WILLARD GOES ON STRIKE
“I’m afraid,” observed Willard, laying his brush down and straightening
some of the kinks from his back, “that there’ll be more gnats and flies
on here than paint. Wonder how it would do to rig a mosquito netting
over us, Tom.”
“They are pretty bad, and that’s a fact,” agreed Tom without ceasing
the slap-slap of his brush. “I’ve picked off a couple of hundred this
morning, I guess.”
They were in the stable loft, with the swinging doors wide open and the
little back yard and garden spread beneath them in the hot sunshine
of a mid-June day. It was Saturday morning and they were courageously
applying the second coat of gray paint to the automobile body. Jimmy
Brennan had suggested that it would be a simple matter to hoist the
body up into the loft by block and tackle and that up there it would
be both out of his way and where the boys could work on it to their
hearts’ content. They had had a harder job than anticipated, for the
old finish on the car, while stained and rubbed, cracked and flaked,
was as hard as baked enamel when it came to removing it; and they had
been assured that it would be necessary to remove it before applying
new paint. They had worked most of four afternoons with patent paint
removers and sand paper before the task had been accomplished. Even
then the corners and under surfaces hardly bore critical examination.
But the new paint seemed to take very well and the first coat, while a
bit thin and streaky in places, had worked a wonderful change in the
appearance of the body. The second coat was going on now, and after
that had dried there would be two coats of varnish.
Downstairs the chassis of the car stood dismantled, with parts
distributed all over the floor. To Tom and Willard it looked a most
forlorn and discouraging scene. It was terribly hard to convince
themselves that Jimmy would ever succeed in getting all those gears and
rods and bolts and wheels and things back in their proper places again!
Just now the work was lagging because the factory had not sent the
parts ordered.
“When we get this coat on we can’t do any more for a while, can we?”
asked Willard hopefully, dipping his brush again with a sigh and
returning to his labor.
“N-no, I guess not. Mustn’t forget the hood, though. We’ve got the
second coat to put on that yet.” Tom glanced over his shoulder to where
the object mentioned stood on end like a letter W. Willard painted in
silence after a discouraged glance at the hood. The noon whistle at the
paper mill suddenly burst into a hoarse bellow and Willard sighed again
and scowled at the paint pot. Finally:
“Tom, I’ll keep on until the body’s done, but I’m not going to do any
more painting after that,” he stated decidedly. “This is Saturday and
we ought to have a half-holiday.”
“All right,” said Tom. “You stop whenever you want to. I’ll do the hood
after dinner. It won’t take long.”
“No, you’ve got to stop, too. If I go off and leave you up here in the
heat and the flies I’ll feel like I ought to come back and help you. So
you’ve got to take a holiday, too. I’ll stop around for you at two and
we’ll go and see the game.”
“What game?” asked Tom disinterestedly.
Willard observed him pityingly. “The game of baseball, Tom. Between
Audelsville High School and Providence Preparatory Academy. Played on
the Meadow Street Field at three o’clock. Baseball, Tom, is a game
played with bat and ball. And the Audelsville High School is――er――an
institution of learning in the town of Audelsville, Rhode Island. Ever
hear of it?”
“You’re an idiot,” laughed Tom. “I’d forgotten we played Providence
Prep to-day.”
“Of course you had. You’ve forgotten everything except this――this
tiresome old automobile!” And Willard slapped at the body viciously
with his brush. “Do you know, Tom, you don’t talk anything but motors
nowadays? Sometimes I think that if you say just one more word about
differentials or――or gears or any of those things I’ll put my head back
and howl!”
“Bad as that, is it?” asked Tom with a smile.
“Worse! That’s why you’ve got to knock off this afternoon and get your
mind off the thing. Why, the first thing you know you’ll have brain
fever or automobilitis!”
“More likely painter’s colic,” suggested Tom.
“Something, anyhow. So you’ve got to come to the game. And if you say
one single word about automobiles all the afternoon I’ll――I’ll beat
you!”
“All right, I’ll come then,” Tom laughed. “Not that I’m afraid of a
little runt like you, though.”
“You aren’t, eh?” asked Willard, scowling threateningly.
“Not a bit.” Tom painted calmly. “How much have you got to do?”
“Not much. I’m almost at the bottom. Are you going to have the――the
running gear the same shade?”
“Yes. I thought first we’d have it lighter, but I guess it will look
just as well to have the body and the chassis the same tone. Do you?”
“Sure; more toney!” The boys painted for a while in silence. Then:
“When are we going to get those things from the factory?” Willard
asked. Tom shook his head.
“I don’t know. Jimmy wrote to them again yesterday. He says that if
they don’t send the parts soon he will go and get them.”
“Fine!” laughed Willard. “The factory’s in Detroit, isn’t it?”
“Yes. I wish they’d come, though. I’d like to have the car all ready
when school closes, wouldn’t you? How long do you suppose it will take
me to learn to run it, Will?”
