SAM IS MISSING
Number 4, North Dormitory, was a revelation to Jack. The room he shared
with Sam Phillips in South was comfortable enough and not at all badly
furnished, but Sam “didn’t go in much for fancy gimcracks,” to use his
own expression. The room occupied by Ted Warner and his chum Dolph
Jones was carpeted with a dark red Oriental rug, and all the furniture,
even the wide study desk in the middle, was of black oak. Most of the
chairs held leather cushions that you sank into as softly as into a
feather bed. The drop-light was covered by a big opal glass shade that
threw the light downward and left the upper part of the room in a
pleasant twilight, through which the dozens of pictures and schoolboy
trophies on the walls peered dimly and interestingly to the callers.
Jack was properly introduced to Dolph Jones――a ceremony he considered
rather unnecessary, since he and Dolph in the rôles of candidate and
captain had already spoken to each other on the baseball diamond more
than once――and then sat comfortable and silent in one of the big
leather cushioned chairs while Dolph and Ted and Sam drew up around
the light and discussed the matter of the batting order for Saturday’s
game. Both Dolph and Ted were seniors, and, save in the matter of
complexion, looked to Jack very much alike. Later, however, he realized
that the resemblance was due more to the fact that they were each of
the same type than to any real likeness of feature. Dolph was seventeen
and Ted Warner eighteen, but there was scarcely a fraction of an inch
difference in heights, and each was tall, well-built and lean, with the
leanness of the boy who keeps himself in perfect physical condition.
Dolph was dark of hair and eyes, while Ted was decidedly light, his
hair being pale brown and his eyes something between blue and gray. On
the nine Dolph, who was captain, caught, and Ted played first base.
“Here’s the way; I had it fixed up,” Dolph was saying, referring as he
spoke to a paper in his hand. “Truesdale, Jones, Grady, Warner, Cook,
Smythe, Cassart, Watkins and Phillips. What do you think?”
“I’d have Harry Smythe bat first,” said Sam. “He’s a heap better on the
bases than Truesdale.”
“He’s faster,” said Ted, “but he takes risks at the wrong times.
Truesdale can draw a pass three times out of five, too. Then, with
Dolph up next he’s pretty sure of second on a sacrifice.”
“All right,” agreed Sam. “I see, though, you’ve got Cook down for left
field. Why don’t you give Jack here a chance? He’s every bit as good as
Cook.”
Dolph glanced at Jack and hesitated. Ted smiled, and then went to the
rescue.
“Cook’s had more experience, Sammy, and in a Boarders and Towners game
it’s a good idea to play fellows who have been through it before. You
see, Borden,” he added, turning to Jack, “everything goes in these
games, and it isn’t so much science that wins as it is keeping your
head. When you go to bat you’ll have thirty or forty idiots standing
around and yelling like Indians and doing everything they can to rattle
you. Still, Dolph, you might put Borden in for part of the game. I dare
say it’s a good experience for a fellow. If Borden can get through a
Towner game without getting rattled he can stand anything.”
“Don’t bother about me,” said Jack.
“That’s the ticket,” said Sam. “Put Jack in for the last four innings.
You needn’t be afraid of his getting scared. I’ve never seen anything
feaze him yet. He’s just about as nervous and fidgety as a granite
post!”
“All right,” laughed Dolph, making a memoranda on the sheet of paper.
“Borden goes in in the fifth. Heard anything, Sammy?”
“No, but something’s up; I’m dead sure of that. Gus goes around
grinning like a catfish all the time and Tyler smirks every time he
looks at me. I wonder what sort of a caper they’re up to this time.
Last year,” he went on for Jack’s benefit, “they got a chap named
Riley from somewhere and palmed him off as a Towner. At least, that’s
what they tried to do, but, of course, we got onto the dodge in a
minute.”
“Yes,” said Dolph dryly, “we got onto it after he’d knocked out a
three-bagger in the first inning and scored two runs!”
“I never even looked at him until he got to third,” said Sammy
ruefully, “and I guess you didn’t, Dolph.”
“Well, he puzzled me when he went to bat,” answered Dolph. “I thought I
knew all the fellows in school, but that chap was a total stranger. So,
as there were two men on bases, I signaled you to try him with a high
one, thinking he’d fan. Instead of that he reached up and got it and
sent it over left fielder’s head.”
“And pretty near won the game, too,” added Ted.
