“Bumstead at bat, Trainor on deck!” proclaimed Arthur Simpson, who,
released from the infirmary, was once more on hand. Not, however, that
Simpson was according this contest with the All-Stars the honor of a
score.
“Now then, Tubby,” called Captain Jonesie from the visitors’ bench,
“remember the lesson!”
Tubby, a little embarrassed because of the fact that he had never
played ball before so large an audience, grinned as he stepped into the
box. The audience cheered madly. Tubby dared a glance at the crowded
stand and Proudfoot sent over a perfectly good strike. Gus Peasley,
however, more ill at ease than anyone else there, proclaimed it a ball.
Rufe Brown, the School Team’s catcher, howled dismally.
“Say, Peasley, do you know a strike when you see it?” he demanded.
“A strike,” replied Gus, half closing his eyes as an aid to memory,
“is a ball passing over any part of the plate and between the batter’s
shoulder and knees.”
“Well, didn’t that?” asked Rufe menacingly.
“I dare say, but the batsman wasn’t ready for it,” replied Gus quite
calmly. He might be frightened, but he didn’t intend anyone should know
it! “Play ball!”
Grumblingly the catcher threw the sphere back to pitcher and said
uncomplimentary things about Gus as he knelt to give his signal.
Proudfoot’s next attempt was so palpably poor that Gus merely grunted.
Then came a second strike, which Gus called by its right name, thereby
slightly mollifying the disgusted Rufe. But Proudfoot was unable to add
a third and eventually Tubby Bumstead, after some urging on the part of
his teammates and the audience, trotted to first, and Jonesie promptly
stationed himself near by to coach. The stand howled and laughed and
whistled, Pinky Trainor picked up a borrowed bat and faced the pitcher,
and Jonesie began to coach the runner.
“Now then, Tubby, don’t forget the lesson! Take a lead; that’s it! Oh,
let him throw if he wants to. Take another yard. Whoa! Why, Steve, you
really caught it! Fellows, did you see Steve Cook catch the ball? Do it
again, Steve, will you please? They didn’t see it. All right, Tubby!
On your toes again! Ready to steal on the second ball, you know! Don’t
forget the lesson!”
Pinky, following instructions, declined to offer at any of the balls
offered him, and was finally called out. Clint Wrenn, however, actually
had the effrontery to wallop one of Proudfoot’s best out-shoots and
send it safely between second and third, while Tubby romped to the next
station.
“Well done, Clint!” applauded Jonesie as he strode to the plate. “Oh,
very nicely managed, sir. Ah, Mr. Proudfoot, salutations to you! And
how is your throwing arm to-day?”
Proudfoot smiled and whipped a quick one over to first. Unfortunately
Steve Cook was so busy listening to Jonesie that the ball went past
him and Tubby legged it home, while Clint went on to second, sliding
to the bag, not because there was any actual danger of being thrown
out, but because he wanted to do the thing thoroughly. The spectators
applauded generously this gratuitous performance, and then gleefully
welcomed Tubby across the plate. Billy Carpenter, looking both puzzled
and disgusted, viewed Jonesie with suspicion.
“Strike him out, Proud,” he directed. “He can’t hit!”
“Ay, so do!” chanted Jonesie, circling his bat wildly about his head
and dancing a sort of Highland fling at the plate. “Be neither pitiful
nor kind, Mr. Proudfoot! Dispose of me quickly, I pray! Who am I to
stand here and dare your Jove-like bolts? Ah, Mr. Proudfoot――――”
“Ball!” quoth Gus.
“Get off the plate, Jonesie,” directed Rufe Brown. “Want to get one in
the ribs?”
“Not I, forsooth! See, I retreat. Mr. Umpire, I request you to observe
that most promptly I retreat! With all my heart――――”
“Str―――― Ball two,” said the umpire.
“_What?_ Say, you cross-eyed chump, what do you think you’re doing
here? Are you umpiring or――or――――” Rufe choked with emotion. Proudfoot
rolled his eyes to heaven and crossed his arms to express his contempt
for the decision. Whereupon Clint Wrenn started abruptly for third base
and――――
“Look out!” bawled the pitcher.
