THREE OUT
Sam noiselessly closed the stairway door and subsided on the lower
step, a prey to disappointment. To win by Perkins was out of the
question, while to reach the stable end of the building, where the
stalls were, he would have to cross the room diagonally and be in
plain sight of Perkins the whole distance. Of course, he might do it
so quietly as not to be heard, but that was doubtful; and after he had
reached the stalls he might find himself unable to leave the building.
He must try for some other avenue of escape.
Back up the stairs he went and turned toward the loft in which was
stored the hay and grain. From this, at the front, was a gable with
two hinged doors through which the hay was brought from below with
rope and tackle. But the doors were closed and padlocked, and although
Sam searched about for the key it was not to be found. The only other
outlet was a window looking straight down into the service yard of the
house, and here again he would have to have a rope of some sort. That
put a new idea into his head and he started a search for something with
which to lower himself. And in the midst of it there was a noise below;
the sound of wheels and voices, and then the unmistakable entrance of
a carriage into the carriage house. There was an animated conversation
between Perkins and some one else, probably a coachman, and then the
horse was unhitched and led into the stable below. Sam retreated toward
the piled-up bales of hay, and scarcely a minute too soon, for the door
at the foot of the stairs opened and the coachman came up. Sam peeped
from his hiding place and saw the newcomer, a younger man than Perkins,
go along the entry and open the door of one of the rooms on the front
of the building. He left the door open behind him, and Sam could hear
him moving about and whistling a tune. Beneath, Perkins was taking the
harness off the horse. Now was Sam’s opportunity! He crept stealthily
to the stairway, and saw to his delight that the coachman had left the
door ajar. Down he went, step by step, and at the bottom peered out
into the carriage room. It was empty, and from beyond came the sound of
Perkins’s steps and the drag of harness. For a moment Sam hesitated.
Then he left his hiding place and started across toward the door. And
at the same instant Perkins appeared at the opposite corner of the room
with a bridle in his hand.
“Billy!” he shouted.
Sam did the first thing that occurred to him, which was to drop just
where he was. Perhaps had he made a dash for the door he would have got
safely away, but the advent of the stableman had startled him. Perkins
had his gaze fixed on a corner of the ceiling.
“Billy!” he called again.
There was an answering hail from upstairs and Sam seized the
opportunity to creep into the shadow of the brougham that had come in
and still stood in the middle of the floor.
“What time’s the master want the carriage?” asked Perkins.
“Three-thirty,” replied Billy from above. “I’ll take the sorrel, John.”
“All right.” Perkins walked to the door, humming a tune, and looked
out. After a moment he draped the bridle over the back of the chair
and seated himself again, rescuing his newspaper from the floor. Sam’s
heart sank. Perkins had only to look in his direction to see him, for
although his body was hidden by the carriage his legs showed beneath.
Well, if Perkins came for him on one side he would run around the
other. Once out of the stable, Sam believed himself a match for the
stableman, although running in one’s stocking feet was no great fun.
“John!”
It was the coachman’s voice, and he was evidently at his window.
“Hello!” answered Perkins. He left his chair and walked out on to the
drive. Like a flash Sam pulled open the door of the brougham, tumbled
himself in and softly closed it again. Huddled on the floor of the
carriage, he raised his head until he could see from the window.
Perkins was still standing outside talking up at Billy in the window.
As the brougham was tightly closed Sam missed what was said. Finally,
however, Perkins returned to his chair and his newspaper. There was
a clock in the carriage and it said ten minutes to three! Even if
he managed to get away he would miss most of the game, for it was a
good mile and a half back to Maple Ridge. He wondered what Perkins
would do were he to open the brougham door and make a run for it. Of
course the stableman had not the least right in the world to stop him,
but there was something in Perkins’s face that told Sam that Perkins
wasn’t greatly concerned about the rights of the matter. In short,
Perkins looked like a man who would do as he was told, no matter what
the consequences. There was nothing for it but to stay where he was
and await an opportunity to slip out undetected. The minutes passed
laggingly. Perkins finished one page of his paper and turned to the
next. It was very hot and stuffy inside the brougham, with a strong
odor of leather and upholstery. If only Perkins would go upstairs to
have a look for the prisoner! But Perkins apparently entertained no
doubts as to Sam’s whereabouts, congratulating himself, doubtless,
that the latter was causing so little trouble. Sam viewed the clock
again. It was five minutes past three. He changed his cramped position,
wishing he dared to curl himself up on the seat.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs and the coachman appeared, yawning.
