THE CAPTAIN
It was the end of the fourth inning, and Camp Shawnee had players on
second and third with two out. The eager boys were on their toes, taking
long leads and praying that Widelle, at bat, would bring them in with
one of his famous sky-high clouts.
Lefty wound up and delivered a whistling curve that landed in Gil
Shelton’s mitt with a satisfying smack.
“Strike two!” called Judge Kinney of Elmville, umpire for the day. The
boys of Camp Lenape, grouped along the sidelines of the Shawnee diamond,
raised a cheer of praise for their pitcher’s prowess.
Widelle, who wore on his jersey the red arrow-head insignia of Lenape’s
rival camp, shifted his bat slightly and set himself, ready for what
might prove the final toss of the inning.
“You got him measured for a homer!” Captain Hook Bollard was encouraging
his team-mate with loud yells. “Take it on the nose!” He, as well as the
two hundred other spectators, invader and defender alike, held his
breath as Lefty uncorked a fast one. More than one person in the stands
didn’t see that ball coming. But Widelle saw it; moreover, he connected.
“Zowie!” shrieked Bollard. “Go it, Widdy! A love-ly skyscraper!”
It was a perfect hit; a bit too lofty for security, but nevertheless
pretty. Two hundred pairs of eyes watched the horsehide sphere climb
over left field, then drop with increasing speed toward the earth.
Widelle was nearing first, and already had his eye on second. The man on
third was trotting confidently toward the home plate. But no one saw
them. Lenape and Shawnee eyes were fastened on that descending ball; and
now they were aware of a lithe figure in a tailored baseball suit,
streaking backwards with head tilted to avoid the afternoon sun. Back,
back the figure raced; a sudden daring leap, a slap as leather hit
leather.
“He dropped it!” howled Bollard. The Lenape ranks groaned as the fielder
fell sprawling; but the groan changed to unbelieving cries as they saw
that one arm was still raised aloft, and a hand still clutched the fatal
sphere! The fielder was on his feet again, slamming a long, easy toss to
Brick Ryan at first. Brick touched the bag, and the Lenape team trooped
in to take their turn at bat.
“That was Van Horn! Boy, what a catch!”
“Yay, Van! Pretty stuff, old kid!”
Dirk trotted toward the bench, and the cheers of his fellow campers
grew. He tried to put on a modest, matter-of-fact look, but he could not
hold back a confident grin. The Chief was there; he must have seen that
catch, and the least he could do would be to sign his card for
inter-camp athletics. Now, he would come to bat this inning, and then
he’d show these kids some real prep-school league hitting——
He felt his arm seized roughly, and a voice, low yet angry, rasped in
his ear.
“Say, Van Horn, there’s eight other guys on this team!”
Dirk wheeled. It was Lefty Reardon who spoke, and his face was ominous.
“Why, what do you mean by that?” Dirk asked.
“You know what I mean! With the score three to one against us, why do
you have to go playing tiddley-winks to the grandstand? Another pass
like that, and you’ll be holding down the job of water-boy for this
team!”
“What was the matter with that play?” grumbled Van Horn sulkily. “They
went out, didn’t they?”
“What was the matter? Everything! These kids here in the cheering
section thought you were a regular daredevil, but I know better! Try
that stunt again and you’ll get a rain-check instead of a bouquet. Talk
about playing to the gallery! That was an easy catch—but you had to make
it look like hero stuff. And taking all those chances, falling down and
so on, just to look like the bozo that saved the day! Well, Terry
Tompkins ain’t got a swelled head, and if you don’t button up quick,
you’ll be benching for the rest of the season. And I’m saying it!”
He turned away, leaving Dirk with a flaming face. Suppose he had made
that catch seem a bit harder—what was the harm? He really had stumbled,
but there had been no danger of dropping the ball. What right had
Reardon to call him a swell-head, just because——? But secretly, Dirk
knew that Lefty had spoken justly.
With burning cheeks, he watched Soapy Mullins fan out. Brick Ryan, after
tipping two fouls, was allowed to walk. Ken Haviland stalled, taking two
strikes while Brick stole second, and outguessed on a fast inshoot,
dropped his bat as the umpire called him out.
“Wake up, you fielder!” Lefty was calling. Dirk realized that he was
next.
A little chill chased itself up his spine as he grabbed his own bat and
hurried to the plate. But as he stepped up and faced Bollard’s wind-up,
all his nervousness left him. He’d show these kids—and Lefty Reardon in
particular—that he could save their old ball-game yet. He knew he was
good. He knew he was going to hit.
“Ball one!”
He hadn’t moved. Bollard was worried, and he kept a wary eye on Brick,
who was fully prepared to steal to third at an instant’s notice. The
Lenape boys set up a roar.
“He’ll walk you, Van! Let him do it!” advised Captain Reardon.
Dirk’s face did not show that he had heard. He was out after a hit. He
let the next one go by, and waited for a good one. It came.
Sock! He had placed it just right, a red-hot cannonball that went
through shortstop like a rocket. Dirk’s cleats spurned the dusty track
that led to first base.
Behind him rose the shrieks of Lenape and Shawnee. Among them he thought
he heard the voice of Lefty Reardon, but he gave it not a thought. That
swat was good for a two-bagger or nothing. He tapped first with his toe,
and streaked for second. The shouts grew louder, but there was nobody in
his path. Evidently the fielder was still tangled up in his own feet.
Maybe a three-bagger——? Dirk leaped on second base, shook the sweat out
of his eyes, and looked ahead.
