A GREAT HOME RUN
“Wow!” suddenly exclaimed Bill Smith, as he gave a start that nearly
upset the boat.
“What’s the matter, did you jab yourself?” asked Pete.
“Yep. Ran a hook into my thumb,” answered Bill, as he carefully
extracted the barb, while Pete, who was rowing, rested on the oars and
looked critically at the few drops of blood which oozed forth.
“Does it hurt?” he asked, rather needlessly.
“Does it hurt? No, I do this every day just for exercise!” retorted.
Bill sarcastically as he put the injured thumb into his mouth.
“Shouldn’t do that,” observed Pete.
“Do what; jab myself? Don’t you s’pose I know that, you amiable loon?”
“No, I mean put your bleeding thumb into your mouth. You are likely to
get germs in it.”
“In which, my thumb or my mouth?”
“Say, when you two fellows get through chinning, I wish you’d pass me
down the box of hooks. I want to put on a smaller one,” observed Cap,
who was getting his line ready. As he spoke he looked down into the
bottom of the boat, and asked:
“Who’s been eating crackers here?”
“Crackers? Nobody,” answered Bill. “Why?”
“Because there are a lot of cracker crumbs or bread crumbs under the
seat here, and—”
Cap gave a sudden start, and looked toward shore. There was a slight
movement in the bushes, and Beantoe and Spider who had been peering
eagerly out, withdrew their heads into the shrubbery.
“The water must be coming in now!” exulted Spider.
“Sure!” agreed his crony.
Cap was anxiously staring at the bottom of the boat. He put his finger
on a certain spot. The finger nearly went through a soft place, and a
second later some water began trickling in.
“By crimps! I’m on to their game!” cried Cap. “Quick, fellows! Those
cork floats from the box! Stuff ’em in the holes!”
“What holes?” demanded Bill, removing his thumb from his mouth that he
might speak the more plainly.
“The holes Spider and Beantoe bored, and then stuffed up with bread,”
answered Cap. “It’s an old trick. I suspected something when I saw
the crumbs. They didn’t clean ’em all up. Lively now! Cracky! Here’s
another hole. Hand over those corks, Pete, if you don’t want to swim
ashore. Quick now, and don’t let those fellows suspect. We’ll plug the
holes, and go on as if nothing had happened. Lucky we’ve got plenty of
corks.”
“Hey! There’s a lot of water coming in here!” called Bill.
“Keep quiet!” ordered his elder brother. “Plug it up. Don’t let on
that there’s anything wrong. Beantoe and Spider are on shore watching
us. I just saw the bushes moving, and there’s no wind, so they must be
there. Say, are you going to be all day with those corks, Pete?”
Thus livened up Pete passed back the box of bottle-stoppers. By this
time the bread in several holes in the boat had become soaked through,
and the water was coming in at a lively rate. But Cap and his brothers
worked fast. They could see by the little bulges, caused by the
swelling plugs of bread, where the holes were, and, soon they had them
all stopped up before enough of the river had entered to do any harm.
“Now row on, Pete,” ordered Cap. “I guess we went them one better this
time.”
“Say, my feet are getting damp,” objected Pete, for there was a little
puddle of water under his seat.
“Pity about you!” sneered Cap. “If it hadn’t been for me thinking of
these corks you’d be wet all over. Row on, now, and when we get around
the bend where those fellows can’t see us, we’ll sponge out. They’ll be
wondering why their trick didn’t work. Row on!”
And, as Pete rowed, sending the boat along the river, it was watched
by two very much puzzled lads on the bank. They wondered why the boat
didn’t sink.
“Say, I thought you said they’d have to swim ashore,” observed Beantoe
rather contemptuously to his crony.
“They will, in a minute. Maybe I pressed the bread in too hard, and it
takes a while to soak up. But the boat will sink in a few seconds.”
They resumed their watching, and, though they saw the three brothers
doing something in the boat, the hidden ones never dreamed that the
Smith boys were plugging up the holes with corks.
“It’s got to sink pretty soon now, if we want to see the fun,” observed
Beantoe, after an anxious pause.
“I think it’s going down some,” said Spider doubtfully, wondering
whether he had not worked the scheme right.
“Yes, it’s going down stream, to the fishing hole,” spoke Beantoe. “I
guess it’s all up with the joke.”
They realized that it was all over as far as they were concerned a few
minutes later, when the boat containing the Smith boys passed around
the bend and out of sight, apparently in as good a condition as it had
ever been, and not leaking a drop.
“Well, what do you know about that?” demanded Spider, as he got up and
stretched his cramped legs, for they had been crouching in the bushes.
