[Illustration: SAFE AT HOME]
THOSE SMITH BOYS
ON THE DIAMOND
OR
NIP AND TUCK FOR VICTORY
BY
HOWARD R. GARIS
_Author of
Uncle Wiggily and Alice in Wonderland, Uncle Wiggily
Longears, Uncle Wiggily and Mother Goose,
Uncle Wiggily’s Arabian Nights_
[Illustration]
MADE IN U. S. A.
M·A·DONOHUE·&·COMPANY
CHICAGO NEW YORK
Made in U. S. A.
COPYRIGHT, 1912 BY
R. F. FENNO & COMPANY
_Those Smith Boys on the Diamond_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I A CLOSE GAME 9
II A FIRE DEPARTMENT RUN 19
III A LEAKY BOAT 30
IV A GREAT HOME RUN 39
V OFF FOR WESTFIELD 50
VI A LIVELY HAZING 58
VII MOVING THE SENIOR STONE 69
VIII ORGANIZING THE NINE 77
IX BILL IS HIT 84
X THE DOCTOR’S VERDICT 91
XI MEETING AN OLD FRIEND 96
XII PROFESSOR CLATTER’S PLAN 105
XIII BILL IS HIMSELF AGAIN 113
XIV THE TRY-OUT 125
XV THE CONSPIRATORS 131
XVI CAUGHT 136
XVII BILL’S PITCHING 141
XVIII A PLOT AGAINST BILL 154
XIX THE PROFESSOR’S WARNING 160
XX THE PLOTTERS CAUGHT 171
XXI AN INTERRUPTED SUPPER 181
XXII HITTING A BULLY 190
XXIII THE FIGHT 197
XXIV THE KIDNAPPED PITCHER 203
XXV TO THE RESCUE 211
XXVI JUST IN TIME 219
XXVII A SCRIMMAGE 230
XXVIII THE GLASSES ARE GONE 235
XXIX MERSFELD IN THE BOX 239
XXX BILL’S FALL 245
XXXI “PLAY BALL!” 250
XXXII NIP AND TUCK FOR VICTORY 257
XXXIII WINNING THE PENNANT 263
THOSE SMITH BOYS ON THE
DIAMOND
OR
NIP AND TUCK FOR VICTORY
THOSE SMITH BOYS ON THE DIAMOND
CHAPTER I
A CLOSE GAME
“Come on now, Bateye, soak it in!”
“Say, are you going to hold that ball all day?”
“What’s the matter with you; didn’t you ever see a horsehide before?”
“Oh, for the love of Mike! Throw it! Throw it! Do you want to give ’em
a run?”
“That’s the way! Wake up, Bateye!”
These were only a few of the expressions and questions hurled by the
other players at Bateye Jones, the Freeport rightfielder, who, after
running back to recover a ball that had passed high over his head, was
holding the sphere for a moment until he had made sure of the position
of the runner, Jake Jensen, of the Vandalia team.
“Throw it! Throw it! You can take a picture of it after the game!”
howled Captain John Smith of the Freeport nine, as he danced about
behind home plate, and saw Tom Evans come in from third, and noticed
Jensen legging it around from second.
Bateye threw, and, mingling with the cries of the players and the yells
of the crowd, there were groans of anguish as the ball passed high over
the second baseman’s head, who jumped for it in vain.
Bill Smith, the wiry little pitcher, made a successful grab for the
horsehide as it bounced on the ground, captured it, and hurled it to
third, just in time to catch Jensen there.
“Out!” yelled the umpire.
“Aw, say, I beat it a mile!” protested the panting runner. “What’s the
matter with you, Foster?”
“Out,” said the umpire again, waving his hand to indicate that Jensen
was to leave the bag.
“Say, I’ll leave it to anybody if I—”
“Come on in,” invited Rube Mantell, captain of the Vandalias in a weary
tone, and Jake shuffled to the bench.
“Mighty lucky stop, Bill,” called Pete, or “Sawed-off” Smith, to his
brother the pitcher. The small-statured lad again took his position at
short stop which he had left for a moment. “I wonder what’s the matter
with Bateye to-day? That’s the second error he’s made.”
“Oh, I guess he got a bit rattled with so many howling at him,” spoke
Bill good-naturedly. “Come on now, Pete. There are two down, and we
ought to wallop ’em easy when it comes our turn. Watch me strike Flub
Madison out.”
Bill, who was the best pitcher the Freeport team had secured in
several seasons, again took his place in the box, while his brother
John, or “Cap” from the likeness of his name to that of the old Indian
fighter, resumed his mask, after shooting a few indignant looks in the
direction of the unfortunate Bateye Jones.
“He’s got to improve if he wants to stay on the team,” murmured Cap
Smith as he waited for the next ball. “I s’pose he’ll excuse himself by
saying the sun was in his eyes, or something like that. Or else that
he can’t see well in the daytime. He certainly can see good at night.
Old Bateye—well, here goes for the next one,” and Cap plumped his fist
into the big mitt, and signalled to his pitching brother to send in a
slow out curve to Flub Madison who took his place at the plate.