“What did you do to him?” asked Jack interestedly.
“Ran him off the field,” replied Dolph grimly. “The umpire called time
and we had a ten minute riot. The last we saw of Riley, though, he was
streaking it for town.”
“One year,” said Sam, “before any of us fellows got here, they moved
the first and second bags about four feet nearer each other than they
should have been, and the Boarders wondered why almost every Towner
that reached first got to second ahead of the throw!”
“It must be a funny sort of a game,” laughed Jack.
“It is,” Ted grinned reminiscently. “Remember last year, Sammy, when
they had men on second and third and needed two runs to tie the score?
And Wicks stood alongside Dolph and every time you pitched a ball he
yelled ‘_Drop it_’?”
“I remember it,” growled Dolph. “I didn’t mind it at first, but after
awhile I got so rattled I didn’t know where I was.”
“And when the ball did get by you finally you couldn’t find it,”
laughed Ted.
“Couldn’t find it! Of course, I couldn’t find it! Some one kicked it
into the crowd!”
“Did they score?” Jack asked.
“Two runs. But we hammered the stuffing out of the ball in the eighth
inning and won. What was the score, Ted?”
“Nine to six.”
“Nine to seven,” corrected Sam.
“Nine to six.”
“I’ll tell you.” Dolph pulled open a drawer in the desk, took out a
score book and found the game. “Nine to seven, Ted.”
“I stand corrected, gentlemen. Anyway, it was a peach of a game, all
right. I hope we’ll have as much fun this time. I suppose Mort Prince
will pitch for them.”
“They haven’t any one else that I know of,” said Sam.
“Well, he’s pitching pretty good ball this Spring so far,” said Dolph.
“But I guess we’ll have the better of the pitching argument with you in
the box.”
“They’ve got some good batters, though,” replied Sam. “Gus Turnbull,
Tyler Wicks, Dick Furst; Prince himself isn’t so bad with the ash.”
“I’m not afraid of what they can do with the bat,” said Ted. “It’s
their schemes for breaking up the game that worry me. They’ll probably
spring something brand new on us this time.”
“Well, we’re going to do a little rough-housing ourselves,” Sam smiled.
“About ten of the fellows will be there with tin horns and a drum and a
broken-winded cornet, and they ought to make some sensation!”
“Bully!” laughed Ted. “Music will be rendered by the Boarders’ Cornet
Band!”
“Executed, you mean,” said Dolph. “Well, then, this batting list is all
right, you think?”
“Sure,” said Sam.
“Don’t see how we can better it,” remarked Ted.
“Then I’m off for a line of study.” Sam arose and Jack followed his
example. “We’d all better keep our ears wide open and our eyes peeled
between now and Saturday. If we can find out what they’re up to maybe
we can get ready for them. I don’t half like the way Gus is grinning!”
“I’ve got a private detective on the job,” answered Dolph. “Young
Green, Midget Green, you know, came to me this afternoon and said he’d
heard that the Towners were going to do something this year that would
just give them the game. He didn’t know what it was, however; he’d just
heard some of the kids boasting. I told him to try and find out what
the Towners were up to and he’s hot on the trail now, I guess.”
“I suppose,” said Ted, “you promised him that if he found out anything
you’d let him chase balls in Finkler’s meadow for the rest of his
natural life!”
“Something of that sort,” agreed Dolph smilingly.
“Isn’t it possible to get hold of some of that field?” asked Jack. “I
heard the fellows talking about it this afternoon, and Sam says Finkler
won’t sell or lease or anything.”
“Wish we could,” said Dolph. “No, the old rascal has it in for us good
and hard. It’s a wonder he doesn’t stand down there with a shotgun and
keep us from getting the balls that go over there!”
“Has he been asked about it lately?” pursued Jack.
“Lately? Why, no, not for a year or so, I suppose. I guess Benny’s
tired of making him offers. The last time he offered old Finkler about
twice what the land was worth, I heard. What the school ought to do is
to get some land across the road and put the athletic field there. We
need a running track pretty bad, Borden.”
“So I should think. I was wondering whether if the fellows sort of got
together and agreed not to――to worry Mr. Finkler, or to trespass any
more, he wouldn’t rent a strip of that meadow to us.”
“You don’t know the old chap,” said Ted. “He simply won’t listen to
reason. I guess we’d all be glad enough to let him alone if he’d hand
over enough of that meadow to give us a decent athletic field.”
