so pleased, so
almost anxious as well, that Tom wondered and felt his own cheeks
reddening. He didn’t like to be embarrassed. So he only nodded. After
a pause Mr. Cooper said: “That’s the coach, isn’t it?” Rather a silly
question when you came to think of it, for Mr. Connover, who was no
more than forty paces distant, didn’t resemble any one but himself.
But Tom answered: “Yes, sir,” seriously enough and pulled himself up
preparatory to vaulting the rail. Then, rather diffidently, he said:
“Don’t you worry about me passing, Mr. Cooper. I’ll skin through
somehow!”
As usual, Loring had Wattles push his chair to the end of the players’
bench, and as usual most of the fellows came to him sooner or later for
a word or a chat. His score book, a leather-covered affair, lay on his
knees, and a well-sharpened pencil protruded from a pocket. Learning to
keep a score correctly was, he had discovered, not so easy, and he was
still obliged to call on the official scorer for assistance. To-day he
meant to go across to the other field after awhile and watch the second
team’s game with Waterside and fill one more page of his book with
neat little figures and symbols. As it turned out, however, he didn’t
do just that, for by the time the second and its opponent had finished
warming up and were ready to begin their delayed struggle Loring found
himself in converse with Coach Connover and too interested to leave.
Steve never appeared discomposed or even anxious, yet to-day Loring
thought he could detect an undercurrent of concern in the coach’s
casual discussion of the players and their work. But before that Steve
made a suggestion that captured Loring’s interest at once.
“Deane, you have two more years here, haven’t you?” asked the coach. “I
thought so. Well, why don’t you compete next year for a manager’s job?
It’s something you could easily attend to, and you’d like it, I know.
Better consider it.”
“Why, do you think――do you think I could, Mr. Connover?” gasped the
boy. “You know I can’t get around very――very fast!”
“Fast enough, I guess. You’ve got executive ability, Deane; plenty of
it; which is more than most managers have. Of course the position of
manager or assistant doesn’t earn a great deal of glory; you don’t
stand in the limelight much; but it’s a lot more important than most
folks believe, and a good manager is worth a lot to his team. Well, I
think you could be a good manager, and I’d certainly like to see you
try for it. I believe that right now you know a lot more baseball than
any of the three fellows who are holding down the jobs this spring.”
“Why, thanks,” murmured Loring, “but――gee, I don’t know! I couldn’t be
better than an assistant year after next, could I?”
“No, not in the ordinary course of events,” was the reply. “But an
assistant, if he’s capable and has a head on him, is frequently of
more real value than the manager himself. In fact, Deane, as you may
have noticed, it’s the assistants who do most of the work! I wish I’d
thought of it before, so you could have competed this year. But I
didn’t know you so well, you see.”
“I’d like awfully to try it,” said Loring eagerly. “You see, sir, there
isn’t very much that I can do here; a fellow has to be able to get
around a good deal, of course, if he tries for――for things; but if you
think I’d be able to do that, supposing I succeeded in getting by, I’d
love to try it.”
“Oh, you’d get by, and you’d be able to handle the job when you got it.
And it might just happen that for some reason you could land something
better than an assistant’s job. You never can tell a year ahead what’s
going to happen. Fellows drop out of school or resign, you know. Think
it over, anyhow.”
Mr. Connover arose and went out to the pitcher’s box, and the practice,
which had slowed up in the last few minutes, took on new vigor.
Loring remained silent several minutes, thinking over what the coach
had said. It would be really wonderful if he could make good Mr.
Connover’s prediction, if he could be of use in the school. Why, being
an assistant baseball manager would be almost like playing the game! He
turned suddenly to the silent Wattles.
“Did you hear what Mr. Connover was saying, Wattles?” he asked.
“Yes, sir, perfectly.”
“Well, what do you think? Do you believe I could do it?”
“Oh, very easily, sir. The position of manager doesn’t strike me, Mr.
Loring, as being a very arduous one, although there may be more to it
than――er――strikes the eye.”
