ARLINGTON COWS HAMMERSWELL.
It was the beginning of the ninth inning of the first game in Fairhaven
and the home team was one score ahead.
The visitors had made a gallant fight for the game which was not yet
ended. Indeed, Maplewood had not given up, as soon became apparent.
On previous occasions crowds had gathered on that field, but never
before in the history of Fairhaven had there been such a wonderful
turnout to witness a game of baseball. Not only was every seat taken,
but on each side of the ground ropes had been stretched far down past
first and third bases in order to keep those standing from crowding onto
the field. Even then it was necessary to employ four officers to hold
the spectators back and prevent them from pushing into the outfield.
Through all the game the stonecutters had whooped and cheered to their
satisfaction. Although they were boisterous, they were not ungentlemanly
in their language. Indeed, they were rather generous in their applause
whenever Maplewood made a brilliant play. For all of that, they were
intensely loyal, and, to the last one of them, were eager and anxious
for Fairhaven to win.
At intervals the voice of Brick McLane could be heard above the others,
but sometimes it was quite drowned.
High on the top of the bleachers, clinging to a post of the fence, was
old Gideon Sniffmore, who occasionally waved his crooked cane in the air
and shrieked until his face grew purple. All through the game he had
remained standing there, apparently quite oblivious to his rheumatism,
and once or twice, when he relinquished his hold on the post and
flourished both arms in the air, he was in absolute danger of falling
and breaking his neck.
“We’ve got um now, by codfish!” he shrieked as Owen Bold struck out a
man.
This made the second man out.
There were two runners on the bases, one having reached first through an
error and the other securing a pass to the initial bag on four balls.
“It’s all over!” roared Brick McLane as the next batter stepped out.
“Fairhaven wins the first game!”
Then Bold shot a speedy one, shoulder high, across the inside corner of
the plate.
The batter stepped back a bit and met the ball fairly. It was a terrific
clout.
Chip Jolliby went flying over the low rail which served as centre-field
fence and splashed into the frog pond in search of the ball. He had seen
it strike, and his heart was in his mouth for fear he could not find it
amid the tall grass and weeds.
However, Chip secured it and turned with it dripping wet, in his hand,
seeing the Maplewood player who had hit it already dashing over third
base.
Standing out there at that great distance, Jolliby made one of the most
amazing throws of his whole baseball career. He was ankle deep in the
mire, yet he lined the ball straight to the plate, and Buckhart put it
onto the man who was endeavoring to slide home.
This astounding throw caused the crowd to roar again, although almost
every spectator realized what had been accomplished by the hit.
The batter had driven in two runs, which placed Maplewood ahead, the
score being eight to seven.
“We’ve got them now!” muttered Benton Hammerswell, in relief. “Bretton
will hold them right where they are. At the very best, they can take but
one of these two games, and, therefore, I will win all my bets.”
Hammerswell was leaning on a bat as he muttered this. He felt a touch on
his arm and turned to see Tom Fernald.
“It was a relief to me when that fellow smashed the ball over the
fence,” he said. “I’ve been betting even money that Maplewood would
carry off one of the games. Some lobsters were foolish enough to bet
that Fairhaven would win both.”
“Yes, we’ve got this game now,” nodded Hammerswell. “And it’s a good
thing for me, too. It puts me on my feet again. I’ve risked all I could
rake and scrape on the result of these games. Unless the improbable
happens, Fairhaven will not be at the top to-night, nor will Maplewood
be at the bottom.”
“Have you figured the thing over?” questioned Fernald. “Have you
considered all the possibilities? If Seaslope beats Rockford and
Fairhaven and Maplewood divide honors here to-day, every team will be
tied once more. It will be necessary to play other games in order to
settle the matter.”
“I know,” nodded Hammerswell, with a grave smile; “but the people who
bet their good money with me had not figured out that possibility.
Unless Maplewood is at the bottom to-night, I shall win many of my bets.
If Fairhaven is not at the top, I shall win the rest of them. In order
for Fairhaven to be at the top we must lose both these games and
Seaslope must beat Rockford. It’s all right, Fernald; that can’t
happen.”
A low, snarling laugh caused Hammerswell to start and turn his head.
Chester Arlington was there, and he regarded the Maplewood manager with
a singular look that caused the man to be seized by a strange feeling of
uneasiness and apprehension.
“Don’t think you have this game yet,” said Arlington. “No game is won
until it’s ended. The best batters on Merriwell’s team are up now. Look
out for a Garrison finish. It takes but one run to tie the score, and
two will win the game.”
“Get away from me, you crook!” snapped Hammerswell. “I don’t want you
round me!”
He gripped the bat and half lifted it in a threatening manner.
“You’ll never frighten any one with that stick,” said Chester. “Put it
down, Hammerswell. Don’t try any funny business with me.”
“If you two are going to quarrel,” said Fernald, “I will just step
aside.”
“Oh, I’ll not quarrel with this treacherous Smart Aleck,” declared
Hammerswell as Fernald walked away.
“You’d better not,” said Chester in a low tone. “You’re wise in not
quarreling with me. I know too much about you. Wait, Benton Hammerswell;
your time is coming, and you will get what’s due you.”
“I tell you to move on!” grated the enraged man. “I don’t like that kind
of talk, and I won’t listen to it.”
“You can’t help listening,” retorted Chester. “You know I am telling the
truth when I say you are a scoundrel, a fraud, a cheat, a——”
With a muttered oath Hammerswell lifted the bat.
Chester did not shrink in the least. Looking the man straight in the
eyes, he hastily said:
“Strike if you dare! Add another murder to your crimes!”
“Another murder?” whispered Hammerswell, aghast.
“Yes, another murder. You see, I know what you’ve done. You see, I know
what happened on High Bluff one night near the hour of twelve.”
“Good heavens!” choked the astounded rascal as he nervelessly lowered
the bat.
“I know you are haunted by the memory of that crime,” persisted Chester,
in a low tone. “Your face tells the story. You fear Luke Grimes. You
fear the ghost of Hop Sullivan.”
Three times Hammerswell tried to speak before he could command his
voice. Then of a sudden, as if struck by a thought, he panted:
“You—you were in my room last night! The window was open! Some one
entered that room! Some one played the ghost! I don’t believe in ghosts.
You were there!”
“You’re right,” confessed Chester. “I was there, Hammerswell, and I gave
you a fright you’ll not soon forget. How did I dare come there? Why, I
had your pistol in my pocket. I wasn’t afraid of you. You missed the
weapon, didn’t you? Well, I took it. I knew you were not armed. How did
I know so much about what happened on High Bluff? I heard your talk with
Luke Grimes. Oh, I’m not fool enough to tell the story without the
backing of Grimes, but they’re looking for him, Hammerswell. He’s liable
to be captured at any moment. When he’s taken, he’ll blow on you. Now,
sir, I hope you enjoy the game.”
Laughing with malignant satisfaction, Arlington disdainfully turned his
back on the agitated man and walked away.
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