“Well, couldn’t we tell him that?” asked Jack earnestly. “It wouldn’t
do any harm to try, would it?”
“N-no, but I don’t believe I’d care to be the fellow to talk to him.”
This from Dolph.
“Oh, we couldn’t do anything,” protested Sam. “Benny would have to make
the offer. And I guess Benny is tired of it by this time. Never mind
about old Finkler now, Jack; come on home and put your nose in your
books.”
Back in Number 12, South, Sam remarked as he pulled his books toward
him: “I’m glad we worked Dolph to let you into the game, Jack. There’s
nothing like getting a start. You can play just as well as Cook if you
have a little more experience.”
“Well, I’m glad of the chance to play,” answered Jack, “but I don’t
like having to ask for it.”
“Huh!” Sam tried his fountain pen on his thumb nail and then wiped his
nail on his dark hair. “Modesty’s all right, Jack, as long as it don’t
interfere with getting what you want. All folks aren’t mind readers and
sometimes you’ve got to speak out.”
Having delivered this bit of philosophy Sam leaned his elbows on the
desk, got a firm grip of his hair with each hand and plunged into
French.
The weather began to warm up toward the last of the week, and Saturday
was like a day in the middle of May. There are no “hours” on Saturday
at Maple Ridge except for the Seniors, who have recitations from nine
to half-past ten. At eleven Dolph Jones got his Boarders team together
for an hour in order that the reconstructed nine might get accustomed
to its new formation. The loss of Gus Turnbull, Jim Curtis and Tyler
Wicks, all Towners, weakened the team not a little. The Towners would
not show up until just before the time set for the game, two o’clock,
and were doubtless holding practice this morning at the Fair Grounds.
Although the Boarders had done their best to discover what particular
brand of torture the enemy had invented for the occasion they had
learned nothing. Midget Green, the amateur sleuth, had utterly failed
in his mission and was much cast down thereby.
“We’ll just have to keep our eyes open,” said Ted Warner as he and
Dolph and some of the others talked it over before practice. “And
we’ll make sure, too, that they don’t monkey with the bases!”
Mr. Shay, the coach, not being on hand, Sam and Harry Smythe, the
shortstop, batted balls for the fielding practice, Hal Morris, a
substitute pitcher, taking Smythe’s place in the infield. Afterwards
there was batting practice, Sam pitching until just before twelve, when
a message called him away.
“It’s up to you, Hal,” said Dolph to Morris. “You’d better let yourself
out a bit. You may have to go in for awhile this afternoon.”
Shortly after twelve the fellows went back to the campus to get ready
for dinner. Sam wasn’t in the room when Jack got there, nor did he
return before dinner time. In the dining hall Sam’s seat was empty
when Jack went in and remained so when the latter had finished his
meal. Jack, however, thought little of it; doubtless Sam’s message
accounted for his tardiness. In the confusion succeeding dinner Jack
forgot all about his room-mate. With others of the players he watched
from the steps of School Building the formation of the line of march
to the field. Leading the procession was Pete Sawyer, a battered cornet
in his hands. Then followed the rest of the “band,” with a decrepit
snare-drum, several tin horns and some assorted instruments of torture
such as watchmen’s rattles, accordions and mouth-organs. A strip of
unbleached muslin with the inscription “Champions” lettered upon it
in fresh and sticky green paint was secured to two poles and borne
aloft. Old clothes were the proper regalia, and many of the fellows
had added to the color and picturesqueness of the occasion by turning
their coats inside out, while those who possessed any eccentric article
of apparel wore it. With a discordant riot of sound from the “band”
the procession, cheering and capering, moved off to the field and the
players followed laughingly to the gymnasium.
While they were changing into baseball togs a burst of noise summoned
them to the windows. The Towners had arrived. The nine marched ahead,
Ducky Drake leading the way in the rôle of drum major, with a bat in
lieu of baton. Then came the non-combatants and their village friends,
a good half-hundred boys all together. They shouted and jeered at the
players at the open windows and passed down the terrace path and out of
sight.
“There’s quite a bunch of them, isn’t there?” observed Jack.
“Yes,” replied Ted. “They bring their friends, you see. Say, where’s
Sammy? Isn’t he here?”
Jack looked around and shook his head.
“I haven’t seen him since he left the field.”
Ted stared.