Perkins put aside his paper, took up the bridle and went for the
horse. Had Billy followed him Sam was prepared to make his dash for
liberty. But Billy got a big feather duster and went over the brougham.
Sam wondered whether he would open the door and discover him. But he
didn’t. He confined his attentions to the outside of the carriage,
still yawning sleepily, and before he was through Perkins led the
sorrel in.
Sam smiled gleefully. If only he could remain unseen there on the
bottom of the brougham he could ride to the end of the drive, open the
door and jump out!
The sorrel was backed into the shafts and harnessed up. Billy took his
blue coat with the silver buttons from a peg and slipped it on.
“Did you dust the cushions?” asked Perkins. Sam’s heart stood still.
“Sure I did,” responded Billy untruthfully as he climbed to the box.
“Whoa, boy. All right, John.”
The carriage moved, turned and a flood of sunlight reached Sam. They
were outside the stable and moving slowly down the driveway! In the
front of the brougham was a wide pane of glass through which Sam could
see the box and Billy’s blue-clad back, and through which Billy, if
he cared, could see Sam! But Billy never suspected that he had a
passenger. As the drive made a turn Sam glanced back and saw Perkins
once more seated at the carriage house door with his paper in hand. Sam
grinned broadly. Then he untied his shoes and hurriedly thrust his feet
into them. There was no time to lace them up, for the carriage had
reached the gate. As Sam had expected, Billy turned the horse’s head
toward the business centre of town. Opening the door of the brougham
just as Billy clicked to the sorrel and the sorrel started into a trot,
Sam leaped lightly into the road and slammed the door behind him. Billy
turned startledly and pulled up his horse. But Sam was scudding in
the opposite direction as fast as his legs would carry him. At a safe
distance he turned and looked back. The brougham was still motionless
and Billy was gazing after his late passenger with open mouth. Sam
waved him a farewell and trotted on, chuckling enjoyably.
He had hoped that a trolley car would happen along and give him a
lift as far as the Maple Ridge road, but there was none in sight, and
a moment later Sam recollected the fact that he had no money and so
wouldn’t have got very far anyway. It was nearly half-past three now.
He no longer hoped to reach school in time to take part in the game.
All he did hope for was to arrive in time to confront Chesty Harris
and the others and, backed by the indignant Boarders, give them a bad
five minutes!
The sun was still pretty hot and the road was dusty and Sam heartily
wished that Billy had been going in this direction instead of the
other. He turned into the Maple Ridge road, pausing a moment at the
fountain there to have a drink. Then removing his coat and mopping his
face, he went on. He wasn’t trotting now, but he stepped out briskly
and, having found his second-wind presently, made good time. It was
well toward four o’clock when he entered the deserted campus at Maple
Ridge. That none of the fellows were in sight proved that the game was
still in progress, so Sam hurried by the gymnasium and down the terrace
walk. The crowd was too thick about the plate for him to see much,
but Watkins out in right field showed that the Towners were at bat.
So interested were the watchers in the contest that Sam joined them
unseen, and it was only when he pushed his way through the throng about
the plate that his advent was noted.
A wild cheer went up from the Boarders as Sam laid his hand on Dolph’s
arm, and they began to press around him. Questions fell thick, but Sam
waved them aside.
“They caught me this noon and locked me up in Chesty’s stable,” he said
shortly. “I just got away. How’s it going, Dolph?”
“Six to five in our favor,” replied Dolph succinctly. “First of the
ninth. Three on bases, none out, and Morris pitched to a standstill.
Can you go in?”
“Sure!” The light of battle flamed in Sam’s eyes. “Six to five, you
say? Let’s get at it!”