It was the ending of the eighth inning, and the score was seven to
six, in favor of the Freeport lads. The game was far from won, for
their opponents were playing strong, and still had another, and last,
chance at the bat. To win meant much for the team on which the Smith
Boys played, for they wanted to capture the championship of the County
League, this being one of the last games of the season.
“One ball!” hoarsely called the umpire, as Bill unwound, and sent the
horsehide sphere plump into the mitt of his older brother.
Cap looked an indignant protest, and hesitated as he tossed the ball
back. It was as clean a strike as could be desired, but it was not the
first time the official had favored Vandalia that day. The game was on
their grounds, and the rivalry that existed between the two cities,
located on either side of the Waydell river, was carried even into
baseball.
“Make him give you a nice one, Flub,” called some of his friends.
“He’ll walk you, anyhow,” added another sarcastically.
Bill Smith gritted his teeth but said nothing. He shook his head as
his brother signalled for the same kind of a ball, and sent in a swift
drop. Flub bit at it, and swung viciously.
“Strike one!” sounded sweet to the ears of the pitcher and catcher.
There was a vicious “ping” as the next ball was sailing over the
plate, and for a moment the hearts of the Freeport nine and the hopes
of their supporters were like lead, but they turned to rejoicing an
instant later, as they saw the ball shoot high over the extreme left
grandstand, and disappear.
“Foul strike!” called the umpire, as he tossed a new ball to Bill.
Cap signalled for the fast drop, and his brother nodded in assent.
“Three strikes! Batter out!” was yelled a moment later and Flub threw
down his stick in disgust, and walked toward the outfield.
“Now’s our last chance!” exclaimed Bill to John, as he came running
in, while the teams changed places. “We ought to get at least three
runs—in fact we need ’em if we’re going to win, for they’ve got three
of their best hitters up when they come for their last dips. But if we
can get a lead of four runs we’ll be all right.”
“Yes, we’ll be all right if Bateye doesn’t go to sleep again,” grumbled
Cap. “Say, what’s the matter with you?” he demanded as the unlucky
rightfielder filed in.
“Why—er I—that is I—”
“Oh, out with it! You’re holding that talk as long as you held the
ball. Don’t do it again!” and Cap, who never could be ill-natured for
very long, condescended to smile, while Bateye promised to do better in
the future.
“Now Doc, show ’em how to make a home run,” suggested Pete, as Harry or
“Doc” Norton, dubbed with the medical term by virtue of his father’s
profession, came up to the bat. Doc tried hard, but only got a single.
He was advanced to third when Norton Tonkin rapped out a nice two
bagger, but that was as far as luck went for the Freeport nine that
day. The next three players struck out under the masterly pitching of
Nifty Pell, and the three Smith Boys did not get a chance.
“Well, we’re one run to the good. If we can hold ’em down the game’s
ours,” observed Pete, as he walked out with his brothers, followed by
the rest of the team. “It’s up to you, Bill.”
“I know that, Sawed-off,” was the answer. “I’ll do my best, but I can’t
play the whole game. Crimps! But I _would_ like to win this game!
They’ve been making so many cracks about putting it all over us!”
“We’ve _got_ to win!” said Cap Smith fiercely. “We need this to help us
get the pennant. Don’t get nervous Bill, and you can do ’em. Try that
up shoot on Scurry Nelson.”
The last half of the ninth inning began. There were agonized appeals
from the Vandalia supporters for the nine to cinch the tying run, and
then to bring in half a dozen more for good luck.
“They shan’t do it, if I can help it!” murmured Bill Smith
half-savagely, as he took his place.
Noticing the manner in which Bill stung in a few practice balls his
brother behind the plate smiled happily.
“Bill hasn’t lost any speed,” he thought gleefully.
Scurry Nelson swung with all his force at the first ball, and his bat
passed neatly under it.
“Strike one!” came from the umpire, as if it made no difference to him.
“Only two more!” howled the supporters of the Freeport nine. “You can
do it, Bill!”
Bill tried the same kind of a curve again, and got away with it, but on
the third attempt, after giving a ball on purpose, he heard the fatal
“ping” and a swift grounder got past Pete.
There were groans of dismay from part of the crowd, accompanied by
howls of delight from the other half, as Scurry landed on first. Bill
felt his heart wildly beating, and Cap thumped his big glove viciously.
The Vandalia team on the bench was in transports of joy. Already
they saw their enemies vanquished. Bill calmed himself by an effort,
and even smiled as he faced Buck Wheeler the next man up. Buck was a
notoriously heavy hitter and it seemed as if he would knock the cover
off the ball when he swung at the first one Bill sent in. Only he
didn’t hit it.
And he didn’t hit the next two, either, though he made desperate
efforts to do so, and there was not quite so much elation on the faces
of the Vandaliaites as the next man got up. He knocked a little pop
fly, which Bill caught with ease making two out and, as quick as a
flash the pitcher turned and threw to second, toward which bag Scurry
was legging it for all he was worth. Bill was just a second too late,
however and the runner was safe.
“Two down! Only one more, and the game is ours!” came the encouraging
yells from the grandstand where the Freeport supporters were crowded.