“Third! Third!” shouted Billy Carpenter frantically.
“Out of my way!” yelled Rufe, stepping forward with the ball.
“Where are you coming?” inquired Jonesie anxiously, stepping in front
of him.
“Throw it!” implored the third baseman. Rufe pushed Jonesie ungently
aside and threw it. But the ball struck in front of the base and,
although Joe Tyson made a heroic effort to stop it, went rolling on
into left field, while Clint romped home into the outstretched arms of
Jonesie. Up hurried Pitcher Proudfoot and Captain Carpenter and First
Baseman Cook, each sputtering with wrath.
“Say, you――you――――?” began Proudfoot, indicating Gus Peasley with a
clenched fist.
“Put him back on third,” demanded Billy irately. “Jonesie got in Rufe’s
way deliberately! If you can’t umpire decently――――”
“This isn’t baseball, anyway,” declared Steve bitterly, still smarting
from the incident of the throw that went by first. “It’s a farce!”
“Did you see what he did to me?” asked Jonesie in hurt tones. “He
pushed me aside――violently! He said to me, ‘Look out!’ and I said,
‘Where are you coming?’ and then he distinctly pushed me! The umpire
saw it, didn’t you, Gus? And you’re perfectly _disgusted_, aren’t you?
Considering, Billy, that we are your――er――guests here to-day, I don’t
think we should be pushed and shoved about! I really don’t! Anyway, not
with violence, Billy!”
“Oh, cut it out! If you fellows want to play ball, why, play ball, but
don’t try any baby tricks. This isn’t a――a circus!” And Billy eyed
Jonesie and Umpire Peasley with distinct displeasure.
“Of course we want to play ball!” responded Jonesie indignantly.
“That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it? That’s what we practiced for all
these days! Go on and play; we’re ready. We didn’t stop the game, did
we? Honest, Billy, you surprise me, you do really!”
“Do they get that last run?” demanded Proudfoot truculently.
“Sure,” answered Gus. “The runner scored, didn’t he?”
“Jones got in Rufe’s way, though, and the ball went into the
outfield――――”
“In order to throw to third, Mr. Proudfoot,” declared Jonesie
authoritatively, “you’ve got to know more than the ball.”
“Oh, give them the run,” said Steve. “We’ll lick ’em to a standstill.
Come on, fellows.”
They went, lingeringly, filled to the brim with remarks they wanted to
offer, but didn’t. After all, as Steve Cook said, it was only a farce,
a parody. Only――and Billy Carpenter picked up a pebble and hurled it
away with unnecessary violence――Jonesie did make a fellow so mad!
Jonesie struck out miserably, and Hoyt, rolling a slow one to
Proudfoot, followed him to the bench. Then the School Team came in and
the All-Stars distributed themselves about the field, many in really
original locations. For instance, Nash, playing in left, took up a
position some twenty yards behind third base and Wigman seemed unable
to tear himself away from close proximity to the second bag. Tubby
Bumstead, who had once pitched two games for a grammar school team,
strode to the box with all the nonchalance of a Mathewson, picked up
the ball and promptly threw it over Jonesie’s head.
“That’s the stuff, Tubby!” cried Jonesie, trotting after the sphere.
“That’s pitching, old top! You got it with you to-day! Now, then, first
man, Tubby! Don’t forget the lesson! Bingham likes ’em high. Give him
one, Tubby.”
Tubby’s attempt was not successful, and Gus droned, “One ball!”
“That’s the way, Tubby! Now another one a little bit higher. Bingham
doesn’t like to reach for ’em, do you, Bing?”
“Don’t you be so fresh!” growled Bingham, who was a senior and properly
mindful of the respect due him from lower-class fellows.
