“PLAY BALL!”
Cap Smith was the first to reach his brother. As he lifted him up Bill
opened his eyes.
“I’m all right,” he murmured. “I can stand alone.”
He proved it by doing so. His hand went to his head, and when it came
away there was a little smear of blood on the palm.
“Must have hit on a stone and cut myself,” he said, a bit faintly. “But
I’m all right now.”
“Are you sure?” asked Pete, slipping his arm around his brother.
“Better come over here and sit down.”
He led Bill to the bench, and indeed the pitcher was a trifle dizzy,
and his head felt queer, for he had fallen harder than he had supposed.
The other players, finding that nothing serious was the matter went
back to their practice. In the grandstands the singing and cheering was
multiplied. Crowds of pretty girls, eager youths, demure chaperones,
old grads, young grads and mere spectators continued to arrive until
every seat was filled.
“It’s going to be a great game,” murmured Cap, who, finding that his
brother was apparently all right, resumed, his catching with Mersfeld.
“I never saw such a crowd!”
“It’s money in the treasury whether we win the pennant or not,”
declared J. Evans Green, the business-like manager.
“But we _are_ going to win!” declared Cap emphatically. “Keep ’em
guessing, Mersfeld, and you’ll do. Now when I put three fingers on my
mitt so, let me have a swift drop,” and he went on with his code of
signals.
The conferences between the respective captains had ended, and Burke,
head of the Tuckerton Varsity nine, signalled to his men to come in
from practice, as they were to bat first. Graydon assembled his team
for a few final instructions.
“Sorry you’re not playing with us to-day,” he said to poor Bill, who
was sitting on the bench. The cut in his head had stopped bleeding.
“You’re no more sorry than I am,” declared the pitcher ruefully. “But
it can’t be helped.”
“We may have to call on you yet,” said the coach, “if they knock
Mersfeld and Newton out of the box.”
“I’m afraid I couldn’t do much good,” was Bill’s doleful answer.
“Play ball!” howled the umpire, and the players took their places,
Mersfeld catching the new white horsehide sphere the official tossed to
him.
The first ball which Mersfeld delivered was cleanly hit away out in
centrefield, and when it came back the batter was on second base. There
was a wild riot of cheers at this auspicious opening for Tuckerton, and
a grim look on the faces of the Westfield players.
“That looks bad,” murmured Bill, as he watched Mersfeld wind up for his
next delivery. The pitcher was visibly nervous, and Cap, seeing it,
made an excuse to walk out to him.
“Keep cool!” he whispered, “or you won’t last.”
Mersfeld stiffened, and struck out the next man. But the third one got
a three bagger out of him, and the following one a single. When the
inning came to a close there were three runs chalked up for the rivals
of our friends, and there was only gloom for the home team. Nor was it
dissipated by the triumphant songs their opponents sang.
One run was the best that Graydon’s men could do on their first trial,
though captain and coach pleaded earnestly with them.
“I guess they’ve got our number,” murmured Pete to his brother as the
latter donned his protector and mask.
“Oh, don’t be so gloomy,” was the advice.
Mersfeld went from bad to worse, and at the beginning of the fourth
inning the captain and coach held a consultation.
“We’ve got to do something,” said Graydon.
“I agree with you. But what?”
“Newton will have to go in.”
“It looks so. We can’t chance Bill.”
“No. Well, tell Newton to pitch next inning.” Two more runs went to the
credit of Tuckerton, making the score eight to two in their favor.
By desperate playing and taking several chances our friends managed to
pull a brace of tallies out of the ruck that inning, so that there was
some hope. Mersfeld sulked when told to go to the bench, and pleaded
for another chance, but the coach and captain were firm.
“Get ready, Newton,” ordered Graydon.
The substitute Varsity twirler was not a wonder, and he knew it, but
he started off well, and there was some hope, until he began to go to
pieces after issuing passes to two men. Then it seemed all up with him,
though only one run went to Tuckerton’s credit that inning.