“What do I know about it?” demanded Beantoe in accents of disgust. “I
know that you don’t know how to play a joke; that’s what I know. I
thought we’d see some fun, and watch those fellows have to swim ashore.”
“So did I, but—but something went wrong, or else they got on to the
game, and stuffed up the holes,” answered Spider, helplessly scratching
his head. “Come on, I’ll treat you to a chocolate soda.”
This somewhat consoled Beantoe, but there was anguish in the hearts of
the cronies when, that evening, as they were down at the post office
with the usual crowd of boys, the Smith brothers, who had returned from
a successful fishing trip, stepped up to the plotters.
“Here’s something for you and Spider, Beantoe,” remarked Cap, holding
out his hand.
“What is it?” demanded the stumbling lad, backing away, for he feared a
trick.
“Something to stop up holes in boats,” answered Cap, as he showed a lot
of corks.
There was a chorus of laughs for the Smith boys had told the story, and
the joke was distinctively on Beantoe and his crony. They slunk away,
and Spider had to stand treat for several more sodas before his chum
would forgive him for being led into a plot that was so easily turned
against themselves. It was some time before they again ventured to play
a joke on our heroes.
Meanwhile the baseball season was drawing to a close, and the
championship of the county league lay between Vandalia and Freeport. It
came to the final game, the play-off of a tie.
“Now fellows,” remarked Cap, one afternoon, as they journeyed toward
the diamond in Freeport, where the closing contest was to take place,
“we’ve just got to win to-day. It means the pennant for us.”
“And for Vandalia—if we lose,” added Pete, in a low voice.
“But we’re not going to lose, Sawed-off!” exclaimed Bill, as he swung
his pitching arm around to limber it up. “Are we, Cap?”
“Not much,” and the tall lad thumped his big mitt. “Don’t let anything
get past you to-day, Pete.”
“I won’t. Is Bateye going to play?”
“Yes, but he’s improved a whole lot. My! There’s a big crowd out!”
added Cap, as he neared the grounds and saw the great throng on the
stands, and scattered about the field.
“Hear ’em yell,” remarked Bill.
“Yes, Vandalia is out for blood to-day. Lucky we won the toss, and have
the game on our grounds. It’s a good part of the battle.”
The Smith boys were soon out on the diamond with their teammates,
doing some hard practice. The crowds increased for not only was there
an intense baseball fever in both towns, but, because of the natural
rivalry between the places, a game between Freeport and Vandalia,
always brought out a record-breaking attendance.
“Play ball!” called the umpire, and the game was on.
It was a hot contest from the very beginning, when Rube Mantell of the
Vandalias knocked out a two-bagger with the first ball Bill delivered.
“Oh wow! Pretty one! Pretty one!” yelled the crowd. “That’s a beaut!
Take third! Take third!” shouted some enthusiastic one, but the ball
was fielded in too quickly.
There was a grim look on Cap’s face as he gave the signal to his
brother in the box, and Bill nodded. He struck out the next man, who
was a heavy hitter, gave the following player his base on balls, and
struck out the third. The succeeding man knocked a hot liner which
Pete, at short, stopped, almost at the risk of his life, and a goose
egg went up in the first frame for Vandalia.
“Oh, not so bad; eh?” asked Cap, as Bill came in to the bench.
“No, but I nearly had heart disease when Rube whacked it that first
time.”
“Aw, that was an accident. He can’t do it again.”
Then Freeport went to bat and succeeded in getting one run over the
plate, much to the joy of her supporters. Vandalia duplicated this
in her second chance, and the game ran along to the seventh inning
without another run being chalked up.
“Here’s where we do something,” announced Jake Jensen, of the opposing
team, as he took his place, and swung his mushroom bat menacingly. But
he only fanned the wind, as did his successor.
Then Flub Madison knocked as pretty a three-bagger as was seen in
many a game, and before Bateye could get the ball in, the runner was
speeding away from the last bag. But, as he turned, Doc. Lutkin who was
covering third, limped to one side with an expression of pain on his
face.
“Flub has spiked Doc!” yelled Pete, running over to his friend. The
ball bounced in front of Doc, and Pete caught it, but Flub had seen it
coming, and was back on the bag. “You spiked him on purpose!” cried
Pete, drawing back his fist.
“I did not!” asserted Flub angrily. “He got in my way! I couldn’t help
it!”
“I saw you do it on purpose—you want to kill off our men!” went on
Pete menacingly, and there might have been a row, had not Cap run down
from home, and quieted his brother.
“I’m sorry,” said Flub contritely. “Are you much hurt, Doc?”
“Oh, I—I guess I can play,” answered the plucky lad, “but I can’t run.”
