THE WYNDHAM PITCHER.
Shortly before nine o'clock on Saturday morning a touring car,
containing three youths, not one of whom was over eighteen years of
age, whirled up before the door of Mrs. Conway's boarding house in
Oakdale and stopped.
The occupants of the car did not belong in Oakdale; they came from
Wyndham, and the machine was the property of the father of the oldest
one, who was at the wheel. This was Orville Foxhall, second baseman of
the Wyndham nine. At Foxhall's side sat a husky, raw-boned, long-armed
chap, Dade Newbert, the pitcher on which Wyndham placed great
dependence. The chap in the tonneau was Joe Snead, too fat and
indolent to take part in any game of an athletic nature.
"This is the house, Dade," said Foxhall; "this is where your friend
boards, all right."
"Humph!" grinned Newbert. "It doesn't look swell enough to suit Herb's
style. He's the real warm article, as you'll realize when you see him.
When it comes to cutting a dash--well, Rack can cut it, you bet. I'll
see if he's around."
Springing out, Newbert strode to the door and rang. After a time, as
he was growing impatient and had prepared to ring again, the door
opened a foot or so, and a tall, thin, hopeless-looking woman surveyed
him inquiringly.
Newbert asked for Rackliff.
"Yes, he boards here," answered the woman in a mechanical tone of
voice; "but he isn't up yet."
"Ho, ho!" laughed Newbert. "Isn't up? Well, that's like him; won't
pull himself away from the mattress until he has to. He's a luxurious
brat."
"I'm afraid Mr. Rackliff may not be feeling very well this morning,"
said the woman. "He has a very bad cold and coughs terribly. I told
him last night that he should consult a doctor, and I heard him
coughing the greater part of the night."
"Well, well! Sorry to hear it. I'm an old friend of his, and I've
come over by appointment to take him back to Wyndham with me. You tell
him that----"
A harsh cough came echoing down the stairs and a voice called:
"That you, Dade? Come right up. It's all right, Mrs. Conway; let him
come, please."
Herbert, in silk pajamas, was standing at the head of the stairs,
looking ill indeed. He put out a limp hand, which Newbert grasped,
crying:
"By Jove! you are sick. Now, that's tough."
"Come into my room," invited Herbert, leading the way. "It's a pretty
bum joint, but it's the best in the house--the best I could find in
this wretched hole of a town. I'm mighty glad to see you, old pal,
though I may not appear to be. Oh, blazes! but I have got a headache!"
"What have you been doing?" asked the visitor, as Herbert keeled over,
with a groan, on the bed. "Been hitting the pace? Been attending too
many hot suppers? Oh, but you're sure to sport wherever you go!"
"Hitting the pace around this graveyard!" mumbled Herbert dismally.
"What are you talking about, old fel? Why, everybody dies here nights
at nine o'clock; there's not a thing doing after that. It's the most
forsaken, dismal place imaginable after that hour. I'm dying of dry
rot, that's what's the matter." He finished with a cough that seemed
to wrack him from head to feet.
"You're sick," said Newbert, with a show of sympathy. "You've got a
cold, and it has settled on your lungs. You're none too strong, Herb,
and you'd better look out. I guess you won't be able to take in the
game to-day."
"Yes, I will!" cried Rackliff suddenly. "I wouldn't miss it for a
fortune. Oh, I've got money bet on that game, Dade."
"Well, Orv Foxhall is outside with old man Foxhall's bubble. Great
car, that. And you should see Orv drive her. Oh, he does cut it out
some! He had 'em staring when he ripped up through the center of this
old town. We nearly ran a team down back on the road; was going better
than fifty when we came round a curve and grazed the old jay's
wheel-hubs. I'll bet that Reuben's hair stood on its hind legs. Ho!
ho! ho!"
Herbert sat up. "It won't take me long to dress," he said. "I'll go
back to Wyndham with you."
"You haven't had any breakfast."
"Don't want any. Haven't had an appetite for three days. I caught
this rotten cold riding a motorcycle back here from Clearport after the
game last Saturday. I wouldn't mind if this cough didn't tear me so."
"It's tough," said Newbert. "Can I help you? Going to take a dip?"
"Boo! No, I won't bathe this morning; haven't got the nerve for a cold
plunge, and a warm one might fix me so I'd catch more cold. Just you
make yourself comfortable as you can while I'm getting into my duds."
Three times while dressing Herbert was compelled to sit down to rest,
and Newbert declared that his friend seemed to be pretty nearly "all
in."
"I certainly am," agreed Rackliff; "I'm up against it. Never was
knocked out like this before. Why, I can't even smoke a cigarette, it
makes me bark so. You can imagine how tough that is on me. Sometimes
I'm half crazy for a smoke--I'm shaking all over; but when I try it I
just have to quit by the time I've taken three whiffs."
"You've smoked too many of those things, that's what's the matter.
Used to hit 'em up myself; thought it real devilish. Never took any
real satisfaction in it, though."
"That was because you didn't inhale; they're no good unless you do."
"They're no good if you do; give me a cigar every time."
"You got my last letter all right?" asked Herbert, selecting a necktie
from his abundant supply.
"Oh, sure. I've put all the bunch wise, too. They're wondering how I
got hold of the information, but I didn't give you away, old pal. I
reckon mebbe Foxy and Snead suspect now, but they won't say anything."
"You've got to win," said Herbert, carefully knotting his tie at the
mirror. "My old man is kicking over being touched up for cash so
often; says he can't see how I spend so much in this quiet place. I've
bet every sou of the last amount he sent me on your old baseball team,
and if you don't take this game----"
"We will, don't worry about that. We could have done so anyhow, but of
course you've helped make it a dead-cold certainty. If you've got any
friends here who----"
"Friends!" sneered Rackliff; "friends among these country yokels!
Don't make me laugh, for it might start me coughing again."
"But you said you let a chap in on the Barville deal. He----"
"He wasn't a friend of mine," said Herbert scornfully; "he was only a
chap I wanted to use. I've let another dub into this deal, but I
didn't do so simply to befriend him--not on your natural. Perhaps
you've heard of him--Phil Springer. He expected to be the star slab
artist on the great Oakdale nine this season, but he unwisely coached
another fellow to assist him as second-string pitcher, and now the
other man has pushed him into second place--and he has quit, dead sore.
He's an egotistical yap, and it simply killed him to death to have his
pupil step right over his head."
"What's your idea in boosting him by putting him next to a winning
proposition?"
"Perhaps I can use him, too. At any rate, he can pitch some, and by
keeping him raw and working him the way I am, I'm weakening the
pitching staff. See?"
"Oh, yes," muttered Newbert. "I swear you're a clever schemer, Herb."
"Thanks. You see, I induced this man Springer to let me have seven
bones to bet against Oakdale, and now, no matter how much they may
happen to need him, as long as he has his money at stake, they can't
coax him into the game to-day. They may try to do that if you fellows
get to batting Grant good and plenty. Oh, I've taken pains to
forestall in every direction, for I've simply got to make a killing on
this go. How's the weather?"
"Fine, but you'll need to wear an overcoat in the auto. I didn't take
one, but it's rather cool whistling through the air at the rate Foxy
drives. Besides, you've got to look out for that cold. Better wear a
cloth overcoat now than a wooden one by and by."
"Don't talk that way," shivered Herbert. "I'm not anxious to shuffle
off."
He brought his overcoat from the wardrobe, and Newbert helped him into
it, after which they descended the stairs together.