Cap shook his head dubiously when he took off his mask at the beginning
of the second half of the fifth inning. His apprehensive feeling was
shared by his teammates, by the coach, the manager and by thousands of
the Westfield supporters, who sat in gloomy silence while the cohorts
of Tuckerton yelled, shouted and sang themselves hoarse.
“I’m going to do something desperate,” declared the coach, to the
captain, when two runs had come in to sweeten the tally for Westfield,
thereby causing wild hope among her friends.
“What are you going to do?” asked Graydon.
“I know we can beat these fellows, even now, if we could only hold them
down to no more runs,” went on Windam. “And to shut them out for the
rest of the game we need a good pitcher. Mersfeld can’t do it, Newton
doesn’t count, Bill is out of it, and I’m going to put in Morgan.”
“What! The Freshman sub?”
“It’s a last hope, I know,” admitted the coach, “but we’ve got to do
something. Morgan is good, and if he can last he’ll be all right.”
Rather listlessly, and almost hopelessly the captain consented to it.
He was crossing to tell Morgan of the decision arrived at, when he
noticed that Cap and Bill were having a little warm-up practice off to
one side, for it would not be Cap’s turn to bat in some time.
As Bill stung in a ball his brother uttered a cry of surprise.
“What’s the matter—hurt?” asked the captain quickly, fearing more bad
luck. With his best catcher laid off, as well as the star pitcher, the
game might as well be given up.
“Hurt! No, I’m not hurt,” answered Cap. “Here, Bill just throw a few
more that way,” he called eagerly to his brother.
Bill, wondering what was up, did so, fairly stinging them in with his
old-time force. The look of surprise on Cap’s face grew.
“Here!” he called to the captain, and he motioned for Bill to approach.
“Do you notice any difference in your eyes?” he asked his brother
eagerly.
“My eyes?” repeated Bill, slowly.
“His eyes,” murmured the captain.
“Yes,” went on the catcher. “Every ball you threw came in as straight
as a die, and the curve broke just at the right time. Say, maybe I’m
loony, or dreaming, but you pitch just as you used to, Bill, before you
got hurt! Do your eyes feel any differently?”
“Well, they don’t ache as they used to when I pitched without my
glasses, and there seems to be a queer feeling in my head.” He put his
hand back to where he had fallen on the stone a little while before.
“Bill, you’ve got your eyesight back!” cried Cap eagerly. “I’m sure of
it!”
“Do you really believe it?” asked the pitcher trembling with suppressed
hope.
“Sure. But we’ll try once more. Come over here.”
The game was going rather slow now, for the Tuckerton pitcher was
tiring, and was not sure of his man. He had decided to walk him, and
to kill time was playing with Whistle-Breeches, who was on second.
Consequently little attention needed to be given to the contest for the
moment by the captain. He could see what Cap and Bill were going to do.
Once more Bill threw in the balls. They came just as they had formerly
done, perfectly.
“You’ll do!” cried Cap in delight.
“Get ready to go to the box!” ordered the captain tensely.
“But I—I don’t understand,” stammered the pitcher.
“You’ve got your sight back!” went on his brother, “and I believe
what did it was the fall you just had. It did something to your
head—relieved the blood or nerve pressure or something. Anyhow you can
pitch once more!”
“That’s the stuff!” cried Graydon. “We need you!”
There was a wild yell from the grandstands, and out burst a chorus of a
Westfield song.
“Whistle-Breeches brought in a run,” cried Graydon. “Things are picking
up! Now we’ll wallop ’em!”
Three runs were the best Westfield could do that inning and when the
home team was ready to take the field there was a murmur of surprise as
it was announced that Bill Smith would pitch.
As Bill started toward the box there was some excitement at one of the
entrance gates near the grandstand back of the home plate.
“I must go in! I must go in!” a voice cried. “I tell you the Smith
boys need me!”
Something in the voice attracted the attention of Bill, Cap and Pete.
They looked, and saw Professor Clatter rush past a ticket-taker.
“Here I am!” cried the medicine man. “I came on as soon as I could. I
got your message in Langfield. And here are your glasses, Bill!”
He held up the case containing the missing spectacles, and fairly ran
across the diamond.