Bill smiled happily and got ready for the next man, at the same time
watching Scurry on second. The following player was Will Longton, and
had a high batting average. There was a smile of confidence on his face
as he stepped to the plate.
Bill sent in a puzzling twister, and Will smiled as he refused to bite
at it.
“Ball,” called the umpire.
“Take it easy! He’s afraid, and he’ll walk you,” was the advice Will
got. He was still smiling confidently when the next ball whizzed past
him.
“Strike,” came from the umpire, with obvious reluctance, since he
wanted to see his friends win. Will looked an indignant protest at the
official, and rubbed some dirt on his hands, so that he might better
grip the bat.
“Watch him soak the cover off!” howled an enthusiastic admirer.
Longton did hit it, but only a foul resulted, and Scurry, who had
started for third, had to come back.
“You know how to do it, Bill,” called the catcher to his brother,
giving him a sign. Bill nodded, and the next instant, amid a breathless
silence a swift ball shot from his hand, straight for the plate.
With an intaking of breath Will Longton swung at it with such force
that he turned completely around, and the look of astonishment on his
face was mirth-provoking, as he realized that he had missed.
“Pung!” went the ball as it settled into the pit of Cap Smith’s glove,
and the voice of the umpire, as he called “Three strikes—batter out!”
was lost in the howl of delight that welled up from grand stands and
bleachers as the crowd realized that Freeport had held their opponents
down in the last inning, and had won the game. What if it was only by
one run? One run has often won a league championship.
“Great work, Bill!” cried Pete as he ran in, clapping his brother on
the back.
“That’s the stuff!” agreed Cap, as he hugged the pitcher. “We did
’em! Come on now, we can catch the next boat across the river if we
get a move on,” and the Smith boys, followed by the rest of the team,
hastened to the dressing rooms, stopping only long enough to return the
cheer which their opponents gave them.
The crowd was surging down from the stands, talking about the close
game, discussing the best plays, arguing how if such a man had done
differently the result would have been changed, and speculating as to
Freeport’s and Vandalia’s chances for winning the pennant.
“What are you fellows going to do to-night?” asked Bateye Jones a
little later as he stood talking with his chums, the Smith Boys on the
little ferry boat which ran across the river from Vandalia to Freeport.
“Nothing special, I guess. Why?” inquired Bill.
“What do you say if we give the fire department a run?”
“Give ’em a run?” asked Cap with a puzzled air. “What do you mean?”
“Why they haven’t been out in nearly two weeks, and they’re just
waiting for a chance to show off their new uniforms, and try the new
chemical,” spoke Bateye. “I say let’s give it to ’em.”
“How?” asked Pete, who detected a gleam of fun in the half-closed eyes
of the lad who had such a habit of being out nights, and such a reputed
ability to see in the dark, that it had gained him the name of Bateye.
“How you going to do it?”
“Easy. Come over here, and I’ll tell you. Come on, Doc, and you, too,
Norton.”
The two lads thus addressed, together with the Smith boys, moved
forward on the little boat.
“I saw Spider Langdon and Beantoe Pudder looking at us,” explained
Bateye, when they were safe in a corner of the craft, “and I didn’t
want them to get on to us. Now here’s my scheme. We can have some fun,
and, at the same time give the department a chance to show off,” and
with that Bateye began to whisper the details of his plan.
It did not take long to disclose it, and at the conclusion he asked:
“Will you do it, fellows?”
“Will we? Will a cat eat warm milk?” demanded Pete, as if there was no
question about it.
“But say, there won’t be any come-back, will there? We got into trouble
enough with the railroad people, and by flying our kite with Susie
Mantell on the tail of it last year, so I’m not looking for any more,”
said Cap Smith solemnly.
“Oh, this will be all right,” Bateye assured them. “Now I’ll come over
about eight o’clock, and make a noise like a tree toad. Then you come
out. But lock up Waggles, your dog, or he might give the scheme away.”
“We will,” promised Bill, and then the boat tied up at the wharf, and
the ball players in advance of the crowd rushed off.
“Say, I’ll bet there’s something doing,” said Beantoe Pudder to Spider
Langdon, as they followed the throng.
“Why?” asked the long legged lad, who was nicknamed “Spider.”
“Because I saw those Smith Boys and Bateye talking together, and—” but
at that moment Sam Pudder stumbled and would have fallen, had not his
chum caught him.
“There you go again, Beantoe!” exclaimed Spider, as he helped him
regain his balance. “What’s the matter with you?”
“It’s these new shoes, I guess,” and Beantoe, who owed his title to his
habit of stumbling, limped along. “But as I was saying, I saw the Smith
fellows and Bateye and Doc talking together. There’s something doing.
Let’s watch and see what it is,” he concluded.
“All right, I’m with you. We’ll hang around to-night, and maybe we
can spoil their game,” and the two cronies who, among other things in
common, had a dislike for the Smith Boys and their friends, hurried
along, whispering together.
Meanwhile the members of the Freeport Volunteer Fire Department were
all unaware of the plot brewing against them.