“We’ll let you have a runner,” proposed the captain of the Vandalia
nine. It was the least he could do. Doc’s foot was punctured in the
fleshy part, and, after it had been treated, the game went on. Flub
came in on a little fly by Nifty Pell, and that put the Vandalias one
run ahead whereat there was great rejoicing.
“We’ve got to do ’em now or never,” declared Cap grimly, when he and
his mates came up for their turn.
They tried hard, but fate was against them, though Bill was called out
at first on a close decision which even the crowd characterized as
“rotten.”
But it stood, and when that inning was over the score was two to one,
in favor of Vandalia.
“Well, we have one more look in, and then—” Cap paused suggestively.
“I can see that pennant going across the river,” announced Bateye
gloomily.
“Say, you never were any good at seeing things in the daytime,”
declared Bill. “You want to take another look, Bateye. We’re going to
win!”
There was a positiveness in Bill’s tones that seemed to infuse itself
into the spirits of his teammates. There was a brief consultation among
the Freeport players, and exhortation from the captain and manager, and
then the final inning began.
Vandalia played desperately—played for blood, and got it—in the shape
of one run, putting them two ahead. It was due to an error of the
centre fielder, who slipped when he had a nice fly in his hands, and
there was a groan of anguish. Then the Freeport players settled grimly
down, and Bill struck out three in succession.
“Three runs to win!” said Cap in tense tones as he took off his mask
and chest protector. “We’ve just got to get them.”
Pete brought in one, and after a desperate race when he was nearly
caught on third, Norton Tonkin landed another, sliding home in a cloud
of dust when the third baseman threw the ball to the catcher, just
above the latter’s head, which error tied the score.
“Now for the winning run!” said Pete, as his elder brother went to the
bat. But the chances were against the Freeport team getting it, as
there were two out, and the Vandalia pitcher was lasting well. Still
the score was tied and there would be another inning if Cap did not
make good.
“But I’m going to bring in a run,” he told himself grimly, as he rubbed
some dirt on his hands, and took a firm grip of the stick.
The ball came whizzing toward him. He was half minded to swing at it,
but a signal he had caught passing between the pitcher and catcher
warned him, and he let it pass.
“Strike!” called the umpire. Cap opened his mouth to say something, and
then thought better of it.
“You won’t fool me again,” he called to the man in the box, with a grim
smile.
“Whack!” That was Cap’s stick meeting the horsehide. Out sailed the
sphere, a long, low straight drive into right field—away out among the
daisies.
“Oh, wow!”
“Oh, pretty!”
“Oh, a sweet one!”
“Run, you old war-horse! Run, you scob! Run!”
“A homer! A homer!”
“All the way round! Come on in!”
These were some of the yells that greeted Cap’s performance. But he
did not stay to listen to them. On he sped for first and rounded the
initial bag with a swing that carried him well on to second.
On and on he went, running as he had never run before since he felt
that on him now depended the championship.
“Run! Run you lobster!”
“Run, you dear old goat!”
“Run, Cap, run!”
“Come on, boy! Oh, a pretty one!”
The grandstand was rocking and swaying with the stamping of feet. The
cheers were deafening. The Vandalia players were almost stupefied. The
Freeporters were dancing up and down in a wild delirium of joy.
The rightfielder was running after the ball like mad. He had picked it
up. He was throwing it in. Cap was speeding toward third. He had passed
it when the fielded ball was in the air. Could he beat it home?
That was what everybody wanted to know. On and on ran the player.
Nearer and nearer came the ball. The second baseman had it now. He
threw it toward the Vandalia catcher, who, with feet well braced apart
was waiting for it with outstretched hands.
Cap was almost exhausted. His legs felt like wooden ones, but they kept
going like the pistons of an engine.
“Come on, boy! Come on! Come on!”
“Oh you Cap!”
“Beat it! Beat it!”
Cap dropped like a shot and slid, feet foremost. The catcher reached
forward. There was a vicious “ping!” as the ball landed in his big mit.
There was a moment of intense anxiety. A cloud of dust hid catcher,
runner and umpire from sight.
And then, from this mist of dirt, in which three figures could dimly be
seen moving about, came this one word:
“Safe!”
Oh, what a howling there was! What cheers, what yells, what thumpings
on the back, what improvised war-dances, what shakings of hands!
For Freeport had won, almost on the last chance and had the pennant. No
wonder Cap Smith was overwhelmed with praise as he walked panting to
the bench.
“Say, I guess there’s something in those Smith boys after all,”
remarked Mr. Flint, who had torn his score card to bits as he wildly
whooped himself hoarse while watching the home run.
“Well, they might be worse,” conceded Mr. Henderson.