“Well, some one must find him and tell him to hurry up. Joe, you’re
dressed. Run up to South and find Sam. Tell him to hurry it up, will
you?”
“He wasn’t at dinner,” said Jack, “so maybe he’s in hall now.”
“Yes, Joe, if you don’t find him in his room look in the dining hall,
will you? Only tell him to get a move on. What do you think of Sammy,
Dolph?” Ted continued as Joe Cassart sped away on his errand. “What
time does he think the game begins, I wonder.”
“Sam? Isn’t he here? Where is he? I haven’t seen him since practice.”
“Neither have I. You don’t suppose――――” Ted stopped and stared
incredulously at Dolph.
“Nonsense!” answered the captain impatiently. “He’s around somewhere.
Come on, fellows, and let’s go down.”
Nevertheless, Ted remained uneasy, and so, I suspect, did Dolph in
spite of his seeming confidence. Their appearance on the field was the
signal for a blare of music and cheering from the Boarders and groans
and cat-calls from the enemy. The rival camps were on opposite sides
of the diamond. A few boys were lolling in the grandstand, but the
majority clustered as near the foul lines as they could get in order
that their vocal and instrumental efforts at enlivening the contest
might have full sway. The Towners were at practice and so the Boarders
passed balls until their turn came to get on the diamond. Ted and Dolph
kept an anxious watch for Sam, but he didn’t appear, nor was there any
news of him. The Towners finished their warming-up and yielded the
field. Dolph summoned Midget Green, who, as always, was hovering as
near his hero as he could get, and whispered instructions in his ear.
Midget lit out for the campus, while many of the Towners, guessing his
errand, smiled broadly.
The umpire was Mr. Shay, the coach, and at two he called the Boarders
in. Dolph won the toss and selected the field.
“We’re not ready to start yet, though,” said Dolph. “We’re waiting for
Phillips. I’ve sent for him.” He spoke confidently enough, although his
gaze wandered anxiously toward the terrace path.
“It’s time to play,” said Morton Prince, captain and pitcher of the
Towners. “I insist, Mr. Umpire, that the game begin.”
“We’ll wait five minutes,” responded Mr. Shay.
Prince shrugged his shoulders and turned away.
“They’ve bought the umpire, fellows,” he announced with a laugh. “We
might as well go home.”
Shouts of “play ball!” came from the Towners. At that minute Joe
Cassart appeared breathlessly and drew Dolph aside. It was quite
apparent that something had gone wrong and both Towners and Boarders
ceased their shouting.
“I can’t find him anywhere, Dolph,” reported Joe. “He isn’t in his
room and he hasn’t been in dining hall. I went to the Residence, too;
thought he might have been called to see Benny; but Benny doesn’t know
anything about him. I looked everywhere.”
Dolph shrugged his shoulders hopelessly.
“They’ve got him,” he said. “They probably sent a decoy message and
Sammy walked right into the trap. There’s no use looking for him. We’ll
just have to go ahead without him. Hal, you’re in the box. Sam can’t be
found.”
The news spread instantly and shouts of anger arose from the Boarders.
“Kidnappers! Thieves! Let’s rush ’em!”
“None of that, fellows!” warned Dolph. “We’re here to play ball and
we’ll do it. And we’ll lick ’em in spite of all!”
These sentiments were greeted with a cheer, a loud peal from the cornet
and a frenzied beating of the drum. Good nature was restored. Dolph
sent his team into the field just as Midget Green put in an appearance.
“I――I can’t find him, please, Jones,” he stammered. “I――I looked
everywhere!”
“All right, Midget. Much obliged. We’re going to beat them without Sam.
You look after foul balls, like a good chap.”
“I will,” Midget beamed and ran to his position on the stone wall.
Morris began to pitch to Dolph, and Tyler Wicks, with bat in hand, came
across to the plate to start the game for the Towners.
“Aren’t you going to pitch Sam?” he asked innocently.
“You know mighty well we’re not,” growled Dolph as he tossed the ball
back to Morris. “Where’d you put him?”
“Put him?” Tyler grinned maddeningly. “Dolph, your suspicions wound me.”
“Do, eh? Well, you stand up here and see what happens to you, my
friend.” He stepped forward and launched the ball down to Grady on
second. “We’ll make you wish you hadn’t been so smart before we’re
through with you.”
Mr. Shay pulled his mask on and took up his position behind Dolph.
“Play ball!” he cried.