“Well, I do think I could do the――the work,” replied Loring. “What
I meant was would I――could we get around as we’d have to? Out here
every day, and away with the team on its trips, I suppose, and running
around to see different fellows. It would take quite a lot of pushing,
Wattles!”
“We could do it, sir. I’ve no doubt the young gentlemen would make it
as easy as possible for you, Mr. Loring.”
“But that’s just it, Wattles. I wouldn’t want any favors, and I’m
afraid I couldn’t――couldn’t fill the bill without them.”
“I think you could, sir.” Wattles became suddenly apprehensively alert
as a ball arched into the air behind the catcher, but it descended a
good twenty feet away and Wattles relaxed again. “Mr. Loring, I’ve
been thinking for some time that if we had wider tires on the chair it
would be a deal better. These are quite satisfactory indoors, sir, but
they do go a bit hard on the turf. Now, if you see what I mean, sir,
a――er――wider traction――I think traction is the word――”
“It is, Wattles, and I do see what you mean. I don’t see why one of
us didn’t think of it long ago. Why, with wider tires it wouldn’t be
half the work, would it? Especially when the ground’s soft in the early
spring, or after a rain! I say, that’s a corking brain wave, old scout!”
Wattles coughed modestly, but looked quite pleased in his solemn
manner. Mr. Connover returned to his seat on the end of the bench just
then and further discussion of the brilliant scheme was postponed. “You
don’t happen to know where I can get hold of a couple of good hitters
for the Wolcott series, do you?” he asked smilingly as he sat down. “I
could do with a couple, Deane.”
“They should be left-handers, too, shouldn’t they?” Loring asked
lightly.
“Bless us, yes! But almost any sort would do. Just so long as they
could hit the ball at least once in three times up! I don’t hesitate
to tell you, Deane, that unless this bunch finds its batting eye next
Saturday we’re going to look pretty small.”
“And they’re doing so well otherwise,” said Loring. “It does seem too
bad that they aren’t hitting better.”
“Well, you never can tell what a team will do when it has to do it,
and I’m hoping that some of those chaps will come across day after
to-morrow. I’ve seen it happen often enough.” He told of a case in
point, but Loring didn’t pay very close attention, for he was thinking
of the coach’s opening remark. When the brief instance had been brought
to a convincing close Loring said:
“You asked if I knew where you could get two hitters, sir. I don’t, but
I do know――at least――” Then he paused, in doubt.
“Well, don’t leave me in suspense,” prompted the coach, smiling. “What
did you start to say?”
“I’m wondering whether I ought to say it,” answered the boy, frowning
perplexedly. “You see, he’s a particular friend of mine, sir, and it
may be that I’m――that he isn’t as good as I think he is. I wouldn’t
want you to suppose that I was just trying to put something over on
you.”
“Don’t trouble. I’ll look after myself, Deane. Who have you in mind?
Can he hit? Why haven’t I seen him?”
“Oh, you’ve seen him all right,” said Loring. “That’s what makes me
think he can’t be as good as he seems to me. It’s Clif Bingham I’m
talking about, sir.”
“Bingham?” echoed Steve. “Why, yes, I’ve seen Bingham often enough.
He never struck me as being an exceptional hitter. He’s still on the
scrub, isn’t he?”
“Yes, sir. I don’t know whether you’d call him an exceptional hitter or
not, Mr. Connover, but he’s really done pretty well lately, and he’s a
left-hand batter.”
“Hm. An outfielder, eh?”
“Centerfielder, sir.”
“You say he’s been hitting? Any idea what average he’s made with the
scrub?”
“No, sir, not much. About two seventy-five, I’d say. Maybe better
lately. It wouldn’t do any harm to――to have a look at him, would it? I
guess――” Loring laughed――“I guess I could say more for him if he wasn’t
a particular chum of mine!”
Mr. Connover smiled, but absently. “Bingham,” he muttered. “I remember
him. Played good football last fall, didn’t he? An outfielder, eh? Held
his position regularly, Deane?”
“Well, for several weeks, sir. He beat out a fellow named Burke.”
