THE KIDNAPPED PITCHER
“What’ll you say when he asks you what’s up?” asked Whistle-Breeches.
“Guess I’ll have to tell the truth,” answered Cap.
“Couldn’t you say you ran into the fence catching a foul ball?”
inquired Bill.
“Nothing doing,” was his brother’s retort. “The doctor would guess
right in a minute. Besides, I wouldn’t fake it that way.”
“Of course not. I was only joking. Well, he’ll be here in a second.
He’s looking at us as if undecided whether we were Greek roots or some
Sanskrit characters. Maybe he’ll pass us up,” went on Bill.
“No such luck!” groaned Pete. “Pull your cap down farther over your
eyes, and maybe he won’t see the bruise.”
But all the efforts of the lads were seemingly to go for naught. The
venerable president, squinting at them through his thick spectacles,
smiled in a friendly fashion, as he came nearer. The students halted
and touched their caps.
“Ah, boys, just coming from a game?” inquired Dr. Burton.
“Yes, sir,” answered Whistle-Breeches, who, being slightly taller than
Cap, had stepped in front of him.
“Ah, and who won, may I ask?”
“We—er—that is we didn’t finish,” answered Bill, hoping to draw
attention away from Cap.
“The season has opened well, I hope,” went on the doctor. “And there
are good chances for keeping the pennant here, I trust?”
“We’re going to try hard,” put in Pete, who, being on the other side,
trusted to draw the attention of the president farther away from his
brother. As for that hero he remained quiet.
“Pull your cap farther down!” again advised Bill in a hoarse whisper.
Whether it was that or whether he would have noticed it anyhow, the
eyes of the president went straight to Cap’s bruised countenance. He
saw the blackened eye, and the cuts and scratches.
“Ah, there has been an accident, I see,” he remarked, and he advanced
closer to the lad.
“Er—yes—that is I—”
“Cut it out,” whispered Bill, nudging his brother in the back.
“Hit by a ball, I suppose,” went on the president. “And yet they say
baseball is comparatively harmless. Why, you look almost as if you had
been through a football scrimmage, Smith.”
“Ye—yes, sir,” stammered Cap.
“Better have it attended to right away,” continued Dr. Burton. “That
eye looks very painful.”
“It is,” murmured Cap.
“And you had better wear a stronger mask,” were the doctor’s parting
words, as he turned aside. There was a queer smile on his face, and
his eyes twinkled behind his glasses. He opened his book at the place
where a cautious finger had kept the pages apart, and passed on.
“Talk about luck!” exclaimed Whistle-Breeches hoarsely. “He never even
suspected that there’d been a fight. Oh, you Cap!”
“Suspected!” burst out Bill. “I’ll bet he knows all about it!”
“He did not!” declared the other lad. “Why, he’s so interested in that
book that I don’t believe he remembers now whether he spoke to us or
not.”
“He doesn’t; eh?” exclaimed Bill. “Say, he went off reading his book
upside down, and if that doesn’t indicate that he’s on to our game, and
is laughing at our attempts to keep it from him, I’d like to know what
it does mean?”
“Was his book upside down?”
“Surest thing you know. Say, what the doctor doesn’t know wouldn’t
cover a postage stamp. But it was white of him not to let on. You’re
lucky, Cap!”
“Yes, regular Smith luck,” put in Whistle-Breeches.
“Well, don’t take any chances. Cut away to your room. I can get you
some raw beefsteak for the optic.”
“An oyster is better,” declared Pete, and they scientifically discussed
the various merits of the two.
“If we had Professor Clatter here he’d paint it with some eye dope and
Cap would look all to the merry.” suggested Bill. But the traveling
medicine man was not available, and Cap had to do the best he could.
It was some days before he was decently presentable and North was just
as bad. Of course the faculty must have suspected the reason for the
darkened eyes and bruised faces, but as there was no official report
or complaint, nothing was said of it, and the matter was dropped.
The upper classmen took up the question, and a sort of truce was
patched up between Cap and the bully, but though North professed to be
friendly there was a sullen look in his eyes, and Cap knew he would do
him a bad turn if he got the chance. Mersfeld and North were thicker
than ever, and the Smith boys agreed among themselves to be on their
guard.
Meanwhile there was baseball a plenty. Some league games were played,
and a number of minor contests took place. It was drawing close to the
time for the annual Freshman battle on the diamond with Tuckerton, and
this game was always a hotly contested one, and eagerly looked forward
to by the first year students and their friends.
“We stand a better chance to win this time, than ever before,” remarked
Armitage, who was captain of the first year team. “We’ve got Bill to
pitch, and he’s a wonder.”