Sam shed his coat, tossed it to Midget Greene and walked toward the
plate. Over on the Towner’s bench the news of Sam’s arrival had
awakened first incredulity and then dismay. The bench emptied as the
fellows crowded up to see for themselves. But there was Sam as large as
life and twice as cheerful.
“How the dickens did he get out?” whispered Mort Prince to Dick Furst.
“Search me,” growled the other. “Where’s Chesty?”
Chesty was nearby, looking very shamefaced and explaining volubly to a
group of Towners that he couldn’t understand it at all!
“Well, he’s here,” said Drake disgustedly. “Seems to me you might have
kept him half an hour longer. I said all along it wasn’t safe to leave
him there with no one to look after him. They’ll beat us now; see if
they don’t. You make me tired, Chesty!”
“It wasn’t my fault,” protested Chester. “We had him locked up so he
_couldn’t_ get out! And Perkins was there watching him!”
“Well, he _is_ out, isn’t he?” demanded Milton Wales angrily. “What
have you got to say to that?”
Chester had nothing to say.
Hal Morris yielded the ball to Sam with a weary smile.
“I’m afraid I’ve got things in a mess, Sammy,” he said. “It’s one
strike and three balls on him. Gee, but I’m glad you’ve come. About one
more up would have completely finished me.”
“Well, you must have done good work, Hal, to keep those Indians down to
five runs. Run along now and don’t worry. I’ve got a score to settle
with these chaps.”
Sam waved Joe Williams out of the batsman’s box and proceeded to warm
up to Dolph. A couple of the balls he sped in were pretty wild, one
going by Dolph into the crowd, and the Towners howled derisively. After
all, Sam had had no chance to limber up, and, clever as he was, it was
well-nigh impossible for him to shut them out with three on bases and
none down! So the Towners took heart and shouted and sang and made all
the hubbub possible.
“Play ball!” commanded Mr. Shay. “One and three, Phillips.”
Back of first base Mort Prince was leaping and waving his arms in his
rôle of coacher, while across the field at third Dick Furst was doing
all he could to worry Sam. Tyler Wicks was on third, Coolidge on second
and Gus Turnbull on first. Sam looked over the field, smiled pleasantly
at Turnbull, who returned the smile in a rather sickly way, and then
gave his attention to Joe Williams at bat. Dolph crouched and gave the
signal.
“Come on now, fellows!” he called as he got into position for the
catch. “Out they go, one, two, three!”
Probably none of his team heard the remark, for Towners and Boarders
were once more engaged in their vocal war. But Williams heard and
his confidence, already disturbed by Sam’s appearance on the mound,
suffered a further relapse. Sam settled his toes in the soil, twirled
his arms and shot the ball away. Williams let it go by, as he should
have with three balls to his credit, and yelled a protest when the
umpire called it a strike. The Boarders yelled gleefully. Williams
gripped his bat tighter and began to swing it nervously over the plate
while he awaited the next delivery. This, he argued, was bound to be a
good one, for if not it would force in a run. Dolph gave the signal,
but Sam shook his head. Dolph gave a new signal and Sam nodded. Sam
knew pretty well what Joe Williams would do in a crisis of this sort.
He knew that Joe would expect a straight ball and would try for it. And
as Joe was a fairly good hitter it was more than likely that he would
connect with it. So Sam sent him a ball that looked very, very good
until it was almost at the plate. Then, as Williams swung at it, it
settled into a drop and the bat went harmlessly over it.
“Strike! He’s out!” called Mr. Shay.
Howls of delight from the Boarders and of disappointment from the
enemy; peevish remarks from Williams as he dragged his bat away to the
bench; redoubled noise and confusion from the coachers.
“One gone!” called Ted at first.
Peters, the Towners’ third baseman, was the next batter, and Peters was
an open book to Sam. Sam put the first one over, and Peters, just as
Sam had expected, let it go by without an offer. Then Sam tried a high
one and Peters scoffed at it. Sam followed this with a slow ball that
cut the corner of the plate. Mr. Shay called it a ball and Sam turned
and regarded him sorrowfully.
“That’s two!” yelled Prince. “Pick out a good one, old man, and just
meet it! Make him pitch to you!”
