PLAIN TALK FROM ELIOT.
"How's your cold, Phil?"
It was Eliot who asked the question, and Springer, pausing with one
foot on the academy steps, replied:
"Oh, it's some bub-better, I think."
"Glad to hear it," said Roger, slipping his arm through Springer's.
"Come on, let's walk over yonder to the fence. I want to have a little
chin with you. It will be ten minutes yet before school begins."
Together they walked to the fence at the back of the yard, pausing
beneath one of the tall old trees which was putting forth tender green
leaves. Leaning against the fence, the captain of the nine faced his
companion.
"As a rule," he began, "you've been a great enthusiast over baseball,
and I didn't think you'd let a slight cold keep you away from practice.
Exercise is one of the best remedies for a cold, if a person takes care
of himself when he's through exercising."
"I know that," said Phil, poking his toe into an ant's nest and
declining to meet Roger's steady, level gaze; "but, really, I--I was
feeling pretty rotten, you know, and I didn't have mum-much heart for
practice."
"Yes," said the captain, "I'm afraid that was the principal
trouble--you didn't have much heart for it. You lost heart in the
game, and you haven't braced up yet. I hardly thought it of you, Phil;
I didn't expect you to play the baby."
"The baby!" exclaimed Springer resentfully.
"Yes; that's just what you've been doing. I made up my mind to speak
plainly to you, and I'm going to do so--for your own good. You've been
sulking, old fellow. It doesn't pay, Phil; you're hurting yourself far
more than any one else."
"I don't think you've got any right to call it sulking," objected
Springer in a low tone. "I own up that I did feel bad about the way
things went in that gug-game; but I caught a cold, and I decided to
take care of myself in order to get back into my best condition."
"Is that the reason why you've been giving Rod Grant the cold shoulder?"
"I haven't been giving him---- What has he said to you, Eliot? Has he
been tut-tut-talking about me?"
"Not a word."
"Then why should you say I'd given him the cold shoulder?"
"It was apparent to the dullest, Phil. For some time before that game
you and Grant were very chummy; you were nearly always together, so
that everybody noticed it. Since the game you've not been together at
all, and I, myself, have plainly observed your efforts to avoid him.
Now, old man, there can only be one explanation for such conduct:
you're sore--sore because he succeeded in holding Barville down after
you had failed."
Weakly Springer sought to protest against this, but stopped in the
midst of it, fully comprehending how feeble his words were.
"It's folly, Springer," said Eliot, "sheer childish folly. We were all
sorry to see you get your bumps and lose control, and I don't believe
any one was any sorrier than Grant himself; for, somehow, I've come
firmly to believe that he's on the square. He was reluctant about
going on to the slab when I called him."
"Perhaps that was because he was afraid he'd get his, too," muttered
Springer.
"Now, that isn't generous, and you know it. If the score had been
heavy against us at the time, some fellows might have fancied Grant's
reluctance was prompted by fear and a disinclination to shoulder
another man's load in the first game he pitched. I've not sized it up
as anything of the sort. You and he were close friends, and, knowing
how you must feel to be batted out, he was loath to go in. You must
realize it was a mighty lucky thing for us that we had a pitcher to
take your place. Barville had you going, Phil, and you couldn't seem
to steady down. Even old stagers get into that condition sometimes
when pitching, and it's not an infrequent occurrence that a slabman who
is not thought so good steps in and stops the slaughter."
"Every-bub-body seems to think Grant is pretty good," mumbled Springer.
"He certainly did amazingly well, for which he generously gave you all
the credit."
"I suppose he'll be the whole shooting match, now."
"Those words betray you, my boy. You've been trapped by the green-eyed
monster. Come, come, Phil, you're too manly for that." He put out a
hand and rested it on Springer's shoulder.
The color mounted into Phil's cheeks and slowly receded, leaving him
pale, and still with downcast eyes. Eliot went on, steadily and
earnestly:
"We need two pitchers--we must have them if we hope to make a decent
showing in the series. By and by we'll have to play two games a week,
and some of those games come so close together that one pitcher alone,
unless he has an arm of iron, can't do all the flinging. You've been
wonderfully successful in coaching Grant, and all the time you were
training him to relieve you in a measure when the hardest work should
come. Nobody wants to rob you of any credit; every one says you've
done a mighty good turn with him. But if you continue to sulk, as you
have for the past few days, you'll lose the sympathy of your teammates;
but you won't hurt Grant--otherwise than his feelings."
