WINNING THE PENNANT
“One run to tie, two to win and three to make a good job of it,”
murmured Cap, as he walked to the bench with his brothers. “Can we do
it?”
“We’ve got to,” answered Bill.
“You make a home run, I’ll limp along after you, and Pete can follow,”
suggested Bill. “That will do the business.”
“It might happen,” said Cap. “Whistle-Breeches is up first, then I
follow, and, after Graydon has a whack, you and Pete come along, Bill.”
“Oh, don’t talk about it!” exclaimed the pitcher. “It makes me
nervous,” but he did not show any signs of it.
“How are your eyes?” asked Pete.
“All right. I feel fine. But I’d like to know who hid my glasses.”
“Batter up!” called the umpire, and Whistle-Breeches, a little pale
because of what depended on his work, walked to the plate.
“Now line out a good one!” counseled the coach. “You can do it. Wait
for a nice one.”
It was good advice, and well meant, but alas! Whistle-Breeches fanned
the air.
“One down!” exulted the captain of the Tuckerton nine. “We only need
two more!”
“Well, you don’t get me!” murmured Cap, with a grim tightening of his
mouth. And he made good. A pretty two-bagger was his contribution, and
he got to third on a little fly which Graydon knocked, but the captain
was out at first.
“Two down, play for the batter!” called Burke. “They’ve only got one
chance, and they can’t make good. The pennant comes to Tuckerton!”
“Don’t you fool yourself,” murmured Bill, as he went to the plate.
Hedden, his rival pitcher, regarded him with a mocking smile. Bill was
not especially strong in stick work, but somehow he felt that he was
going to make good to-day.
He saw a ball coming, and sized it up for a slow out. Knowing the
peculiarity of the curve which Hedden pitched Bill stepped right into
it. His bat met the horsehide squarely, and with a “Ping!” that sent a
thrill of joy not only to his heart but to the hearts of his brothers
and friends.
“Right on the nose! Oh, what a poke!” cried Whistle-Breeches who
rejoiced for Bill over what he himself could not do.
Away sailed the ball, well over the centre fielder’s head, away sped
Bill legging it for first with all the speed of which he was capable.
“Run! Run! Run!”
“Come on in, Cap!”
“Oh what a poke!”
“Pretty! Pretty!”
The crowd on the stands was yelling and jumping up and down. Old men
were tossing their hats into the air, clapping each other on the back,
making friends with strangers, and telling each other that it reminded
them of the time when they were boys.
Bill swung around second, as Cap fairly leaped over home plate,
bringing in the tying run. The Tuckerton players were wild with
chagrin. The game was being pulled out of the fire—snatched from them
at the moment when they thought they saw a safe victory. The centre
fielder nearly had the ball now, and Bill was heading for third base.
“Go on! Go on!”
“Home! Home!”
This and other advice was shouted at him. He gave a quick glance
around, and decided that he would risk it by going on to the last bag.
It was a narrow chance, almost too narrow, and Bill had to slide so
far that his uniform took on a new shade, and his mouth and eyes were
filled with dust and gravel, for the ball whizzed into the hands of the
eager baseman.
“Safe!” decided the umpire after a breathless run to third that he
might see the outcome.
The score was now tied!
There was a howl of disgust from the Tuckerton crowd but the decision
stood, and there was wild rejoicing on the part of the Westfield throng.
“Now then, Pete, it’s up to you,” said the coach solemnly as the third
member of the Smith boys trio stepped to the bat. “If you don’t bring
Bill in at least, I’ll never speak to you again.”
“I’ll do my best,” declared the doughty little shortstop. He was one of
the best men who could have been up in an emergency of this kind, with
two out, a man on third and the winning run still needed. For Pete was
as cool as the proverbial cucumber.
He smiled in a tantalizing fashion at the Tuckerton pitcher, who was on
the verge of a nervous breakdown because of the many epithets hurled at
him, in an endeavor to “get his goat.” He had to watch Bill carefully,
for that worthy was playing off as far as he dared, hoping to slip in
with the needed winning run. The catcher, too, was fearful lest some
ball get by him, and had told the pitcher to be on the alert to run in
instantly in the event of a passed ball.
“Ball one!” howled the umpire, as Hedden threw.
“Oh wow! He’s going to walk you, Pete!” called Graydon.
“You’ve got a pass!” shouted Bob Chapin.
Pete smiled cheerfully. He thought the next ball looked good, and swung
at it, but he had been fooled by a neat trick.
“Strike one!” said the umpire, and a breathless silence followed.
