"I don't. It's your Indian chum, Joe Bootleg."
"Joe? Tut, tut! He's as tame as----"
"As a tarantula," finished Kingdon, laughing again.
"I'll have an eye on him," said Pence, rather sneeringly smiling once
more. "But you don't expect a fellow like him to play any game fair?"
"Not so's you'd notice it," Kingdon cheerfully returned. "But you other
fellows, now--take for instance yourself, Horrors."
The other straightened up on the rock where they were sitting in the
sun, at a distance from the other fellows, and looked with hard eyes at
Rex. "What do you mean?" he questioned. "I don't just get you."
"Consider your pitching," Kingdon said coolly. "It's crude."
"Crude?"
"Very."
"Say, I've got some reputation as a pitcher around home."
Rex repressed a laugh. "Others before you have been Walter Johnsons
around home, but have lost their reputations as soon as they got away
anywhere."
"What's the matter with my pitching, anyhow?"
"I've told you that you lack control, but you need experience and
training in other things. Speed is a great thing, I'll admit, when a
pitcher mixes it with brains."
"Perhaps I've got as many brains as your friends Midkiff and Cloudman,"
flared Horace. "I suppose you think them Mathewsons?"
"They're steady and dependable, at least."
"Plugging horses!" snapped Pence. "No real stuff."
"I've seen fellows who didn't succeed though everybody thought they had
the 'real stuff,' and I've seen 'plugging horses' who climbed steadily
and surely to the top. Brilliancy is sometimes nothing but a flash in
the pan."
"Is that so?" demanded the heated Horace. "I don't suppose I'd make any
showing at all on the diamond of that fancy prep. school of yours?"
"Oh, you're baseball material; no doubt of that," answered Kingdon
carelessly. "I figure Stanley Downs would place you about on the Number
Three scrub."
"_In_-deed?" exploded Horace.
"Yes. We're weak in our pitching staff, too. I could use a southpaw
like you, even if you came in as a freshman, with the school nine this
fall."
Kingdon said it in such a matter-of-fact way that the other stared at
him for a full minute before demanding: "What's this you're driving at?
What's the big idea?"
"I might use a fellow like you on the pitching staff of the Walcott Hall
nine, if he was amenable to discipline and I could work with him this
summer."
"You go fish!" jeered Pence, rising suddenly to cast himself into the
sea and swam away.
"Now, let that idea rattle about in that dome of yours, Horrors,"
chuckled Rex, also rising. "We'll see what comes of it."
That evening, while supper was cooking, Rex strolled up the hill
over-looking the camp. He glanced at the bowlder, and again found the
stick that had been cut and hidden at the edge of the wood. Apparently
no one had been there since he made his previous examination.
The next day the Walcott Hall boys saw Joe Bootleg and Harry Kirby
paddle away from the island in one of the canoes, and knew the pair were
going for provisions. When Kingdon and his chums went up to the ball
field, the former was not surprised to see Horace Pence there, alone.
Pence lay languidly in the shade, chewing a grassblade, and watched the
workout of Midkiff and Cloudman, without comment. On this occasion
Kingdon was intentionally sharp with both his moundsmen. He criticized
them so severely that Midkiff became a boiling volcano of wrath, and
Applejack was as wild as a tiger. But neither of them answered back.
Further than being catcher, Rex was captain of the Walcott Hall nine.
Off the field he was even more easy and democratic than most fellows,
but in practice or in a game he was the leader, and would brook no
rebellion against his authority.
When Cloudman had come in and joined the sullen Midkiff in the shade,
Rex whipped around to look at Horace Pence. "Want to get out there and
see if you can find the pan to-day?" he asked. "I can give you a little
time before sending those babies of mine out to practice base throwing."
"If you talk to me the way you have been ballyraggin' those chaps, I'll
maybe punch your head," drawled Horace.
"That would be careless of you. You might make me cry. You might wake
up," Kingdon shot at him with surprising fierceness, "and find yourself
in the hospital!"
Horace laughed. Then he drawled, as he walked out toward the pitcher's
box: "My goodness! You're some bully, aren't you? Where's your umpire?"
"Want one?"
"I'm going to show you I can cut the platter."
"I don't see any of your crew here."
"Call one of yours. I can stand him. That sunny-tempered chap you call
Midkiff is my choice. He just loves me, I know. If he says it's a fair
ball I shall know I've earned it."
"Jawn, as a favor to me, please," begged Rex, adjusting his mitt.
He knew Midkiff was doubtless stewing in the red-pepper of his own
temper. Therefore he was suddenly mild as milk in begging John's
assistance; so mild, indeed, that John was forced to repress a smile as
he reluctantly came forward.
With Pence working, however, Rex continued mild and encouraging, almost
complimentary at times; for he was honestly desirous of developing this
southpaw with the phenomenal speed. To Kingdon's mind, here was a
fellow who, having speed, could be taught control; a fellow who, if he
wished, could contain himself and be, on the surface at least, as cold
as a glacier.
