TREXLER'S TRANSFORMATION
Sanson's account of his visit to Paul Trexler was received at first with
a good deal of incredulity. But when he persisted that he wasn't trying
to play any trick general curiosity was aroused among the fellows, and
they began to drop in at the Trexler house to see for themselves the
wonderful case of birds and the even more wonderful photographs. Before
he knew it Paul became almost a public character.
At first he did not like it at all. Excessively shy by nature, he had
gone his solitary way for so long that he didn't know how to take the
jokes and banter and mild horse-play of a crowd of boys. But gradually
he grew accustomed to it, and when he found that the fellows weren't
making fun of him, as he at first supposed, but really regarded him with
a marked respect for his unusual talents, he began actually to enjoy
the situation.
He came to know the boys better, to find pleasure in their companionship.
He no longer went off on those solitary tramps, for there was always
some one ready and eager to accompany him. And little by little even
these excursions began to grow slightly less frequent as he discovered,
with a mild surprise, that there was a good deal of fun to be extracted
from the regular sports and games and doings of the crowd.
Frank Sanson was mainly responsible for this. Keen, eager, full of
enthusiasm about everything, he flung himself into all the school and
troop activities with a zest which made him one of the livest boys
in Hillsgrove. He could enjoy an occasional tramp in the woods with
Trexler because of the novelty and interest of their search; but he
could not understand any one wanting to devote himself exclusively
to such an occupation.
"You miss half your life in not going more with the fellows, Paul," he
remarked one day in early April. "Why don't you leave the old camera
at home and come on up to the ball-field with me? We're going to have a
great old practice to-day."
"But I can't play baseball," protested Trexler.
"Shucks! How do you know? Did you ever try?"
"N-o, but--"
"It's time you started in, then," interrupted Sanson. "Of course you
can't expect to make the team this year, but you'll have a lot of fun
playing with the scrub. Hustle up or we'll be late."
So Trexler went, mainly because he didn't exactly know how to refuse
the boy he had come to like so much. But it was with a good deal of
inward trepidation that he trailed after Frank to where Ranny Phelps,
who captained the team, was chatting with Mr. Curtis's younger brother,
just home for the Easter holidays. He had a feeling that he was going
to make an awful exhibition of himself, and that conviction was not
lessened by the slight lifting of the eyebrows with which Ranny greeted
Frank's request that his friend be allowed to practise with the others.
But out in the field, nervously adjusting a borrowed glove, Paul was
conscious of an odd, tingling sensation altogether different from
apprehension. The day was typically April and fairly breathed of spring.
Birds darted hither and thither, singing joyously. Beyond the low
stone wall at one side the feathery outlines of a wild cherry, pale
green, with touches of white blossoms just bursting into bloom, was
etched against the sky in delicate tracery. Farther still, a man was
plowing, and from the long straight furrows came that moist, fresh,
homely smell of newly turned earth that one gets only in springtime.
Out of the deep blue sky, flecked with fluffy, idly drifting clouds,
the sun shone warm and caressing. From all about came the sound of
quick, clear, eager voices, to which was presently added the crack of
leather meeting wood, the thud of feet drumming the turf, and the duller
sound of leather pounding against leather.
There was something about it all that stirred the boy and sent the
blood running like quick-silver through his veins, yet which made him
feel curiously alone and out of it. Other springs had meant to him
the beautiful awakening of nature, the return of the birds he loved,
the charm of wood and stream and open country-side at its best. But
somehow that failed to satisfy him as it had in the past. Vaguely he
felt that something was missing, he could not say just what. A feeling
of emulation stirred him, a desire to take his part in the clash and
struggle and ceaseless competition from which, till now, he had held
aloof. Admiringly, with a faint touch of envy, he watched Frank Sanson
make a difficult one-hand stop with seeming ease. Why hadn't he come out
before and learned the game and how to uphold his end with the others?
Was it too late even now? he wondered.
"Hi, Paul! Get under this one!"
The shout from Sanson roused Trexler to the realization that a fly
was coming in his direction. He ran back a little, then forward. The
ball seemed to be dropping with the speed of a cannon-shot, but he
forced himself to meet it without shrinking. Thrusting up his hands
awkwardly, he staggered a bit under its momentum, as he caught at it,
and a burning sting tingled in the bare palm which had taken most of
the impact. The ball, bouncing off, rolled to one side, and a laugh
went round the field as he chased after it and threw it in. When he
returned to his place Paul's face was crimson, but his lips were set
in a stubborn line and he scarcely noticed the pain in his hand.
