TELLS HOW THEY MEET THE MANNIG BASEBALL CLUB AND HOW NELSON AND BOB GET
ENGAGEMENTS
They made an early start the next morning. There was a delicious fresh
breeze blowing from the bay, they were well rested, and life was well
worth living. For an hour they walked briskly and put several miles
of hard, smooth road behind them. Then the sun began to make itself
felt, and their pace slackened. Whenever they caught a glimpse of Fire
Island, Tom looked toward it longingly.
“I’m going over there some time and stay until there’s a storm and a
wreck. Wouldn’t you love to see them rescue folks?”
Bob thought that maybe he would; at any rate, he was quite certain he
would much rather look on than take part.
“I wouldn’t,” answered Tom promptly and with conviction. “I’d love to
be a life saver! Maybe, when I get through college, I will be. Wouldn’t
it be exciting, Bob?”
“Very,” was the unenthusiastic response. “Think of tumbling out of
bed at three o’clock of a winter morning, with the thermometer doing
stunts around zero, and taking a nice brisk row for a half a mile or so
through waves as high as that house over there! Yes, indeed, Tommy, it
would be simply sweet!”
Tommy’s further remarks on the subject were interrupted by sounds on
the road behind them. They turned and moved aside in time to escape
being run down by a coach drawn by two horses and filled with a merry
crowd of men and boys, some in gray baseball uniforms and others in
ordinary attire. As the coach swept past, the Four were treated to a
cheer, a wonderful medley which sounded about as intelligible as a
Choctaw war cry. Behind the first coach was a second similarly filled,
and this one slowed down as it reached them.
“Want a ride?” sung out a fellow in baseball attire who occupied the
seat with the driver. The Four looked at each other inquiringly.
“We might ride for a little ways,” suggested Tom sheepishly.
The fellow in front accepted their hesitation as assent.
“Pile in there behind,” he said. “You’ll find room somewhere!”
“Sure!” called a voice from the body of the coach, which was one of
those long vehicles with seats running lengthwise on either side, known
in some localities as a “barge.” “Sure! Lots of room. Come on!”
So they went. A boy hanging on to the steps behind dropped out of the
way, and they climbed in. The occupants, a merry, good-natured throng,
shoved and pushed until there was room for the newcomers, and the coach
started up again. Many curious looks were cast at the boys’ packs, and
finally,
“Going over to the game?” asked Dan’s nearest neighbor.
“What game is that?” asked Dan politely.
“Oh, I thought perhaps you were going,” was the reply. “It’s the game
between Laurelville and Mannig; baseball, you know. We play ’em every
year for a purse.”
“Oh,” said Dan, in turn. “Where’s it to be?”
“Laurelville this year. We’re the Mannig team--and rooters,” he added
with a laugh. “The fellow that called out to you is Burns, our captain
and third baseman. It’s going to be a great game. Everybody turns out,
you know.”
“I see. Are you going to win?”
“Not likely, I guess,” was the answer. But a howl of protest arose.
“Sure, we are!”
“Beat ’em silly!”
“We won’t do a thing to ’em!”
Dan’s informant grinned and dropped his voice.
“They’ll lick us for keeps, I guess,” he said cheerfully. “Our
pitcher’s sick and can’t play. We tried to get Monroe, of Brooklyn;
ever hear of him? Well, he’s a dandy, but he wanted more than we could
pay. We offered him thirty-five too!”
“But--do the other fellows let you get players from outside?” asked Dan.
“Oh, yes, we get ’em wherever we can find ’em. So does Laurelville.
Their pitcher is Somes, of Rockaway, and he’s a dandy. We won’t be able
to hit him at all. And they’ve got a catcher, too, that’s just about
all right!”
“Where is Laurelville?” asked Bob.
“About four miles farther. You fellows had better come along and see
the game.”
“Maybe we will,” answered Bob. “What do you say, Nelson?”
“I’m willing,” was the answer. “Can we get something to eat there?”