When Horace Pence considered it best to check his temper, he could do
so. Kingdon had perceived that. The question was, did he care enough
about baseball and about excelling in the game to hold a tight rein on
that flaring rage that the lift of his upper lip indicated?
With Midkiff and Cloudman, both tempestuous natures, there was an
advantage. Each was inspired by the thought that he was working for his
Walcott Hall; and the biggest and most sweetening thing in a
school-boy's life is his loyalty to his school. In a miniature way, it
is the feeling which every citizen should hold for his country; it is
that not easily explained virtue called patriotism.
Somewhere else it has been pointed out that Rex Kingdon was so
successful in molding his comrades, even those who did not much admire
him, to his will because he possessed an ability to read character. It
was really the foundation of his success in sports.
He had read Horace Pence like an open book from the start. He saw just
the sort of hot-as-fire, cold-as-ice kind of a youth Horace was.
Reckless, bold, dishonorable, yet clean in his habits because he
abhorred viciousness. Pence was secretly proud of his influence over
others, but too proud in another way to put forth much effort to hold
that influence. Never, for one moment, did he think of exercising his
power for the good of others.
For all such faults, Rex believed that discipline of the right sort
would turn Horace into a real pitcher and a real man as well.
Everything depended upon leading him into the proper path through an
appeal of some sort that, while opening his eyes to what was wrong,
would rouse his ambition to do right.
Rex kept all this to himself. On this present occasion, despite all
that had led up to Horace Pence's work-out, with Midkiff as umpire, the
session went through, as Peewee said, "without a skid." Even Midkiff,
had he admitted it, would have been forced to acknowledge that the
dark-eyed fellow showed distinct signs of improvement.
"How does the arm feel?" asked Kingdon, when they had finished.
"Just getting warmed up--as though I hadn't used it at all."
"Therefore now's the time for you to come in from practice. It's all
right under conditions that demand it, to put everything you've got on
the ball and work till the old wing just about drops off. But overwork
in practice is as foolish and harmful as too little work. Some fellows,
who might be pitchers, kill their arms before they ever get into any
real games."
Pence did not scoff at this. There was nothing offensive or "preachy"
in the way Rex spoke. His manner was as sincere and friendly as if
Horace had been one of his chosen chums.
That afternoon the mainland grew hazy, clouds began to gather, and a
threatening sky presaged heavy weather.
"Seems to me those canoeing fellows have bad luck," Red Phillips said,
as the Walcott Hall boys lazed around the campsite waiting for a
contrary fire to burn up briskly so supper could be made. "Look at it
now."
"Hasn't that Injun and Kirby got back?" questioned Peewee.
"If they have, I don't see the second canoe over there," Red yawned.
"If they haven't started from Blackport by this time somebody'll tell
them not to," Midkiff said.
"They had a leg-o'-mutton sail," said Kingdon. "They could skim over
with this breeze. It won't rain yet awhile, and the wind's only puffy."
"I'd rather be on _terra firma_ just the same than out in a canoe on
this sound," Red declared.
Without feeling any disturbance about the absent Indian and Kirby,
Kingdon climbed to a point above the camp where he could see far away
along the sound shore of the island to the westward. In fact, he stood
upon the great gray bowlder which had already attracted his attention.
Was that a small sail away to the west? He had no glass, and could not
be sure. If it was, the craft was so close under the island that it
almost immediately was wiped from the range of his vision. It might
have been nothing but a flash of surf. If it were a boat, it had been
beached in safety by its crew, who feared the threatening aspect of sea
and sky more than they did the sign-boards of the Manatee Lumber
Company.
Rex was climbing down from the eminence when he fancied he felt the
bowlder move under him. His efforts to descend seemed to contribute a
rocking motion to the granite.
"A rocking stone?" muttered Kingdon, leaping down. "If it is so easily
tipped off its balance----"
He tried a dozen times, and from as many angles, to rock the bowlder.
It weighed several tons and of course he might as well have taken hold
of the corner of Old Hall and tried to topple it over.
Finally he went back to the tent, for the other fellows were calling
him.
*CHAPTER XXIV.*
*A LUCKY MOVE.*
The wind began droning like a monster pipe-organ through the wood. The
thunder of the surf sent its solemn cadence to their ears from the
seaward side of Storm Island. Night was shutting down threateningly and
pregnant with the possibility of coming disaster.
They were comfortable enough under the break of the hill. If worse came
to worse, they could clip aboard the _Spoondrift_ and take shelter in
her cabin. She was not likely to pitch much here in the cove, with the
wind in its present quarter.
Red took Peewee in his arms, despite that infant's strenuous objections,
and sang to him:
"Rock-a-bye, baby, on the tree top!
When the wind blows the cradle will rock."
"I'll bounce a rock off your top story--that's the sort of a rock I'll
give you!" threatened Hicks. "What do you think you're doing, nursing a
first-form kid?"
The evening promised to be tempestuous, both in the tent and out. The
atmospheric pressure has something to do with the brittleness of human
temper at such times. Midkiff and Cloudman got into a wrangle that
Kingdon had to settle with some abruptness, and Hicks had a chip on his
shoulder most of the time. After a while, getting tired of it, Rex
called sharply:
"Stop the fussing. I have something serious to say. This tent isn't
right. I haven't been satisfied with its position since it was raised.