"I _will_ get the hang of it!" he muttered under his breath. "I'll learn
to do it right if--if it takes all season!"
He stuck to his position as long as any of the others, and on the way
home, with some embarrassment, he spoke to Frank of his determination.
The latter was delighted and offered to help him in any way he could.
As a result, from that time forth the two rarely went anywhere without
a baseball. Whenever there were a few minutes to spare they used them
for throwing and catching. On the field, before and after the regular
work, Frank knocked out flies or grounders, and in many other ways did
his best to give his friend as much as possible of the practice he needed.
A baseball player isn't easily made to order. The normal boy seems almost
to absorb his knowledge of the game through the pores of his skin,
gaining proficiency by constant, never-ending practice that usually
begins as soon as he is big enough to throw a ball. But much can be done
by dogged persistence, and Paul Trexler had that quality to a marked
degree. As the days passed, dust began to gather on his camera and on
the cover of his book of bird photographs. In this new and strenuous
occupation he found little time for the things which had formally
absorbed him. He regretted the many long tramps he had planned, but
somehow he failed to miss them as much as he expected. Each noticeable
improvement in his game filled him with a deep, abiding satisfaction,
surpassing even the delight which he used to feel on securing a fine
photograph. The climax came that afternoon when he was allowed to play
on the scrub in place of one of the fielders who had not shown up. Not
only did he fail to make any mirth-provoking blunders, but he even put
through one play that brought forth a surprised, approving comment
from Ranny Phelps himself.
"I don't know what you've been doing to him, Frank," the latter said to
Sanson, who passed on the remark afterward. "I've never seen anybody
improve the way he has. That catch wasn't anything wonderful, of course,
but when he threw to third he used his head, which is more than a lot of
fellows right here on the field ever think of doing."
The latter part of the speech, especially, was typical of the handsome
Ranleigh. He ran the ball-team as he did a good many other things,
reaching decisions more often through impulse and prejudice than from a
mature judgment. There could be no question of his knowledge of the
game or his ability as a pitcher. The latter was really extraordinary
for a fellow of his age and experience, and this, perhaps, was what
made him so intolerant of less gifted players. At all events, he had
a little trick of sarcasm which did not endear him to those on whom it
was exercised. Most fellows take the ordinary sort of "calling down,"
especially if it has been earned, with a fair amount of grace, but it
rarely does any good to rub it in, as Ranny so often did.
"You'd think he was a little tin god on wheels the way he struts up
and down, digging into the fellows in that uppish, sneering way," Court
Parker heatedly remarked one afternoon late in the season. "You might
think he never made any errors himself."
"I don't suppose he really means anything by it," returned Dale Tompkins,
rather deprecatingly. For some time that day he had been watching Phelps
and wondering rather wistfully whether Ranny was ever going to entirely
forget that impulsive flare-up of his so many months ago. For a long
time, to be sure, there had been few signs of active animosity from
the blond chap. It would be well-nigh impossible for any boy to long
maintain that excessive coldness toward a fellow with whom he was so
often and so intimately thrown. Especially since the beginning of
baseball practice there had been a good deal of intercourse between
them, but always Dale was conscious of a deep reserve looming up between
them like some invisible, insurmountable barrier. And there were times
when he would have given the world to break that barrier down.
Parker sniffed. "Then why does he do it? It only gets the fellows raw
without doing a scrap of good. You're a great one to stand up for him,
Tommy! He's treated you mean as dirt. Didn't he promise to let you pitch
in some of the games?"
"Why, n-o; it wasn't exactly a promise."
"It was the same thing. He made you think he was going to put you in, and
all spring you've worked your arm nearly off, pitching to the bunch.
Then when a regular game came along he stepped into the box himself and
hogged the whole thing nine innings. It's been the same ever since,
except last week when you went in for one miserable inning after we'd won
the game. I call that a--a--an insult. It looked as if he thought you
weren't any good."
Dale shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe he does," he returned quietly. "He's
a lot better pitcher than I am."
"Is he? Humph! He's nowhere near as steady, let me tell you. Wait till
he gets up against a real team, and I shouldn't wonder a bit if he blew
up. He did last year, and we mighty near lost the series. He can't stand
being joshed, and Troop One is just the bunch to do it."
