READY FOR THE GAME.
Never before had the Barville baseball team brought such a crowd of
supporters into Oakdale. They came, boys and girls, wearing their
school colors, bearing banners, and bringing tin horns and cowbells.
The manner in which they swept into Oakdale and hurried, eager and
laughing, toward the athletic field, plainly betokened their high
confidence in the outcome of the contest. Even a few older persons
came over from Barville on one pretext or another, and found it
convenient to spend a portion of the afternoon watching the baseball
game.
"Jinks!" chuckled Chipper Cooper, as he watched the visitors pour in
and fill up the generous section of bleachers reserved for them. "They
certainly act as if they thought they were going to have a snap to-day.
Barville must be depopulated. Never fancied so many people lived over
there."
"Beyond question," said Roger Eliot quietly, "they believe their team
has at least an even chance for the game; otherwise, not half so many
would have made the journey to watch it."
"It must be on account of their new ketcher," muttered Sile Crane. "I
cal'late they think he's the whole cheese; but mebbe they'll find aout
he ain't only a small slice of the rind. What's he look like, anyhaow?"
"There he is," said Roger, as the visiting team came trotting onto the
field, led by Lee Sanger, its pitcher and captain, "that stocky,
red-headed chap. See him?"
"My!" grinned Cooper. "He's a bird. Looks like he could eat hardware
without getting indigestion."
The Barville crowd gave their players a rousing cheer, although they
did not yet venture to blow the horns or jangle the cowbells. Those
noise-producing implements were held in reserve, with apparent perfect
assurance that an especially effective occasion for their use must
arise during the game.
Captain Eliot shook hands cordially with Sanger, and suggested that he
should at once take the field for practice.
"Hello, Roger!" called Bob Larkins, the Barville first baseman. "Great
day for the game. We're going to make you fellows go some. You won't
have the same sort of a cinch you had last year."
"I hope not," answered Eliot pleasantly. "There's a big crowd out
to-day, and I'd like to see you fellows make the game interesting."
"Oh, don't you worry, it will be interesting enough," prophesied
Larkins, getting his mitt and turning to jog down toward first.
At Eliot's elbow Phil Springer remarked, with a short laugh, in which
there seemed to be a trace of nervousness: "They certainly have got
their pucker up. They're boiling over with confidence."
"And it's a mistake to boil over with anything--confidence, doubt or
fear," said Roger. "When the kettle boils aver, the soup gets
scorched. Come, Phil, shake the kinks out of your arm with me, while
they're taking their turn on the field."
His calm, unruffled manner seemed instantly to dissipate the
nervousness which Phil had felt a touch of.
The practice of the visiting team was closely watched by nearly all the
spectators, and it became apparent that the Barville boys had profited
by the coaching of some one who had found it possible to train them
with good effect. They were swift, sure and snappy in their work,
displaying little of the hesitation and uncertainty usually revealed by
an ordinary country school team, even in practice. Copley, the stocky,
red-headed catcher from Roxbury, received the balls when they were
returned from the infield and the out, catching the most of them
one-handedly with the big mitt, although he seemed to do this without
flourish or any attempt at grand-standing. Now and then he grinned and
nodded over some especially fine catch in the outfield or clever stop
of a grounder or liner by an infielder; nevertheless, he let Sanger,
who was batting, do all the talking to the players.
Roy Hooker, wearing the crimson colors of his school, sat on the
bleachers at the edge of the group of Oakdale Academy students,
endeavoring to mask his feelings behind a pretext of loyal interest in
the home nine; but, nevertheless, in spite of his inwardly reiterated
assertion that he had been used "rotten," he was annoyed by a
constantly recurring sense of treachery to his own team. The skill
displayed in practice by the visitors in a measure set at rest the
doubts he had continued to entertain concerning Rackliff's wisdom in
backing Barville.
"I'll win some money to-day, all right," he thought; "but, really, I'd
rather be wearing an Oakdale suit, even if we lose."
As the Barville nine came in from the field and Oakdale went out, Roy
saw Herbert Rackliff saunter forth and speak to Newt Copley, who shook
hands with him. Then Herbert drew Copley aside and began talking to
him in very low tones, and with unusual animation. Still watching,
Hooker beheld Copley nodding his head, and even at that distance Roy
could see that he was grinning.
"Hey, old Rack!" Chipper Cooper shouted from the field. "Brace him
up--that's right. Tell him he's got to win or you're financially
ruined."
Herbert pretended that he did not hear, and, after a final word with
Copley, slowly sauntered back into the crowd. He was not wearing the
Oakdale colors.
"I'm glad nobody knows that part of the money he put up was furnished
by me," thought Hooker. "He's got an awful crust. I couldn't do a
thing like that, and be so cheeky and unconcerned. Gee! but he'll get
the fellows down on him."
And now, as the time for the game to begin was at hand, the umpire,
supplied with two new balls in their boxes, called the captains of both
teams and consulted with them for a moment or two. Directly Eliot
sought the body protector and mask, and Bert Dingley, standing at the
end of the bench on which the visitors had seated themselves, began
swinging two bats. There was a rustling stir among the spectators as
they settled themselves down to watch the opening of the contest. The
Oakdale players took their positions on the field, Rodney Grant going
into right, while Chub Tuttle remained on the bench as spare man. Phil
Springer had peeled off his sweater and was pulling on his light
left-hand glove as he walked toward the pitcher's position.
"Ladies and gentlemen," called the youthful umpire, facing the crowd,
"this is the opening game of the high school league, Barville against
Oakdale. Battery for Oakdale, Springer and Eliot. Play ball!"
With that command, he tossed a clean, new baseball to Phil, who caught
it with his gloved hand, glanced at it perfunctorily, gave it an
unnecessary wipe against his hip, made sure his teammates were ready,
and placed his left foot on the slab.