THE TRY-OUT
That Bill was delighted to find his former skill had not deserted him
goes without saying. It was tempered a bit by the fact that he had to
wear glasses, but that could not be helped.
“I wonder how Mr. Windam will take to ’em?” he asked his brothers as
they walked back to school together.
“He won’t care as long as you can pitch the way you did this
afternoon,” declared Cap.
“I wonder what Graydon will say?”
“I don’t see how he can say anything,” came from Whistle-Breeches. “Any
captain wants the best pitcher he can get.”
“And as for J. Evans Green, he’s the kind of a manager who wants to
see games won, and keep possession of the pennant,” declared Pete.
“There won’t be any kicking about the glasses, Bill. He’d let you wear
hoop-skirts if it made you play better.”
But there was objection to Bill when he appeared for practice wearing
the odd goggles, though it did not come from coach, captain or manager.
It was first voiced by Bondy Guilder, and some of his cronies.
“Why don’t you play a lot of men with crutches, and their arms in
bandages?” asked the rich youth with a sneer.
“I would if they could do better than some fellows I know who seem to
think a ball will bat itself and catch itself,” declared the captain
with energy, for there had been a slump in practice that day.
It even extended to Mersfeld the crack pitcher who issued passes to a
number of men and was hit more times than he liked to count.
“What’s the matter with you?” demanded the coach half savagely as the
scrub pulled over three runs in succession, and Mersfeld walked another
man to first. “Are you dreaming that this is a tennis match, or don’t
you want to play?”
“Of course I want to play!” was the reply, “only I can’t be at
top-notch all the while.”
“You’ve got to!” was the curt decision. “If you don’t do better than
this in the final try-out you’ll be a substitute instead of a regular.”
“And I suppose ‘Foureyes’ Smith will have my place?” suggested Mersfeld
with a sneer.
“It’ll go to the man who does the best work—four eyes or eight
eyes—rest assured of that. Now put some ginger into your pitching, if
you can!”
Stung by the words of the coach Mersfeld did a little better, and the
Varsity saved the game by a narrow margin. But there were many whispers
around the school and in the gymnasium that day there were strange
rumors of a shake-up in the team, rumors of the strong nines which the
Tuckerton Sandrim and Haydon schools had ready to put on the diamond to
battle for the pennant in the interscholastic league.
The opening of the season was not far off. Day by day the practice on
the Westfield diamond grew harder and more exacting. Bill had gotten
back all his former skill, and the little rest seemed to have done him
good, for his speed increased, and his curving ability was considered
remarkable by his friends. He had gotten used to the glasses which he
only wore when in the box, and he hardly noticed them at all.
Mersfeld, too, had taken a brace, and was doing good work, whereat
coach and captain were glad.
“I guess he’ll make out,” said Graydon one night when he and Mr. Windam
were talking over matters. “But I’m glad we have Smith to fall back on.”
“So am I. Smith may be first pitcher yet. When have you arranged for
the try-out game?”
“Day after to-morrow. We’ll play Mersfeld four innings on the Varsity
and then give Smith a show. That will be the test.”
There was so much interest in the try-out that almost as big a crowd
assembled on the diamond to witness it as usually was present at a
match game. Bill was a trifle nervous for he realized what he was up
against, and as for Mersfeld, that pitcher went about with a confident
smile on his face.
“Are you going to make it?” his friends asked him.
“Of course I am,” he assured them. “I’ll pitch against Tuckerton all
right Saturday.”
For the first league game was to take place then, and it was
unofficially announced that the players who made the best records in
this, the final try-out would have the honor of representing Westfield
on the diamond at the opening of the season.
“Play ball!” called the umpire, and Bill watched his rival take his
place in the box. How he longed to be there himself! But he knew his
turn would come, and he felt in his pocket to see if his precious
glasses were safe. Without them he would be lost, and he wished now
that he had had two pairs made for emergencies. He decided he would try
to locate the traveling astronomer and get another set.
The game opened up with a snap, and this was maintained right along.
Everyone was doing his best, for it was no small honor that was at
stake. There was no denying that Mersfeld did well for the first three
innings. There was only one hit off him, and in the fourth he struck
out two men in quick succession.
Then, whether it was a slump, whether he went stale, or whether it was
nervousness due to the fact that he was under close observation did not
manifest itself, but the fact remains that, after getting two men out,
he grew wild, passed one of the poorest batters, was hit for a three
bagger by the next, and when another got up, and knocked a home run,
there was pandemonium among the members of the scrub nine.
“What’s got into Mersfeld?” was the general inquiry.
Nobody knew, and when the fifth inning opened, with Bill in the box,
there was intense excitement. Bill adjusted his glasses and got ready
to pitch.
“Now watch Foureyes put ’em over!” sneered Bondy Guilder.
“That’ll do!” called Mr. Windam sharply. “This isn’t a match game, and
there’s no need of rattling one of our own men. Save your sarcasm,
Guilder, for Tuckerton!”
Bondy muttered something under his breath, and walked over to talk to
Mersfeld, who was darkly regarding his rival from the coaching line.
Bill was a bit nervous but as Cap had been sent in to catch the pitcher
grew confident as he saw the friendly face of his brother, and caught
the well-known signal for an out shoot.
Bill nodded in confirmation, drew back his arm, hesitated a moment,
wondered for one wild second whether he was still himself, and could
see to make the curve, and then—he threw.
“Strike one!” howled the umpire, and then Bill knew that he _was_
himself, and a fierce joy welled up in his heart. He caught the ball
Cap tossed back to him, and sent it stinging in again.
“Strike two!” was the reassuring call, and the batter pounded the plate
in desperation, for he had not before moved his stick.
He swung viciously at the next one, and—missed it clean.
“That’s the boy!”
“Go at ’em!”
“Put some more over like that!”
“Give the next one a teaser!”
Thus Bill’s friends encouraged him.
The try-out game went on, growing more fierce as each player struggled
to make a record. Bill was a marvel with the ball. But one hit was
registered off him during the five innings that he pitched. After the
contest there was a consultation among the captain, manager and coach
and it was announced to the anxiously waiting ones that Bill Smith
would pitch the first five innings of the opening game with Tuckerton,
with Mersfeld as second pitcher, while Cap Smith would catch for his
brother, and Dean Denby for Mersfeld.
“I told you that’s how it would be!” cried Whistle-Breeches clapping
Bill on the back with such heartiness that the pitcher’s glasses nearly
flew off.
“Boy, I’m proud of you!” spoke Cap fervently.
Mersfeld said nothing but there was a bitter feeling in his heart.
“An upstart Freshman!” he muttered as he passed by Bondy Guilder.
“That’s what,” agreed the rich youth, “and I’d like to see him taken
down a peg. Do you know how it can be done?”
“No,” replied the rival pitcher.
“Come here and I’ll tell you,” suggested Bondy, and the two walked
across the diamond arm-in-arm, talking earnestly, and the talk boded no
good for Bill Smith.