"I don't believe it would hurt his feelings a great deal."
Roger was vexed, but he continued to maintain his calm manner. "You
ought to know him better than any one else around here; you ought to
know whether he's at all sensitive or not. I'll tell you honestly, if
I were in his place to-day, I'd feel it. Now, I'm your friend, old
fellow, and I want you to listen to me and take my advice. Forget it.
Get out for practice, treat Grant the same as before, and make up your
mind you'll do your level best to redeem yourself in the next game you
pitch. You'll have plenty of chances to show the stuff you're made of."
"I don't suppose the fellows have much confidence in me now."
"Nonsense! Unless they're chumps, they know every pitcher has his off
days. There'll be a practice game to-night; we'll play against a
picked up scrub team. Now, I want to see you at the field in a suit
and ready to do your part."
"All right," agreed Phil.
But later, conscience-stricken and ashamed, he could not bring himself
to seek Rodney Grant and own up manfully to his silly behavior. And
Grant, having begun to feel piqued, made no further advances.
At noon that day Roy Hooker returned to school, bringing a written
excuse from his mother. Having a chance to speak privately with
Springer, he said:
"I hear Eliot has expressed his estimation of you and Rod Grant."
Phil started. "You can near lots of things," he retorted sharply.
"The fellows have been talking about it," returned Roy. "They say
Eliot has said Grant will make a better pitcher than you, because you
lack heart."
It was a blow below the belt, and, in spite of himself, Phil could not
help showing the effect.
"He's welcome to th-think what he chooses," he exclaimed hotly; "it
doesn't disturb me."
Nevertheless, he was so much disturbed that, in spite of his promise to
Roger, he was not with the team when it took the field that night for
the practice game. For he himself had vainly sought to put aside the
depressing and unnerving conviction that in steadiness, stamina and
self-confidence, Rodney Grant was his superior; something he had
determined never to breathe to any one else, but which the keen
judgment of the team captain had found out.
Nevertheless, when he reached home by a roundabout course, and found it
impossible to dismiss thoughts of the boys engaged in that practice
game, he eventually decided that he was a fool. Having reached this
conclusion, he set off in great haste for the gymnasium, running the
greater part of the distance.
Drawing near the gym, he could hear the boys engaged in the game beyond
the high board fence. It did not take him long to shed his outer
clothes and get into a baseball suit.
The game was in the second inning, with the regular team at bat and
Hooker pitching for the scrub, which was made up partly of grammar
school boys. Everybody seemed to be watching Roy, and Phil walked on
to the field and toward one of the benches without attracting attention.
"Look at Hook!" whooped Chipper Cooper. "He's actually trying to
strike Roger out!"
Eliot was at bat, and the umpire had just called the second strike on
him. There were no runners on the sacks.
"He struck aout Tut in t'other innin'," drawled Sile Crane. "I guess
that's got him puffed up some."
Apparently not at all discomposed by these remarks, Hooker continued
steadily about his business, and presently, rousing a shout of
surprise, he succeeded in fanning the captain of the nine. Roger
stepped back from the plate, after striking out, and stood there gazing
at Roy, with one of his strange, rare smiles.
Crane followed. "Dinged if I wouldn't like ter see him fan me!" he
said.
A moment later Hooker pulled him handsomely on a wide one, and the
first strike was called, Cooper being again awakened to a wondering,
whooping state of merriment.
"Look out! look out!" shouted the little fellow. "He'll get you if you
don't. Who said Hooky couldn't pitch? There's more pitch in him than
you can find in a big chew of spruce gum."
Crane, setting his teeth, made two fouls, and then sent Chipper into
real convulsions by whiffing at a high one which Roy whistled across
his shoulders with surprising accuracy.
"You wanted to see it," yelled Cooper. "You got a look, all right.
Oh, say! Where did this new Christy Mathewson come from, anyhow? Look
out for him, Roddy, or he'll add you to his list. List' to my warning."
Rodney Grant did not strike out, but, nevertheless, he failed to meet
one of Hooker's shoots squarely, and the grammar school shortstop
gathered in an easy grounder and threw to first for the third put-out.
Roger Eliot lingered to speak a word to Hooker, and Springer, still
unnoticed, plainly heard what he said.
"Perhaps we've made a mistake in sizing you up, Roy, old fellow. It's
your work alone that has prevented us from scoring in either of these
innings. You've always had speed and curves, but now you seem able to
get the pill over. Keep it up, old fellow, and you'll make a pitcher
yet, We may need you before the season ends."