“A thousand pardons, Bing! Here it comes now! Bang it, Bing! Bing it,
Bang! Bang――――”
Bingham swung at a wide one and missed, and Jonesie, who had never
before tried to catch behind a swinging bat, turned his back and
dexterously stopped the ball. The audience approved wildly. Bingham
scowled. Tubby, recovering some of his lost science, sent a nice
straight ball across, and Bingham, trying to shut his ears to Jonesie’s
artless prattle and not succeeding, struck too late. Jonesie stepped
nimbly aside and ducked, and the ball collided with Gus Peasley. Gus
said “Ugh!” in disgusted tones and doubled up. However, as he was
properly guarded by a body protector, no harm was done, and Jonesie
sent back the ball and followed it with a flood of conversation.
“That was a dandy, Tubby! Sort of a fade-away, what? Say, you’ve
got it with you to-day, all right! That’s pitching ’em, Tubby! He
couldn’t even see it. His sight isn’t what it was since he blew up the
laboratory!”
“Say!” Bingham turned threateningly upon Jonesie. “You cut that out or
I’ll beat you, you fresh kid!”
“No offense, Bing――――”
“And don’t call me ‘Bing’!”
“Just as you say, old top! I only mentioned that laboratory experiment
of yours because――――”
“You say that again and――――”
“How was it?” demanded Jonesie as the ball settled into his mitt.
“Strike three!” replied Gus promptly.
“_What?_ You――you robber!” shrieked Bingham. “I’ve a good mind
to――to――――” He started toward Gus, but Jonesie interposed.
“Don’t lose your temper,” he pleaded. “It _was_ a strike, Bing, honest
it was! Right over the middle――――”
“You, too,” interrupted Bingham angrily. “You tried to queer me! I
wasn’t looking at the ball――――”
“What’s the row?” demanded Carpenter, pushing his way in to the
agitated group. Bingham explained a trifle incoherently. Billy listened
and took him by the arm.
“All right. Come on,” he said wearily. “You got caught, Bing. No use
kicking. Hit it out, Rieger.”
And Rieger did hit it out. He sent a fine long fly into left field.
Young Nash, hands in pockets, turned and watched it descend to earth
some two hundred feet beyond him while the spectators laughed and
howled with glee. It was George Wrenn who fielded the ball to second
in time to hold Rieger at that bag. Jonesie, mask in hand, stepped
authoritatively in front of the plate.
“Nash,” he called, “play back another foot or two!”
Joe Tyson went to first to coach and Buell lolled over behind third.
On second Rieger seemed strangely inattentive to his duties as a base
runner. Hoyt and Wigman stood close by, and from all indications the
trio were engaged in conversation. In fact, it was possible to catch
snatches of it even in the stand:
“I’m not saying you did, am I? Every fellow knows, though――――”
“... Again and I’ll....”
“Don’t rile him, Wigman! Let bygones be bygones――――”
“Come on!” bawled Tyson exasperatedly. “Get off that base!”
“Hey! Rieger! What’s the matter with you? Are you glued there? Come
on!” And Jimmy Buell, back of third, waved frantically.
“... Just once more,” threatened Rieger wildly, “and I’ll come over
there and――――”
“... Sore subject,” piped Hoyt. “As far as I’m concerned ... as long as
he owns up to a thing....”
Steve Cook let one delivery go by and then landed on the next. By some
miracle Pinky Trainor, at first, managed to get in front of the ball
and, although it bounded away from him, he picked it up and raced
across the bag the fraction of a second ahead of Steve. The stand
applauded warmly and hilariously and Rieger went on to third. Joe
Tyson, grinning, tapped the plate with a bat and winked at Tubby.
“A low one for Joseph,” called Jonesie. “He eats ’em alive, Tubby. Now
then, one right down here! That suit you, Joe?”
Joe shook his head. The umpire called “Ball!” doubtfully, and Jonesie
rewarded him with a grieved look.
“He didn’t like that one, Tubby. Try again. Here, Joe, show him where
you want it.” And Joe obligingly indicated the locality with his bat.
“Get that, Tubby?” asked Jonesie anxiously. “Now try and give him one
like that. We strive to please, Joe. That’s our motto. Right over,
Tubby, and just where the gentleman wants it! Here she comes, Joe!
Whack it! Whack it! Whack――――”
“Strike!” proclaimed Gus.
Joe grinned at Jonesie. “Say, that was all right,” he said.
