A DEAD SURE THING.
Thereafter Rackliff took great interest in Hooker's motorcycle--more
interest than the languid, indifferent fellow had seemed to show over
anything else except his cigarettes. Even one rather severe fall from
the machine, which sadly soiled his elegant and immaculate clothes, did
not deter him from continuing to practice upon it whenever it was not
being used by its owner and he could find the opportunity. To the
satisfaction of both lads, the machine behaved very well indeed, and
Roy decided that, without knowing how he did it, he had fortunately
succeeded in curing its "balkiness."
It was Roy, taking an early morning spin on the machine, who saw Phil
Springer wearing the big catching mitt and coaching Rodney Grant to
pitch in Springer's dooryard.
"You poor lobster!" muttered Hooker contemptuously, as he chugged past.
"If Grant really should pan out to be the better man, you'd feel like
kicking yourself. I'd like to tell you what I think of you."
That night after supper, as usual, Rackliff strolled over to Hooker's
home, but he strolled with steps somewhat quickened by the prospect of
taking a turn on his friend's motorcycle.
At first Roy was not to be found, and his mother said she did not know
where he had gone. The motorcycle was standing in the carriage house,
causing Rackliff to wonder a little.
"Queer," muttered Herbert, rubbing his chin with his cigarette-stained
fingers. "When the old lady said he wasn't around I thought sure he
must be off with this machine."
To his ears came the sound of a dull thump, repeated at quite regular
intervals. At first he thought it must be the horse stamping in the
near-by stable, but the regular repetition of that thumping sound
convinced him that such could not be the case and led him to
investigate. Within the stable he was surprised to hear the sound
coming like a blow upon the back of the building, round which he
finally sauntered.
There was Hooker, coat and cap off, sleeves rolled up, face flushed a
little, throwing a baseball at the rear wall of the building,
recovering it when it rebounded, taking his place at a fixed distance,
and throwing again.
Unperceived, so intent was Hooker, Herbert stood and watched for
several minutes. Finally he spoke up interrogatingly:
"What are you trying to do, anyhow, old man? What in the name of
mystery do you mean by sneaking out here and trying to wallop your arm
off all by your lonesome?"
At the sound of the city boy's voice Roy had given a start and turned,
ball in hand. He frowned a bit, then followed it with a rather
shame-faced grin, as he wiped the perspiration from his forehead with
the back of his hand.
"Just amusing myself a little," he answered.
"Queer sort of amusement. Might satisfy a kid who couldn't find
anything else to do. I thought likely you'd be using your motorcycle;
and, everything considered, I didn't suppose you'd care a rap about
fingering a baseball."
"If you could catch me," returned Roy, "I'd have you put on my glove
and see if I couldn't get 'em over a piece of plank the size of the
home plate; but you can't catch, and so I'm trying to see how often I
can hit that white shingle yonder. I actually hit it twice in
succession a few minutes ago."
"Huh!" grunted Herbert. "What's the good of that?"
"I'm trying to get control, you know. They say that's what I lack.
Even Eliot has acknowledged that I might pitch some if I wasn't so
wild."
Herbert burst into soft, half-mocking laughter. "'Hope springs eternal
in the human breast'," he quoted. "Nevertheless, good, plain, common
sense should teach you that you're wasting your time. You're not
wanted as a pitcher, and so you won't get a chance to do any twirling."
"You never can tell what may happen," returned Roy. "I never thought
Springer was so much, and I haven't any great confidence in Grant.
What if they should both get theirs? Eliot might be forced to give me
a show, and if that happens I'll deliver the goods----"
Rackliff snapped his yellow fingers. "You've got the baseball bug
bad," he said. "It's a disease. I suppose it has to have its run with
the fellows who become infected. All right, waste your time; but while
you're doing it, if you don't mind, I'd like to take a spin on your
motorcycle. There is some fun in that, I own up."
"Well, don't be gone long," said Roy. "I guess I'll get enough of this
in ten or fifteen minutes more, and I want to ride some myself
to-night."
Trundling out the machine, Rackliff heard the ball thudding again
against the back of the stable.
Friday afternoon Herbert did not appear at school. Hooker looked for
him in vain and wondered why he had remained away. Alone he watched
the boys practice a while when school was over, Grant doing his full
share of pitching to the batters. Despite prejudice and envy, Roy
could see that Springer's pupil was gaining confidence and beginning to
carry himself with the air of a real pitcher.