The Varsity twirler did occupy the box for the Freshmen nine, and no
objection had been raised to this arrangement until nearly time for the
Tuckerton game. Then the nine of that school sent in a formal protest,
objection to Bill on the ground that though a first year lad, he was
not properly a member of the Freshman team, since he was the Varsity
pitcher.
“Well, we’ll just ignore that objection, and if they don’t want to
play with Bill in the box we’ll claim the game by forfeit,” decided
Armitage. The dispute waxed hot and an appeal was taken to the student
body which governed athletics among the members of the school league.
They decided that Bill could pitch.
“Well, he won’t if we fellows have any spunk,” declared Borden, the
Tuckerton captain.
“Spunk? How do you mean?” asked Swain, the pitcher.
“I mean that we can put up a game on him so that he can’t pitch against
us, and they’ll have to put in Potter, the substitute. We can knock
_him_ out of the box, but Bill Smith is no easy mark. It means losing
the game for us to bat against Bill.”
“But what can we do?” asked Swain.
“Get Bill out of the way the day before the game.”
“How?”
“Kidnap him, of course. Spirit him away, and keep him in cold storage
until we win. Are you game?”
“Can it be done?” asked Swain.
“Of course. I’ll arrange it, if you fellows will help.”
“Certainly we will, but how is it to be done?”
“Easy enough. We’ll just meet him in the dark on the road, bundle him
into my auto, and take him to a quiet place where he can’t get away.”
Borden was a rich youth, and had an automobile which he had brought to
school with him.
He went more into detail about his plan, and after realizing that it
would mean losing the game if Bill pitched against them, his teammates
somewhat reluctantly agreed to the scheme. They thought they were
within their rights for they totally disagreed with the finding of the
governing body that Bill was entitled to pitch as a Freshman, even
though he was on the Varsity.
“Suppose they find out we did it, and take the game from us even after
we win?” suggested Cadmus, who was the Tuckerton Freshman catcher.
“They’ll never discover it,” boasted Borden. “They’ll lay it to some of
the Sophs or Juniors at Westfield, and Bill will never recognize us for
we’ll wear masks.”
“All right, we’re with you,” decided his chums. “Now for the details.”
These were soon settled. It was agreed that Bill should be captured the
night before the game, when there would be little chance that he could
be rescued in time to play.
“But how will we get hold of him,” asked Cadmus.
“I’ll send him some sort of a message,” replied Borden. “I’ll write a
note, in a disguised hand, and ask him to call at a certain place in
the village. We’ll be on the lookout and when he goes past that lonely
stretch of woods, on the main road we’ll grab him, run him off in my
car to a place I know of, and leave him there.”
“Suppose some of his brothers or friends come with him?” Swain wanted
to know.
“Oh, well, we can get away with Bill before they realize what’s up. You
fellows want everything too easy.”
When, on the night before the game with Tuckerton, Bill Smith received
a note, asking him to call at a certain hotel in the village, there
to talk over baseball matters, the pitcher showed the missive to his
brothers.
“Looks sort of fishy,” decided Cap.
“What name is signed to it?” inquired Pete.
“Just says ‘Baseball Crank,’” was the reply. “I think it’s a joke.”
“Are you going?” asked Whistle-Breeches.
“Might as well. But I’m going to go easy, and take a look around before
I go inside. Maybe I can turn the tables.”
“Tell you what we’ll do,” broke in Cap.
“What?”
“We’ll all go with Bill. Then, if there’s any trouble we can help him.
Maybe North or Mersfeld put up this game.”
“That’s right,” agreed Bill. “I’ll be glad if you fellows will come
along, though it may be straight after all.”
So, after obtaining from the proctor permission to go to the village
on condition that they would be back before locking-up time, the
three Smith brothers, and Whistle-Breeches sallied forth. They never
suspected there might be a joke perpetrated on them while on their way,
rather expecting some game in the village, and so proceeded along the
highway in careless ease, singing and joking.
As they reached a lonely stretch of woods, just below getting into the
village, three figures sprang out from the underbrush. Over their faces
were strips of cloth, and at the first sight of the trio our friends
drew back in some alarm, feeling they had met with a gang of highwaymen.
“That’s the one—in the centre!” called a hoarse voice, and a grab was
made for Bill. Before his brothers or Whistle-Breeches could rally to
his aid he was borne off, struggling and kicking against his unknown
captors.
“Into the car with him—quick!” was the whispered order, and, ere
the three lads left standing in the road had recovered from their
astonishment, there sounded the chug-chug of an automobile, and Bill
was whisked away.
“Well, wouldn’t that get your goat!” gasped Cap, as he stood looking
at the fast-disappearing red tail lamp of the machine. “They’ve got
Bill!”
“Come on after ’em!” yelled Pete, starting down the highway on a run.
“We’ve got to rescue him!”