“Yes, indeed; there’s a fine hotel at Laurelville. You’d better come
along and root for us.”
“All right,” laughed Nelson. “We’ve got good loud voices.”
“Yes,” agreed Dan; “this fellow here got first prize once for making a
noise; didn’t you, Tommy?”
“Shut up,” answered Tom, with a grin.
A fellow in baseball togs who appeared to be about twenty-five or -six
years of age, and who was sitting on the other side of the coach,
leaned forward and asked smilingly:
“I suppose you fellows don’t play?”
“Not much,” answered Bob carelessly.
Perhaps it was Tom’s look of surprise or the twinkle in Dan’s eye which
made the other doubt the truth of Bob’s assertion.
“Because, you know,” he continued, “we need a pitcher like anything,
and we could use a good batsman somewhere. And there’d be a little
money in it too.”
Tom nudged Bob and looked excitedly at Nelson.
“Why don’t you, Nel?” he exclaimed.
“You dry up, Tommy,” answered Nelson.
“Look here,” said the player, leaving his seat and swaying unsteadily
in front of the Four, “if any of you fellows can pitch we’ll make it
worth your while!”
“Thanks,” answered Nelson; “but you mustn’t mind Tommy; he’s not
altogether sane; has fits once in a while.”
“But, look here, I’m in earnest!” continued the other. The other
members of the Mannig delegation were leaning forward and listening
interestedly.
“Well, what Tommy means is that I have pitched,” answered Nelson, a
trifle embarrassed, “but I wouldn’t do for you chaps. I’m not fancy
enough.”
“Tell you what we’ll do,” said the other excitedly. “You come with us
and show us what you can do before dinner. And if we like the looks of
it, we’ll give you twenty dollars to pitch the game for us. And if
any of the rest of you can hit well, we’ll find a place for you in the
outfield and pay you ten dollars. That’s a fair offer, isn’t it?”
“Fair enough,” answered Nelson laughingly. “But we couldn’t take your
money, you see, because we’re going to college next year, and if we did
we wouldn’t be able to play there.”
“Oh, pshaw, we don’t know your names or anything about you,” was the
reply. “We’ll all forget it to-morrow. You needn’t be afraid of that.”
“Thanks,” answered Nelson dryly, “but I’d rather not.”
Tom looked greatly disappointed.
“Show them what you can do, Nel,” advised Bob. “It will be rather good
fun. I’d like to play myself,” he added, turning to the player. “I’m
not in practice, I guess; haven’t played since last month, and then not
much; but I can hit sometimes.”
“Prove it and I’ll pay you ten dollars for the game!” said the other
quickly. “I’m manager and I can do what I say; and I will do it too.”
“Oh, no, you won’t!” laughed Bob good-naturedly. “If you want me to
help you out, I’ll do it, but I won’t take any money for it. That’s
understood. How about you, Nel? Want to try pitching? You can do it,
I’ll bet.”
“I’ll play if you will,” answered Nelson.
“Where do Tommy and I come in?” asked Dan. He turned to the Mannig
manager. “Want anyone to peddle popcorn or sell lemonade?” he inquired
gravely.
“Don’t you play?” asked the manager, casting an admiring glance over
Dan’s figure.
“Me? Why, I was with the Clevelands for three years,” answered Dan.
“But I’ve been ill, and the doctor thinks I’d better stay out of the
game for a while.”
“I see,” answered the other with a laugh. Then he squeezed himself
between Bob and Nelson, and asked questions and answered them.
It seemed that the annual game between Laurelville and Mannig had
become an event of some importance in that part of the island. They had
played each other for six years, during which time each team had won
three games. This year’s contest was, therefore, in a way decisive.