“Glad you liked it. If you don’t get what you want, ask for it, Joseph.
Send him another of those, Tubby. He likes ’em. Here we go! Here we go!
Don’t hit him, Tubby! One more now!”
“Two balls!” said the umpire.
“That’s pitching, Tubby, that’s pitching! But don’t make him reach for
’em. He’s a friend of mine. What’s the matter with your neck, Joe?”
“Nothing.”
“You ought to have it looked at. All right, Tubby! I knew a fellow who
had one of those things on his neck and―――― Make it good, Tubby! Sort
of low, you know!――and didn’t look after it, Joe――――”
“Strike two!” announced Gus.
“Say!” bawled Joe, turning wrathfully. “Keep your mouth closed for a
minute, will you? You’re worse than a phonograph! There’s nothing the
matter with my neck!”
“Oh, all right!” Jonesie tossed the ball back. “Better hit at this one,
Joe. Tubby always makes the fourth one good. I don’t want to alarm you
about your neck, but if I had it I’d certainly have it attended to
before it got any worse. If you let it go very long they’ll have to
operate and――――”
Against his better judgment Joe put a hand tentatively to the back of
his neck. Tubby wound up quickly and pitched. Joe’s hand came down
suddenly and grabbed at his bat, and the bat swung wildly.
“You’re out!” cried Gus.
Joe leaned on his bat and looked disgustedly at Jonesie.
“You wait until this game’s over,” he said dispassionately. “I’ll see
you later, Jonesie!”
Jonesie smiled sweetly and sorrowfully.
The School Team took the field and the All-Stars came to bat in the
first of the second inning. But although George Wrenn found Proudfoot
for a hit that landed him on first, and although Jonesie coached him
superbly and incessantly, the next three batters went out ignobly.
Billy Carpenter started things going for the School Team with a long
hit into center and reached second. Jimmy Buell swaggered to the plate,
tapped it knowingly and waited.
“What does he want?” asked Tubby.
“Ah, to be sure! What sort of a ball would you like, James?” Jonesie
inquired solicitously. Jimmy laughed.
“Any old thing, Jonesie, as long as I can reach it.”
“The gentleman is not particular, Tubby. Try a few of those ‘floaters’
right over the tee. James is using a niblick this shot.”
Jimmy stirred and muttered.
“One ball,” said Gus.
“Try again, Tubby! Careful of this one, James, and keep your eye on
the ball. Don’t forget the carry-through, old top. Going to try a full
swing?”
“Aw, cut it out!” growled Jimmy.
“Let’s see, James, you didn’t make the team last Fall, did you? It’s
simply awful the way favoritism rules in athletics here! Keep your eye
on the ball, James! Careful now!”
“Strike one!”
“Maybe you’d better try a brassie, old man. You want distance this
time, you know. If you get bunkered――――”
“Keep it up! You’re not bothering me a bit, Jonesie.”
“I’ll bet you’ll make the Golf Team yet, James. Any fellow with an eye
like yours and a――er――physical development――――”
Jimmy let the next one pass, and Gus promptly announced another strike.
Jimmy wanted to argue about it, but Jonesie returned the ball without
delay, and Jimmy had to content himself with a few well-chosen remarks
which, owing to the fact that he umpired from a place well removed from
danger, Gus probably never heard.
“I suppose,” continued Jonesie, “it’s awfully hard to hit a golf ball,
James. They’re so small, aren’t they? Regular little pills! Did you
ever hit one, James?”
“I’ll hit you if you don’t close your mouth!”
“Fie, James! You’re losing your temper! If you do that you’ll never
make the Golf Team, I know. Now then, James! Hit behind the ball; you
topped that last one, you know; and follow through, James, follow――――”
Jimmy followed through all right, but the ball whacked against
Jonesie’s protector――Jonesie didn’t pretend to catch them when struck
at――and Gus crooned, “Striker’s out!” Tubby, running up, got the ball
in time to hold Billy Carpenter at second. Jimmy Buell retired to the
bench with dragging bat, talking all the way. Gordon, the next batsman,
played his position in right field better than he batted. But on this
occasion he found what he wanted in the first ball pitched, and swung
hard. Unfortunately the ball started straight down the third-base line,
and although Billy Carpenter bounded frantically to the left to get out
of its way, it bounded off him and rolled toward second. Billy walked
disgustedly to the bench, rubbing his leg, and Gordon proudly perched
himself on first.