Dale laughed a little and set down his companion's disparaging remarks
to temper rather than to any real belief in what he was saying. He had
never seen Ranny pitch before this season, but he could not imagine him
losing his superb control and "blowing up." He would have given anything
for a chance to pitch against Troop One, but he had long ago given up
hoping, Ranny made it only too clear that he meant to keep that honor
for himself, just as he had monopolized the pitching in all the other
games. Dale couldn't quite make up his mind whether this was from a
deliberate desire to shut him out, or because the team captain really
lacked faith in his ability and was afraid to trust him. Feeling as
he did toward the other--liking, admiring him still, almost in spite
of himself, Tompkins rather hoped it was the latter case. In either
event, however, he was obliged to content himself with the cold comfort
that with Ranleigh Phelps pitching his best Troop Five was practically
certain to win.
The inter-troop baseball series had been arranged so that the two
strongest teams were matched together on the concluding day. Both had won
every game they had played so far, and the result this Saturday afternoon
would decide the championship.
Naturally there was a big crowd of spectators. Practically every boy in
town was present, ready to root for his favorite team, and the grand
stand was well filled with older enthusiasts.
When Troop Five won the toss and spread out on the field, Dale Tompkins,
with a faint sigh, dropped down on the bench he had ornamented for most
of the season. Watching Ranny Phelps walking out to the mound, a wave of
envy, pure and simple, swept over him. He wanted to pitch--desperately.
At that moment he would have welcomed almost any contingency--even the
unthinkable "blowing up" that Court had predicted--that would give him
his chance. He had done practically nothing all the season, and it
seemed unfair that the last game should come without giving him a single
opportunity of showing his mettle.
"What's the use of trying at all if you never get a show?" he thought
disconsolately.
But the mood did not last long. Dale was too keen a baseball fan not to
become swiftly absorbed in the game which meant so much to himself and
his brother scouts. There could be no question of Ranny's fine form. For
the first five innings not a hit was scored against him. To be sure,
several players made first on various errors, but none got beyond third,
and in the meantime Troop Five had scored two runs.
"He's certainly some pitcher!" Tompkins remarked rather wistfully to Paul
Trexler, who had taken a seat beside him. "Looks as if we had the game
cinched."
"I hope so. If only he don't--er--blow up--"
"Blow up!" interrupted Tompkins, sharply. "Does he act like it? You've
been listening to Court Parker's rubbish, Paul. I never saw any fellow
pitch a steadier game."
But though he had been swift to deny the possibility, Trexler's remark
lingered in Dale's mind, and almost unconsciously he began to watch for
signs which might confirm it. The fellows that composed the rival team
were rather older than the average scout and of a certain rough-and-ready
type which made their joshing apt to carry more sting than that sort of
thing usually does. So far, however, there had been little in the
pitcher's manner or behavior for them to take hold of, and the stream
of commonplace chatter and joking seemed to affect Ranny as little as
water does a duck. He took it carelessly, with now and then an apt retort
which turned the laugh against the other fellows, and throughout the
sixth and seventh innings his work continued to show much of the smooth
perfection it had displayed from the first.
It was in the beginning of the eighth that Tompkins's face began to grow
a little troubled. Ranny had several rather noticeable mannerisms, which
were especially apt to appear on the flood-tide of success. Whether
deliberately or not, he had hitherto suppressed them, but now he seemed
momentarily to relax his vigilance.
He had struck out the first batter, and as the second stepped up to
face him the pitcher paused, swept the grand stand with a leisurely
glance, and then tossed back his head in an odd, rather affected gesture
before starting to wind up. The gesture had probably originated on
the gridiron, where hair is worn rather long and is apt to trail into
one's eyes; here it looked a bit foolish, and instantly one of the
opposition, who was coaching at first base, a red-headed fellow named
Conners, seized upon it.
"See him shake his mane, fellows!" he yelled in a shrill falsetto. "Don't
let him scare you, Blakie; he's tame!"
"He'll be the goat, all right, before we get done with him," chimed in
another.
Ranny hesitated an instant in his swing, bit his lips, and then put the
ball over. It was wide, and, as he caught the return, there was an angry
flush on his handsome face.
"Don't he blush sweetly?" shrilled Conners, dancing about off first.
"He'd make a peach of a girl!"
Ranny wound up hastily and pitched again. It was a straight, speedy
ball, but in his annoyance he must have forgotten that this was just
the sort Blake liked. The latter met it squarely with a clean crack
that brought Dale's heart into his mouth and jerked him to his feet to
watch with tight lips and despairing eyes the soaring flight of the
white sphere over the diamond and on--on--seemingly to the very limits
of the outfield!