Each year the merchants and citizens of the rival towns donated a purse
of five hundred dollars, four hundred of which went to the victors and
one hundred to the vanquished. Each team secured players wherever they
could find them, paying such prices for their services as they could
afford. And as the residents of the two towns were extremely generous
in the matter of donations, some of the prices paid to crack players
were pretty high. The umpire, explained the manager--who told them his
name was Fultz--was a professional from New York. Their team, Fultz
went on to explain, had had rather hard luck this season; two of their
best men had deserted them, and their pitcher was ill in bed. As a
result they weren’t very hopeful of victory.
“Unless,” he added, observing Nelson anxiously, “you can help us out a
good bit.”
But Nelson spoke very modestly of his prowess, and the manager’s hopes
dwindled. Presently the Mannig captain, Burns, saw that something was
up and came back to them. Introductions were made, and Burns declared
himself highly pleased at the prospect of being assisted by Nelson and
Bob. But, nevertheless, he didn’t look especially enthusiastic. Perhaps
the two, in their travel-stained pedestrian costumes, didn’t look very
much like adept ball players.
Laurelville, which they reached at about half-past ten, proved to be
quite a fair-sized town; and it was very evident that it was in holiday
garb and holiday humor. The windows of the stores were liberally
decorated with green and white, and flags and streamers of the same
colors were flaunted from the fronts of the buildings. When the coaches
reached the hotel the porch of that hostelry was already pretty well
crowded with guests. Naturally, the arrival of the Mannig contingent
occasioned not a little interest. The adjacent sidewalk was crowded
with small boys, and their remarks as the rival players descended from
the coaches were more graphic than complimentary. Tom descended to a
veritable fusillade of comment.
“Say, look at the fat boy!”
“Bet yer he can run fine!”
“Get out! He ain’t no player; he’s the backstop, he is!”
Tom showed symptoms of annoyance, and to prevent hostilities Dan
lugged him quickly up the steps of the hotel. After they had all
registered, and the Four had been impressively introduced to almost
every Mannigite, they adjourned to a vacant lot back of the house and
held an hour’s practice, observed and criticised by most of the younger
population of Laurelville. Nelson showed what he could do at twirling,
and, although at first he was rather wild and uncertain, after a few
minutes he got settled down, and Fultz and Burns looked almost cheerful.
Bob got into the batting work and had no trouble in putting the ball
wherever he wanted to. But, of course, the delivery was easy enough to
hit, and his performance then was no criterion of what would happen in
the game. At twelve they went back to the house and were instructed to
rest until dinner time. Many of the players found seats on the porch,
where they indulged in a battle of repartee with the local wits lined
up along the curbstone. Others sought the billiard room and spent
most of that hour of rest walking about the tables. Tom and Dan took
a walk through the village, accompanied by Barry. The latter seemed
to understand that for the present he owed allegiance to Mannig, and,
coming across a yellow dog decorated with a bunch of green and white
ribbon, proceeded to inflict summary punishment and establish the
superiority of the visitors. By the time Dan had dragged him away from
his prey the green and white ribbon wasn’t worth talking about. Barry
stood the subsequent cuffing with equanimity, and trotted on again
behind his master with a knowing leer in his eye and a section of
tattered ribbon hanging rakishly and defiantly from the corner of his
mouth.
The main street of the town was becoming quite populous with vehicles,
and the holiday atmosphere increased every moment. The game was the
one important and all-absorbing topic of conversation. When the two
stopped to buy some sweet chocolate at a corner fruit stand, the
Italian proprietor asked eagerly who they thought would win, and
when, later on, returning to the hotel, they entered a drug store for
egg phosphates, the clerk who served them was full of questions and
information.
“They tell me,” he said, “that Mannig’s got a fellow to pitch for them
who was with the Hoboken team last year, a regular peach. Did you hear
anything about it?”
Dan looked wise as he sipped his phosphate.
“Something,” he answered. “I was talking with Burns, the Mannig
captain, awhile ago. But I understood that the pitcher is a fellow
named Tilford who pitched for Chicora.”
“Where’s that?” asked the clerk.
“New Hampshire.”
“Good team?”