There was a knot of players at third, and one of them must have the
ball. Another was on the ground—— Why, it was Brick Ryan! Dirk had
forgotten all about Brick; but there he was, with one arm stretched out,
just touching the bag. Another boy, a Shawnee baseman, was crouched at
his side, while above them stood a man who, as Dirk watched, shouted
“Safe!” It was the field umpire.
Remorse showered on Dirk like a torrent. Brick had made it, but only
because he was a top-notch player; while he, Dirk, had been to blame for
the worst fool stunt in his baseball career. He could feel Lefty
Reardon’s despairing eye on him, and could imagine what the captain was
thinking. “Grandstand stuff again!” Van Horn, thinking only of himself
and his own glory, had made a two-bagger, but had forced Ryan into a
tight fix at third; it was only a matter of an instant’s decision that
had saved the Lenape team from missing their big chance to score.
For half a minute, Dirk was rattled. The knot at third base broke up;
the boys resumed their places, and Brick, grinning, rose and dusted his
trousers while keeping an eye on Bollard, who strolled back into the
box. The Shawnee team was now on the defensive; the pitcher had two men
to watch, and Megaro was up—Megaro, the heaviest slugger on the Lenape
side.
“I won’t quit!” Dirk swore under his breath. “It was a fool trick—but
I’ve got to play it through!” He took his eyes from Reardon, at the
bench, and watched the pitcher. Bollard put across two wild throws, and
Megaro tipped a foul. Dirk took a wary lead, and Brick Ryan did the
same.
A roar from two hundred throats sounded from the watching crowd. Crack!
When the dust lifted, Megaro was safe at first; Brick Ryan was clear of
home plate and Dirk Van Horn stretched over that same plate with the
umpire’s cry in his ears: “Safe by a mile!” He had slid for the tying
run almost on Ryan’s heels.
But there was no joy for Dirk in the rousing applause of the watchers.
From the tail of his eye, he saw Lefty approaching, and knew what was
coming.
“All right, Captain,” he said humbly; “you can take me out now.”
Brick Ryan put in a word. “Let him alone, Lefty! You know those things
happen.”
“Never mind, Brick,” snapped Reardon. “It was only luck you got out of
it, and I already warned him. He’s done. Tompkins will play left field
for the rest of this game.”
“Aw, don’t you see he cleared himself? We made two runs, and that ought
to make you happier, Lefty. Gollies sakes, it’s all in a ball game——”
“Thanks, Ryan, old chap—you’re white about it, but Lefty’s right,”
admitted Dirk. “I forced you, just to show off. Maybe some day,” he
ended miserably, “I’ll learn how to play on a team.”
Many a curious glance followed him as he pushed through the admiring
bunch of Lenape boys who clustered on the sidelines; but Ollie Steffins
was at bat, and the invading campers, thirsting for more rapid-action
runs, did not notice him as he headed behind the tent-houses that ringed
the Shawnee diamond. He passed the lodge overlooking the brown waters of
Iron Lake, and started down the road by which the hikers had marched
that morning into the rival encampment. There were still two innings to
play, but Dirk Van Horn did not want to see the end of that game. Camp
Lenape was ten miles away, and he must hike. He went on his way; and as
he went, he thought....
That night there was jubilation in Camp Lenape. Hated Shawnee had been
taught a lesson on the diamond, by the slender margin of one run made in
the last inning by Blackie Thorne. There were comments at the supper
table, however, upon the sportsmanship and hospitality of the defeated
camp, who had taken their defeat in good nature, and in parting had
promised vengeance at the next inter-camp tilt. Tired hikers ate like
wolves, assuring each other between mouthfuls that it had been a swell
day.
Dishes had to be washed. At Tent One table, Lefty and Eddie Scolter were
due for this detail. The latter, however, could hardly keep his eyes
open—the long hike, the swim in Iron Lake, and the excitements of the
day’s visit at Shawnee had been almost too much for the small lad. He
nodded gratefully when Dirk Van Horn offered to take his place. Sax
McNulty raised his eyebrows at this generosity, but made no remark.
Lefty busied himself with a broom and piled the dishes while Dirk mixed
up suds in the pan. It was Lefty who spoke first.
“I got a bit heated up this afternoon,” he confessed casually. “Hope you
didn’t take me too seriously, Van. Sometimes, when a guy is captain of a
team, he has to say things and do things he doesn’t like.”
Dirk nodded.
“I’m sorry if you’re sore about it,” the aide went on. “Brick Ryan was
taking your part, on the way home, and darned if he didn’t convince me
that I was wrong in bawling you out the way I did.”
“I am sore,” admitted Dirk; “but at myself, not at you. You were quite
right to kick me out. It’s—it’s not easy to say it, but I’m pretty much
of a swell-head any way you put it. Will you do me a favor, Reardon?”
“Sure.”
“Well, next time you see me getting ready to do any more stunts like
that, will you oblige me by a swift kick in the seat of my pants?”
Lefty laughed. “I will! Now, I want to ask you something. You want to go
on the Long Trail, don’t you?”
The blond boy stared and almost dropped a dish on the floor. “How did
you know?”
“Oh, I can see! But the Long Trail is a pretty stiff proposition. What
makes you think you can tackle it?”
“It’s just a crazy hope. But the Chief said there was a slim chance, and
I want to go more than I ever wanted to do anything.”
“You’re right—it’s worth working for, I’ll say! So now you’ve given up
bunk-stretching and are going full speed ahead on your emblem and
winning ball-games and thinking of the other fellow first—— Well, I’m
here to say I’ll help you all I can, and any other older camper will do
the same! Now, what things do you still have to do to get your emblem?”