“Two more like that and we’ve got ’em!” called the catcher to Hedden.
“You can do it.”
The pitcher nodded. He threw the swiftest ball of which he was capable.
It came almost before Pete was ready for it, but with the quickness of
light he swung on it.
Oh what a “Ping!” followed, and he knew that he had made good. Once
more, amid the frenzied howls of the crowd, the ball sailed outward and
upward.
“Bill, Oh Bill! Where are you? Come in! Come in!” pleaded scores to
him. But the pitcher did not need these entreaties. On he came running
as he had never run before. The catcher, to disconcert him, stood as
though to catch the ball. Bill dared not look around to make sure that
it had not been caught and thrown home. Brower was right in his path.
“Slide!” some one called to him, and for the second time that day Bill
dropped and shot forward on the ground. His hand touched the plate, and
he knew that he was safe, for he had not heard the thud of the ball in
the catcher’s mitt. Then, he felt some heavy body fall on him, and for
the moment the breath was knocked from him, and he lost consciousness.
He had knocked the catcher’s feet from under him, and toppled that
player in the dust.
Cap ran to pick up his brother.
“Hurt?” he cried anxiously. “Oh Bill, you did it! We win.”
“No—n-not much hurt!” gasped Bill. “Just—just a little—little
short—of wind—that’s all.”
They gave him water and he felt better, and then he looked out over the
diamond. Pete had reached third, and was still running. Around the last
bag he swung, but the right fielder far on amid the daisies had the
ball now.
“Go back! Go back!” howled Graydon, for, though the game was won he
wanted to pile up another run against Tuckerton if he could.
But Pete did not heed. The ball had been thrown, but the fielder had to
run so far back for it, that he could not get it far enough in. There
was just a chance for Pete to make a home run, and he took that chance.
The horsehide fell short of the second baseman, who ran to get it. By
this time Pete was half way home, and running well.
“Come on! Come on!” pleaded hundreds to him, and Pete came.
“Slide!” cried the coach, and, as Bill had done, so did Pete, but with
more cause.
On came the ball, thrown swiftly by the second baseman. Pete was
hurtling forward through a cloud of dust, his hand eagerly stretched
out to feel the plate. His fingers touched it, and a welcome thrill ran
through him, just as he heard the thud of the ball in the catcher’s
glove. Down came the horsehide on his shoulder with vicious force.
“How’s it?” excitedly yelled the catcher to the umpire.
There was a moment’s silence, and the players and crowd hardly
breathed. It seemed as if the weight of kingdoms hung on the decision,
and Pete lay there waiting.
“Safe!” decided the umpire, and yells of delight mingled with those
of chagrin. Westfield had the game now by two runs and the pennant
remained with them.
Oh what rejoicing there was! No need to play the game out farther.
Indeed it could scarcely have been done had the coach or captain
desired it, so wild with delight were the members of the nine.
“Oh you Smith boys!” was the gladsome cry, and around our heroes there
danced a wild and enthusiastic mob of players of the game. Horns
tooted, rattles added their din, old men, youths and maidens swelled
the riot with their voices, the shrill tones of the girls sounding high
above the hoarser notes of triumph.
“We win! We win!” cried Graydon, hugging the rather grave and sedate
coach, and whirling him about in a dance.
“Yes, and at the last minute,” added Mr. Windam. “That was a lucky fall
of Bill Smith’s.”
“There was crooked work somewhere,” said the captain in a low voice.
“Those glasses never fell into the cannon, and I know whom to suspect.”
“Then keep it to yourself,” advised the coach, and Graydon did so.
It seemed impossible that it was all over, that the school baseball
season was at an end, and that Westfield still had the pennant, yet
such was the case. Already the crowds were leaving the grandstands.
Students were gathering in groups to cheer over, or sing about, the
victory. The team was hugged and hustled here and there. The Smith
boys and their mates were lifted to the shoulders of their fellows and
paraded about the diamond. The Tuckertons had given a cheer for the
victors, and, in turn, had been cheered for their plucky fight.
“And to think that this is the end of the season,” remarked Bill
regretfully to his brothers, as they walked over toward the gymnasium.
“Oh, but it will soon be fall, and then for the good old pigskin
punts!” exclaimed Pete.
“That’s so. I wonder if we can make the eleven?” said Cap. “I hope we
can.”
“We’ll try, anyhow,” declared Bill.
How they tried, and with what success they had will be told of in the
third volume of this series to be called “Those Smith Boys on the
Gridiron; or A Touchdown in Time.” In that book we will meet with our
school friends again, and learn how they played several great games.