"But he hasn't had any experience," muttered the jealous and
unfortunate lad. "Wait till he gets into a game and they begin to bump
him. That temper of his will make him lose his head." Which was
evidence enough that Roy little understood Rodney Grant, who invariably
became all the more resolute and determined by opposition, and stood in
no danger of giving way to his fiery temper, except when met by buffets
of physical force in the form of personal violence.
Reaching home, Hooker went out behind the stable and plugged away at
the white shingle until supper time, fancying he was gaining some skill
in accuracy, although it seemed almost impossible to score a hit or
come near it when he used a curve.
Supper over, he looked for Rackliff to appear. "He'll be around pretty
soon, so I'll just take a short ride and come back."
In the carriage house he stopped, his undershot jaw drooping; for the
motorcycle was missing from the stand on which it was always kept, when
not in use. "What the dickens----" he cried, and stopped short.
After looking all around to make sure the machine was not there, he
rushed into the house and questioned his mother.
"It _must_ be there, Roy," she said. "I'm sure nobody has touched it.
I would have heard them."
"But it isn't there," he shouted. "Somebody has stolen it." Then he
caught his breath, struck by a sudden thought. "Has Herbert Rackliff
been around here to-day?" he asked.
"I haven't seen him, but I hope you don't think your friend would take
your motorcycle without----"
He did not wait to hear any more. Rushing out of the house, he had
reached the sidewalk when, to his unspeakable relief, round the corner
from Willow Street came Rackliff, somewhat dust-covered and perspiring,
trundling the motorcycle. Hooker glared at him.
"What do you mean by taking my machine without asking?" he rasped.
"Where have you been with it?"
"My dear old pal," said Herbert soothingly, "do give me time to get my
breath, and then I'll seek to conciliate you with a full explanation.
I've had to push this confounded thing for at least five miles, and I'm
pretty near pegged out. It stopped on me on my way home."
"Five miles?" snapped Roy, taking the machine from the limp and weary
city boy. "Where in blazes have you been with it?"
But not until he had seated himself to rest in the carriage house, and
lighted a cigarette, did Rackliff offer any further explanation.
Finally, with a little cough and a tired sigh, he smiled on the still
frowning and outraged owner of the machine.
"You didn't see me around school this afternoon, did you?" he asked.
"No. I wondered where you were."
"I was out laying my pipes."
"Doing what?"
"Making sure that you and I could form a little pool and seek a few
wagers on the game to-morrow, with the dead certainty of winning. I've
been over to Barville to see Newt Copley."
"Oh!" muttered Hooker. "And you put my machine on the blink!"
"It simply quit on me, that's all. I didn't do a thing to it--on my
word, I didn't. There's nothing broken, old man. I'm certain you'll
be able to tinker it up again all right. You can bet your life I'd
never made that trip if I'd dreamed it would be necessary for me to
push the old thing so far. Still, I'm mighty glad I went. Say, Roy,
Copley is dead sure Barville will have more than an even show with
Oakdale to-morrow, and you know what I think of his judgment. Now, if
you've got any money, or can raise any, just bet it on Barville and
make a killing."
"But I wouldn't want to be seen betting against my own school team."
"Ho! ho!" laughed Herbert derisively. "Then let me have your cash, and
I'll place it for you. I haven't any scruples."
"But you may be mistaken. Even Copley may be, for he hasn't seen
Oakdale play."
"He says Sanger is a wiz. Look here, Roy, do you know Eliot's finger
signals to the pitcher?"
"Why, yes."
"Uses the old finger system, doesn't he?"
"Yes."
"One finger held straight, a straight ball. Two fingers close
together, an outcurve; spread apart, one on the inside corner. One
finger crooked like a fish-hook, a drop."
"You've got 'em correct, but what's that got to do with----"
"Oh, I just wanted to know," chuckled Rackliff. "Get your loose change
together and let me handle it. If I don't double it for you to-morrow
I'll agree to stand any loss you may sustain. You won't be even taking
a chance. What do you say?"
"Well, if you're as confident as that," answered Roy, "I'm certainly
going to raise a little money somehow to bet on that game."