It isn't properly sheltered from the wind, and we're going to have some
wind to-night, my husky lads. Come on, let's move it before it gets any
darker."
"Move it!"
"It should be at least twenty yards over here to the east," insisted
Rex. "No time like the present. Give a hand." He began to pull up
stakes.
"You're crazy, Rex," Midkiff said.
"Let the tent alone!" cried Cloudman.
"Ain't to-morrow another day?" queried Peewee shrilly, almost in tears.
"I don't want to work any more to-night."
"This tent is going to be moved to-night," asserted the leader of the
party.
"You're foolish, Rex," Midkiff again said.
"What's the matter with you?" demanded Peewee. "I don't see----"
"You don't have to," Kingdon said with sharpness. "Come, now! Think I'm
going to do this all alone? Want to get it set up again before the rain
comes."
"I won't do it!" Phillips protested. "It's foolishness. You're using
the steel fist without any reason."
Midkiff yielded. "Rex is within his rights. He's captain. If he says
it's moving day, why move we must. But to-morrow we'll see about this."
"You'll have to show us why and what-for to-morrow, then," said Cloudman
morosely. "I can obey orders as well as the next one. But these are
tyrannical. I didn't know what I was letting myself in for. This will
need a lot of explaining to satisfy _me_."
It was a grouchy bunch that tackled the job. Before starting for the
summer camp Rex had been unanimously chosen captain, and they had agreed
to obey every order given by him. This, of course, was quite necessary
aboard the _Spoondrift_. Discipline had become somewhat lax ashore, but
Kingdon still had the right to command, if he wished to enforce it.
It was necessary to get out the lanterns before they were through, and
ere the job was finished it had begun to rain.
Some of their "dunnage" got damp, and when Hicks got into his nightshirt
the bottom of it was sopping wet. He almost frothed at the mouth
beneath the chaffing of the others.
The rainfall began and continued without the roll of thunder or the
flash of lightning. It was a tempest, nevertheless. Harder and harder
the rain drummed on the canvas roof. The torrential downpour would have
drowned conversation had the boys attempted it.
Their five cots were arranged just as they had been before, but somehow
they did not now seem so comfortable. Peewee growled about his
nightshirt, and Cloudman snickered. In the dark the little fellow tried
to smash his tormentor with his own hard, hay-stuffed pillow. When he
got hold of it again the pillow was wet.
"The water's leaking in under the tent, King!" snarled Peewee. "You got
us in a nice mess!"
"In the morning you shall take a pick and shovel, honey, and dig a nice
trench all around."
"I'll see you hanged first!" bawled the rebel.
"Go to sleep and forget it," advised Red.
They all got to sleep finally. But it was not yet morning when they
were awakened again by Peewee, who seemed to be having a nightmare.
"That blamed infant!" Midkiff was saying with shocking emphasis. "I
never did see such a pestiferous insect."
Hicks was squealing: "Stop it! Stop! 'Tain't time to get up. That's
only the first bell. Slop any more of that water on me, and I won't
leave you enough to wash your face in!"
"Somebody please hit him on the head with the hatchet," urged Phillips.
"Ouch!" bawled the now thoroughly awakened Peewee. "I'm all afloat."
"What d'ye mean--afloat?" demanded Kingdon, sitting up.
"Water's dripping ri-right into my ear," wailed Hicks.
"Ahoy! She's sprung a leak! Man the lifeboats!" came from Red
Phillips. "All hands to the pumps."
Then they heard something which at first they thought was the rain
increasing. It seemed to be rushing down the hill upon them in a
regular flood. Then, with a rumble and roar that seemed to rock the
earth itself, an avalanche fell upon the plateau.
Kingdon sprang up, seized the lantern that was burning low, turned up
the wick, and got outside as quickly as possible. Midkiff was at his
heels. In bare feet, they slopped through the two-inch flood that ran
all around the tent. The rain was pouring steadily down. Through the
darkness and the downpour they saw, just about where the tent had
formerly stood, a bulky object around which the rain smoked.
"Mercy, Rex! What is it?" Midkiff gasped.
"The bowlder," Kingdon said in a muffled, almost choky voice.
"Bowlder?"
"It overhung the camp. I--I was afraid of it. That's why I had the tent
shifted."
"Good boy!" Midkiff patted his shoulder. "Your hunch saved us."
Both recovered themselves as the others rushed out of the tent. No boy
cares to reveal, even to his closest friend, the deeper feelings of his
nature, and Rex and Midkiff said nothing more about appreciating the
wisdom that had saved them all from disaster.
"Look at that rock!" gasped little Hicks, staring and shivering. "Rex,
you kept us from being smashed by making us move."
"It--it was lucky, Rex, that you made us do that," admitted Cloudman.
"You're a wonder!" Red exploded. "If we'd been there we'd been driven
three feet under ground. They'd never had to bother to bury us."