As Bill and his brothers strolled across the campus they saw a group of
girls coming toward them.
“Oh cats!” exclaimed Bill. “I look like sin; don’t I?”
“I’ve seen you cleaner,” answered Whistle-Breeches, as he noted Bill’s
torn jacket and dusty trousers. “But what’s the odds?”
“There’s Miss Morton,” murmured the pitcher.
“Oh!” cried the girl, with whom he had once rode at such top speed to
play in the Freshman game. “Oh, I want to shake hands with all you
boys! Wasn’t it perfectly splendid?”
“Glad you think so!” mumbled Bill, trying to hide behind Cap. But
Miss Morton would have none of that. She held out her hand to Bill
especially.
“I’ll spoil your gloves!” he protested.
“As if I cared for them!” and she only laughed at the grimy stains
which Bill made on the white kids. Then, in turn she and the other
young ladies greeted our friends, and repeated, over and over again, in
more or less emphatic words, what they thought of the victory.
“And may I add a word,” spoke a voice, as the girls moved off. The boys
turned to behold Professor Clatter.
“It was fine!” he declared. “Not even by the use if my Rapid Robust
Resolute Resolvent, my Peerless, Permanent Pain Preventive or my
Spotless Saponifier could a more noble victory have been won. I
congratulate you. Pactolus congratulates you, and when we find the
golden river we’ll make a crown of victory for you. But what I want to
add most especially is, that our mutual friend Tithonus Somnus has just
arrived. His wagon is over near mine, and he and I entreat you to come
and see us, and partake of such humble fare as we may afford.”
“Do you mean all of us?” asked Cap.
“The entire nine!” cried the medicine man warmly. “We will dine out of
doors, and Mercurio will serve the viands.”
“What say, fellows; shall we go?” asked Cap, for the members of the
Varsity team were gathered about the Smith boys.
“Go? Of course,” answered Graydon. “We can break training now, and
we’ll eat golden rivers or Resolute Resolvent or even Spotless
Saponifiers! Lead on!”
“You say Tithy has arrived?” asked Bill, as the little throng moved
over the campus, it having been arranged that as soon as they got off
their uniforms they would go to the professor’s wagon.
“Yes, he heard that I was headed here, and followed.”
“What business is he in now?” inquired Pete.
“Oh, he is selling a wonderful instrument. It is a pocket knife, a
glass cutter, a can opener, hammer, screw driver, and twenty-six other
tools, more or less, combined into one. Tithy is enthusiastic over it.
Well, I’ll go to tell him you are coming, and then I will bid Mercurio
set the table.”
The professor, with a low bow, turned away, and hastened off.
“Queer chap,” commented Graydon.
“But as good as gold,” added Bill, and his brothers agreed with him.
“To think of him finding my glasses. I wonder how they got there?”
No one answered him, and Mersfeld and North did not hear the question.
Perhaps they would not have replied had they listened to it.
A little later the members of the nine were seated in the shade of the
two queer wagons, on the long, green grass, beside the road, partaking
of the hospitality of Professor Clatter and Tithonus Somnus, who
gravely announced that he had changed his name, as well as his trade
and that thenceforth he would be known as Cornelius Cutaby.
Proudly he showed the new implement for which he was traveling agent.
“It will do anything from cutting glass to taking an automobile apart,”
he declared.
“Well, if it will open some more of that ginger ale, I’ll be glad of
it,” remarked Bill. “These olives and ham sandwiches make me thirsty.”
“What ho! Mercurio!” called Professor Clatter. “Pass the ginger ale,”
and, having executed his own command he opened the bottles with the
combined glass cutter and screw driver, and served to his friends the
frothing beverage.
“Now fellows, for the baseball song—‘Strike ’em Out and Run ’em Down!’
and then we’ll go back to school and get ready for the celebration
to-night!” suggested Cap, after a pause.
The improvised banquet was over. In the twilight the boys stood up, and
softly sang the time-honored song of Westfield, sung whenever there
was a victory. Professor Clatter brought out a guitar and played the
accompaniment, and Tithy—I beg his pardon, Cornelius Cutaby—joined in
the chorus.
And now, for a time, we will take leave of Those Smith Boys, though
if the fates are kind, they may be met with again, as well as the
professor and the traveling agent for the combined glass cutter and
monkey wrench.
THE END
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Text in italics is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
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End of Project Gutenberg's Those Smith Boys on the Diamond, by Howard R. Garis