[Illustration: “Jonesie didn’t pretend to catch them.”]
“Two gone!” called Jonesie cheerfully. “Play for the batter, fellows!
And don’t forget the lesson!”
“Say, what’s this old lesson you’re always talking about?” asked
Proudfoot as he squared himself to the plate.
“Never you mind, Horace Erasmus,” replied Jonesie. Proudfoot, who was
not at all proud of his name as set down in the school catalogue,
frowned.
“And never you mind about my name,” he rejoined shortly.
“Well, it _is_ your name, isn’t it?”
“That’s none of your business. You’re too fresh. You――――” Proudfoot’s
further remarks were halted by the strange behavior of the All-Stars.
One by one they were edging toward the left of the field. As they went
they held their noses and looked accusingly toward first base, where
Pinky Trainor was elaborately binding a handkerchief about his face.
Even Tubby showed signs of uneasiness. Jonesie’s voice rang out sharply.
“What’s the matter with you fellows?” he asked irately. “What are you
all doing?”
“We can’t stand it, Cap,” called Hoyt from out in short left field.
“Stand it! Stand what?”
“The――the odor!”
“What odor?”
“Onions!”
There was a brief moment of silence, and then the fellows in the stand
behaved most remarkably. They rocked to and fro in their seats, clung
to each other desperately and even rolled into the aisles, all the
while emitting choking, gurgling sounds that might later evolve into
laughter, but which at present more closely resembled the painful gasps
of a person lately rescued from drowning! And the same or similar
effects might be noted on the field and on the School Team’s bench.
In fact, everyone appeared to be on the verge of apoplexy save only
Mr. Gordon. Gordon, with clenched fists and crimson cheeks, faced the
world desperately. Then, while the stand still choked and sputtered,
his eyes fell on Pinky Trainor beside him, Pinky swaying dizzily as one
about to pass into unconsciousness, Pinky with his nose tightly bound
with a none too clean handkerchief. With a roar of rage Gordon sprang
and Pinky went down. But Billy Carpenter, red of face and making odd
gurgling noises in his throat, leaped weakly to the rescue and the
writhing forms were torn apart. And then――and only a few witnessed
it――Tubby, who had apparently run to the aid of his fallen teammate,
suddenly dug a hand holding a baseball into Gordon’s ribs and Gus
Peasley, with a feeble wave of his hand, gasped:
“Out――at――first! _Oh, help!_”
The latter part of the remark seemed addressed to no one in particular,
and Gus sat down on the turf and held his sides very tightly, rocking
to and fro, which, you must acknowledge, was a most undignified
proceeding for an umpire.
V
The All-Stars met in Jonesie’s room that evening and disbanded. But
first Jonesie addressed them from the study table most eloquently.
“As long,” declared Jonesie magnificently, “as the annals of Randall’s
School survive the fame and glory of the All-Stars will――er――illuminate
the pages of history! We have to-day performed a deathless, imperishable
deed. Summoned from――er――the humble walks of life, like the Minute Men
of old or What’s-his-name from the plow, we sprang into the breach
and――er――battled nobly and valiantly. Victory was ours! For two
hard-fought innings we held the School Team at bay and finally triumphed
by valor and science!”
Young Nash snickered. Jonesie shot a reproving glance at him and went
on.
“Handicapped by ignorance, by lack of practice, by youthfulness and
want of experience, we stood shoulder to shoulder upon the trampled
field and――――”
“Joe Tyson says we didn’t win,” interrupted Tubby. “Says the game
didn’t go four and a half innings.”
“Who cares what he says? Who cares what any of them say? They refused
to continue. They forfeited the game. The umpire said so. We won a
noble victory with the aid of courage, science and――――”
“Onions,” murmured Pinky.