ON THE SCRUB
"It doesn't take Peaches long to make up his mind," remarked Tom.
"No, he's always right on the job," agreed Teeter.
"It's mighty good of him--and all of you--to go to all this trouble and
fuss on my account," added Joe. "I appreciate it, too."
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Teeter, as he balanced himself on his toes to see
if it was safe to indulge in any more cheese and ginger snaps. "We're
glad to do it. I only hope you do make the team, and pitch, at that."
"If I can pitch on the scrub, I'll be satisfied for a while."
"We want to make Excelsior the best nine in the league this year," went
on Teeter. "We've got to have the Blue Banner, and one way we can cinch
it is to have a good pitcher."
"Thanks!" laughed Joe.
"Well, I mean it," resumed Teeter, helping himself to a handful of the
crisp snaps. "That's where our weak point was last season. Many a game
we gave away after we had it practically won, just because our pitchers
went up in the air. And I'm afraid it'll be the same now. Frank Brown
isn't much, unless he's improved a whole lot over season, and I don't
believe he has. And as for Larry Akers--well, he's only a makeshift.
Now, I'd like to see----"
But Teeter's little talk was interrupted by the sound of footsteps in
the corridor outside. For a moment the lads gazed anxiously at each
other, and Tom made a grab for one of the fake books, but a look of
relief came over their faces when the door opened and Peaches entered,
followed by some one.
"I brought Ward with me," explained the lad with the fair complexion.
"Thought it was the safest way. Come on in, Ward; I guess these Indians
haven't scalped all the grub."
"Yes, fall to," invited Teeter. "There's plenty."
"Charmed, I'm sure," murmured Ward with an assumed society air.
"You know Joe Matson, of course," went on Peaches.
"Oh, sure. He beat me in physics class the other week and I haven't
forgotten it."
"He wants to pitch on the scrub," went on the originator of the scheme.
"He's all to the mustard, too, and----"
"Say, let me say a word for myself," put in Joe. "I'm not a political
candidate in the hands of my friends. Is there a show for me on the
scrub, Ward?"
"Well, I haven't made up the team yet, and you're the first applicant
for pitcher, so you'll have first choice."
"Then it's as good as settled!" declared Peaches. "When do you make up
the team, Ward?"
"To-morrow, I guess. I'll put you down as first pitcher, Joe, and I hope
you can throw a scare into the school team--not because I'm not on it
myself, but the better opposition they have, the better they'll play for
the banner."
"What about Hiram?" asked Tom. "Won't he kick up a fuss if he knows
you've got Joe? And what about Luke?"
"Say, I'm running the scrub!" exclaimed Ward. "They haven't anything to
say after I take charge. What I say goes!"
"That's right," agreed Teeter. "I'll do Hiram that much justice. He
never interferes with the scrub after the season starts. Neither does
Luke. They have their hands full managing their own players."
"Then I guess I'll get a chance to pitch," murmured Joe, and he was
happier than he had been in some time. It was only a small beginning,
but it was a start, and that meant a good deal.
Ward Gerard, whom Joe and Tom did not know very well, turned out to be a
good-natured and pleasant companion. He was one of the new arrivals at
the school, but already stood well in his classes and on the athletic
field. Football was his specialty, but he was none the less a good
baseball player and might have made the first team had he tried harder.
The boys talked of the diamond until the booming of the big school clock
warned them that they had better get to bed; so with good-nights and
a renewed promise on the part of Ward to place Joe in the box, the
conference broke up.
"Oh, things are coming your way slowly," remarked Tom, as he and Joe
reached their room, having successfully dodged a prying monitor on the
look-out for rule violators.
"Yes, and now I've got to make good."
"You can do that easily enough. You always have. And when the three
months are up I'm going to make my motion over again, and I'll bet we'll
elect you as regular pitcher."
"I guess you forget that when the three months are up the Summer vacation
will be here and the nine will be out of business," remarked Joe. "No,
I've got to work my own way, I guess."
There were some murmurs of surprise when it was announced the next day
that Joe Matson was to be the scrub pitcher. Friends of rival candidates
urged their claims on Ward, but he stuck to his promise and the place
went to Joe.
"Did Hiram or Luke say anything when you told them?" asked Tom of the
scrub captain.
"Oh, yes--a little."
"What was it?"
"Nothing very pleasant, so don't repeat it to Joe, but Hiram wanted to
know why I didn't pick out a decent fellow to pitch against the first
team, and Luke remarked that Joe would be knocked out of the box in the
first practice game, and that I'd have to get some one else."
"Oh, Luke said that, did he?" asked Tom, and there was a look of
smothered anger in his eyes.
"Yes, and then some more."
"Just wait until the first game--that's all," requested Tom quietly. "If
they knock Joe Matson out of the box it will be the first time it's
happened since he found that he was a real pitcher."
"There are some pretty good batters on the first team," warned Ward.
"That's the kind Joe likes," replied his chum. "Just you wait; that's
all."
It was the day for the first regular practice between the scrub and
first teams. For several afternoons Joe had been pitching to Bob
Harrison, who often acted as the scrub catcher, and as there was so much
other individual playing going on no one had paid much attention to the
work of our hero.
"Say, I think we've got a 'find' all right," announced Bob to Ward, just
before the practice game was called.
"How so?" asked the scrub captain.
"Why, that Matson can sting 'em in for further orders, and he's got some
of the prettiest curves that ever came over the plate. The Hiram-Luke
crowd is going to sit up and take notice, take it from yours truly."
"I'm glad of it!" declared Ward. "We'll do our best to beat 'em, and it
will be for their own good. They're soft, naturally at the beginning of
the season, and so are we, but if we can wallop 'em, so much the better.
Have you and Joe got your signals down?"
"Yes, he's better at that than I am. He must have played some pretty
good games."
"So Sister Davis says. Well, here they come. Now to see what we can do?"
There was a conference between Luke and Ward, and in order to give his
team the most severe kind of a try-out, Luke arranged to let the scrub
bat last.
The first practice game was important in more ways than one. Not only
did it open the season for Excelsior Hall, but it would show up the weak
players, and, while the first team was practically picked, there might
be a change in it. At least so every lad who was not on it, but wanted
to be, thought, and he hoped against hope that his playing might attract
the attention of the manager.
Another thing was that Dr. Rudden, the coach, sometimes took a hand in
the baseball affairs and occasionally he had been known to over-ride the
judgment of Hiram and Luke, insisting that some player whom they had not
picked be allowed to show what he could do on the first team. So there
were many hearts that beat high with hope, and among them was Joe's.
And there were hearts that were a bit anxious--to wit, members of the
first team who were not quite sure of themselves.
There was a large crowd in the grandstand and on the bleachers when the
gong rang to start the game--a throng of students mostly, for the
general public was not admitted so early in the season.
It was a good day for the game, albeit the ground was a trifle soft, and
the Spring wind not as warm as might be. The boys in their spick and
span new uniforms made a natty appearance as they trotted out on the
diamond.
According to custom, Dr. Fillmore, the venerable head of the school,
pitched the first ball formally to open the season. It was a sort of
complimentary ball, and was not expected to be struck at.
"Play ball!" yelled the umpire as he took the new horsehide sphere from
its tinfoil wrapping and handed it to Dr. Fillmore. The president bowed
as though about to make a speech, and Joe, who was in the box, stepped
back. Our hero's heart was thumping under his blouse, for at last he was
about to pitch his first game at Excelsior Hall, even if it was but on
the scrub.