“Fine! Beat everything in sight, they tell me. And this pitcher is a
corker. Your men here won’t be able to touch him; he’s got a slow drop
that’ll make them look silly!”
“Are you a Mannig fellow?” asked the clerk suspiciously.
“No, we’re strangers here; just happened along this morning. Would you
mind putting a bit more milk in this? It’s a little too sweet.”
The clerk obeyed, thereby practically doubling Dan’s drink. Tom watched
enviously, and looked doubtfully at his own glass, which was about
empty, in the hope that the clerk would offer to perform a like service
for him. But the clerk was busy talking again, and paid no attention.
“Well, we think we’ve got a pretty good pitcher ourselves,” he said
smugly. “Ever hear of ‘Slim’ Somes, of Rockaway?”
Dan said he had, neglecting to add that the only occasion on which he
had heard of Mr. Somes was that morning in the coach. The clerk nodded
with satisfaction.
“Well, just you keep your eyes on him,” he advised. “He’s one of the
best there is, he is. And if you want to bet anything on the game, I
know where you’ll find some one to oblige you.”
“Thanks,” answered Dan carelessly. “I make it a rule never to bet. I’m
so lucky that it seems too bad to take the other chap’s money every
time; I get ashamed of myself. Well, good luck.”
They went out and made their way along the crowded sidewalk to the
hotel, the only incident of moment occurring when Barry was suddenly
missed, and was discovered a minute later in a baker’s shop, where he
had “treed” a big Maltese cat on top of a showcase. The woman in charge
was highly indignant, and threatened Dan with the law until he squared
himself by purchasing three jelly tarts for a nickel, and admiring the
cat.
Dinner was a confused and hurried meal, for there were at least three
applicants for every place at the four long tables, and to eat calmly
with a dozen persons crowding about and waiting for your chair was
simply out of the question.
The game was to begin at half-past two, and at two the coaches came
to the door again, and the Mannig party tumbled into them, and were
driven away to a chorus of hoots and jeers from the audience outside
the hotel. The ball ground was on the outskirts of the town, a very
creditable field with a grand stand capable of seating several hundred
persons. The Mannig team took the field for practice. Nelson and Bob
had been presented with uniforms of gray flannel bearing big blue
Ms on the breasts of the shirts, uniforms secured from a couple of
substitutes only after persuasion almost amounting to main force. Bob
was put at right field. It had been some time since he had played in
the outfield, for his position was behind the bat, but after a few
flies had come his way he gained the old knack of judging. For several
years he had played on his high-school team, and last spring he had
been elected captain. Besides this he had played with and captained
the Camp Chicora team for the past two summers. Dan, too, was by this
time a fairly experienced player. At school he was only the substitute
pitcher, but in spite of that he was pretty clever. At Chicora he had
done excellent service the past summer in the box, and he and Bob had
comprised a very formidable battery. During practice he warmed up by
pitching to the Mannig catcher, a long, lanky youth, named Conly, and
it soon became evident that they were going to work together very well.
By half-past two the grand stand was comfortably filled and the
ground around the diamond was well sprinkled with spectators. Quite
a contingent had followed the blue players from Mannig, and their
ear-splitting yell was heard continuously. At a few minutes before
the half-hour Mannig gave up the field to Laurelville, and the
green-and-white-stockinged players trotted out for practice.
When it was twenty minutes of three the Mannig manager returned to
the bench where his players were seated and announced that the umpire
hadn’t turned up, and that it had been decided to wait until the next
train came in.
“When does it get here?” asked Burns.
“Two-fifty-six,” was the answer.
“Gee! That’ll make it mighty late!”
“Yes, but that’s the only thing to do, I guess.”
So they waited. Presently the Laurelville team came off, and the
audience on the stand began to inquire, in the polite manner common to
baseball audiences, why the game didn’t start. At ten minutes after
three the tardy official, a little, round red-cheeked man, put in his
appearance, and at twenty minutes after three called “Play!”