“I see.” Mr. Connover’s gaze strayed to the second diamond. “Look here,
Deane, I can’t leave this job. I wish you’d go over there and see what
Bingham does and let me know later. Tell me how he batted and fielded;
give me the full dope on him. Do you mind doing a bit of scouting?”
“No, sir, I’ll be glad to. I meant to go over, anyway.”
“Good! Don’t be too optimistic, though. I doubt if Bingham can be used
this year. But bring me a report on him just the same. Thanks. By the
way, Deane, this is rather like assistant manager stuff, eh?”
When Loring reached the second team diamond, the game was already in
its second inning, and the visitors had just annexed their first tally.
Clif, however, fifth on the batting list, had still to make his initial
trip to the plate, and when, after the enemy had been retired without
further scoring, the second began to swing bats, Loring was conscious
of a nervous anxiety that evidently communicated itself to Wattles.
Wattles was breathing heavily, and, although he maintained his correct
attitude throughout the succeeding six innings, there were moments
when excitement threatened to upset it. Wattles liked Clif very much,
but even if he hadn’t Loring’s attachment for the boy would have been
sufficient to assure Wattles’ loyalty.
Clif’s first trip to the plate ended in fiasco, for after he had
refused a delivery that the umpire called a strike and had allowed two
balls to go past him he bit at an in-curve and the sphere dribbled
half-way to the pitcher’s box and was sped quickly to first for the
second out of the inning. Having retired from a useless effort to reach
base ahead of the ball, he came across to where Loring sat, grinning
ruefully. “Rotten, wasn’t it?” he asked. “That curve fooled me all
right! Got it half-way up my bat. He doesn’t seem very hard, either.
Bet you I smash one the next time! What do you say? Drinks at Burger’s!”
“You’re on,” said Loring eagerly. “And, listen, Clif, don’t forget the
thought business! You know, the old will power. Now’s the chance to use
it, old chap.”
“Gee, you seem awfully keen about this game! Got any money on it?”
Clif laughed and then became puzzled by Loring’s serious countenance.
“What’s up?” he asked, scowling. His gaze shot to Wattles’ face.
Wattles looked more solemn than ever!
“There’s more than money up,” replied Loring gravely. He wished that he
might tell Clif just what was up, but he thought it might not be fair.
Before Clif could ask the meaning of the cryptic statement he went
on, smiling to prove that he hadn’t meant a thing by it. “I want you
fellows to win your last game, naturally,” he said. “And I want you to
fatten your batting and fielding record, you chump. This is the last
chance you’ll get this year, isn’t it?”
“Sure is. All right, you watch me. I’ll throw my thought on that
pitcher the next time and make him give me what I want! And if he does,
just watch it travel!”
“I hope it does, Clif! And I hope you’ll hit every time you’re up!”
“Thanks for your good wishes,” answered the other carelessly as he
sauntered off toward the outfield. “We’ll strive not to disappoint you.”
They didn’t, and after Loring was back in his room Wattles set forth
for Number 21 West Hall bearing a slip of paper. On it in Loring’s neat
writing was this mysterious inscription:
“A.B. 4; R. 1; 1B. 2; S.B. 1; S.H. 1; P.O. 2; A. 2; E. 0.”
Coach Connover must have been able to translate that code and to
approve its meaning, for the next forenoon Bi Longwell knocked at
Number 17 West Hall and, finding the room empty, tore a leaf from a
pocket memorandum book, scrawled on it with his fountain pen and set
it prominently against the base of the electric lamp on the study
table. And there Clif found it a half-hour later. After having perused
its brief message twice, the first time with utter incredulity, the
second time with amazed delight, he laid it reverently down on the
table, thrust both hands into the pockets of his capacious knickers and
grinned expansively about the room. Then he said “_Gosh!_” very softly,
almost reverently. “_What do you know?_”
Finally he picked up the slip of paper again and bore it to the window
and, after viewing it back and front, read the words once more.
“Bingham: Report to Coach Connover at 4. Longwell.”