The next delivery looked like the last, but it swung in at the right
moment and the umpire called: “Strike! Two and two!” Dolph gave the
signal and then held his hands wide apart.
“Now, then, right over the plate, Sammy!” he called. “He can’t hit it!”
Peters smiled craftily. If Dolph asked for one over the plate it meant
that the ball would be a wide one, he argued. He was all ready for it
in case it should be good, of course, only he wasn’t going to be fooled
as easily as that!
“Strike! He’s out!”
“_What?_” Peters stared open-mouthed at Mr. Shay. “It was over my
shoulder! Gee, that’s a roast!”
But the batsman’s protest was drowned by the roar of joy from the
Boarders.
“Two down!” called Dolph.
“Two gone!” yelled Ted.
“Next man!” cried little Smythe, smiting fist into mitt. Sam beckoned
the fielders in as Milton Wales stepped to the plate. Wales was a heavy
hitter and Sam’s show of confidence in calling the fielders in made
Wales scowl. Sam smiled at him sarcastically as he rubbed the ball on
his trousers.
“Where’ll you have it, Milt?” he asked.
“Anywhere I can reach it,” answered Wales angrily.
“Give him a good one,” called Dolph.
Sam nodded carelessly and shot a high ball that sent the batter
staggering back from the plate.
“Don’t hit him!” begged Dolph.
The next one looked pretty good and Wales swung at it. There was a
crack as bat and ball met and in an instant he was racing to first and
Wicks and Coolidge were streaking for the plate. But the ball, a hard
and low fly, came to earth in Finkler’s meadow, a foul by many yards.
“Foul! Strike!” called Mr. Shay, tossing a new ball to Sam. Sam waited
while Wales walked back to the plate.
“Try again, Milt,” he said as the Towner went past him. Wales scowled.
The tumult had subsided, for both sides were far too excited to shout.
Wales picked up his bat again and stepped into the box. Dolph gave his
signal. Sam wound himself up and pitched a wide one that was nowhere
near the plate. But Wales, angry and nervous, stepped out and almost
struck at it. Sam smiled as he leaned down to rub his hand in the dirt.
He had learned what he wanted to know. Wales was “up in the air.”
Sam had no doubt now of the outcome. He refused Dolph’s next signal,
put his fingers to the brim of his cap, got his reply from Dolph, a
cheerful “Now then, Sammy!” and hurled the ball. Straight as an arrow
it shot, right across the plate, waist-high, as beautiful a strike as
ever was pitched. And Wales knew that it was good and slugged at it,
and missed it clean! What a yell of triumph went up from the Boarders!
“He’s easy, Sammy!” shouted Dolph as he returned the ball. “Give him
another one like that!”
Sam nodded nonchalantly, cast his gaze about the bases, smiled at the
anxious faces of Prince and Furst and then turned and spoke to Mr.
Shay.
“Time!” called the umpire.
“What for?” shrieked Mort Prince.
“I want to tie my shoe,” replied Sam sweetly, as he knelt and went
through the motions.
“He’s delaying the game!” cried Prince. “I protest, Mr. Umpire.”
Sam arose, picked up the ball and nodded.
“Play!” said Mr. Shay.
But still Sam was in no hurry. He put his head on one side and studied
Dolph’s signal intently, thought it over for a moment and then shook
his head. Dolph tried again and again Sam pondered. All this time Wales
was swinging his bat more and more nervously, the Towners were hurling
insults and protests and Prince was dancing with rage. At last Sam
nodded, threw his arms up very slowly and stepped forward and launched
the ball. It was a slow one. Wales leaned forward, his bat poised. An
instant of suspense. Then he swung. There was a thud as the ball struck
Dolph’s mitt and the next moment the crowd was over the diamond. Wales
had struck out!
They caught Sam before he could run, and, high on the shoulders
of three Boarders, he went swaying and bobbing up the hill to the
gymnasium, the rest of the team following in similar fashion amidst
a tumult that made all previous efforts seem weak and futile. The
Boarders had won, 6 to 5, and they meant that the world should know it!