“Jimmy said he could teach you in two days,” replied Willard
doubtfully. “But if I was learning I’d want about two months!”
“Automobiles are awfully interesting things,” said Tom thoughtfully.
“I’ve learned a lot about them, Will.”
“I should think you might! You’ve been out here with Jimmy every
evening since he started to wreck the car for us. Between that old book
of yours and the questions you’ve asked I should think you’d be able
to build an auto yourself!”
“Jimmy knows a lot about machinery, and he’s been dandy about telling
me things I wanted to know. When he assembles the engine again I’m to
help him, Will.”
“Well, I guess he will need help,” said Willard. “For my part I don’t
believe you’ll ever get it together again. There, that’s the last. My,
but I’m tired. Painting certainly makes your arm ache.”
“You bet it does. Who is going to pitch this afternoon, Will?”
“Chester, they say. I suppose there’s no use being captain if you can’t
do what you want, but we’d stand a heap better show of winning if he’d
let Billy Younger pitch. Chester hasn’t a thing but a fast ball and a
sort of a slow drop that only works about once in ten times.”
“Billy’s the best pitcher we’ve had since I can remember,” said Tom.
“I’m glad we’ll have him again next year.” Tom gave a final pat with
his brush, dropped it into the paint pot and sighed. “That’s all done.
How does it look?”
The boys drew back and observed their handiwork critically.
“Sort of thin in places, isn’t it?” asked Willard. “Under the front
seat there――――”
“The varnish will bring that out all right. I wonder if varnish is
harder to put on than paint.”
“I hope not!” Willard groaned. “If I could afford it, Tom, I’d hire a
painter to do the rest of the job.”
Tom laughed. “Oh, you’ll feel better by Monday. Let’s go and wash up.
Will you have some dinner with me?”
“No, I told mother I’d surely be home. Why don’t you come over and eat
with me? Then we’ll be all ready to start for the field.”
“I’ll ask if I may,” answered Tom, as they clattered down the steep
stairway to the carriage house below. “Sure your mother won’t mind?”
“Not a bit. She’ll be glad to have you. Isn’t this enough to turn you
gray?” And Willard paused at the carriage house door and viewed the
confusion dejectedly. “Two weeks ago we had a perfectly good car, Tom,
and now look at it! You needn’t tell me that Jimmy or anyone else knows
how to put all those things together again!”
“Of course he does. Why, I could pretty nearly do it myself! Of course
I’d have to study it out a bit――――”
“My, but you’re getting a swelled head, Tom! You’ll be telling me
pretty soon that you invented automobiles!”
Ten minutes later the boys were walking along Washington Street to
Willard’s house. One of Connors’ hacks rolled by on the way to the
hotel and Willard, looking after it, shook his head pityingly.
“There won’t be much for them to do, Tom, when we get The Ark moving,
eh?” Willard had dubbed the automobile The Ark in a facetious moment,
and, although Tom had protested, the name had stuck. Tom smiled.
“What I’m afraid of,” he replied, “is that Connors will go and put on
an automobile himself. He could, you know.”
“Maybe he could, but he won’t. Livery men hate the things like poison.
I wonder if he will try to make trouble for us, Tom.”
“Connors? I don’t see how he could,” Tom objected. “We have a perfect
right to run an automobile if we want to.”
“Y-yes, but Connors isn’t the sort of man to sit down and twiddle his
thumbs if he sees anyone getting business away from him. Dad was saying
the other day that Connors wouldn’t like it much, and was telling how
he had driven two or three other livery men out of business here.”
“Well, I don’t see how he could drive us out of business, Will,”
replied Tom as they entered the Morris gate. “Gee, something smells
mighty good! And I’m as hungry as a bear!”
“Indian pudding,” replied Willard laconically, as they passed into the
house. “It’s Saturday.”
At half-past two the boys started out for the high school athletic
field, which lay between Meadow Street and the railroad, west of town.
Their way led them along Main Street for a half mile and then across a
sun-smitten field abloom with daisies and buttercups, and so to Meadow
Street and the entrance to the ball grounds. They had long since ceased
to be alone, and by the time they were getting out their quarters to
pay for admissions they were with a group of a half-dozen merry youths
in holiday mood. Jerry Lippit was of the number. Jerry was in baseball
togs, being a substitute infielder, carried a bat and had a fielder’s
glove dangling from his belt. He got into a game about twice in a
season, but he believed in being prepared!
The Providence team was having practice when Tom and Willard and
three or four others made their way to the “bleachers.” (There was a
first-rate grand stand, with backs to the benches and a roof overhead,
but seats thereon cost fifteen cents extra, and neither Tom nor
Willard was in the habit of occupying them.) It was pretty hot on the
bleachers, with the sun slanting down on your head, and Tom and Willard
followed the example of the boys already there and took off their
jackets. Jerry, who had stopped to remind Captain Chester Madden of
his existence and willingness to help the team in an emergency, joined
the group presently and sandwiched himself in between Tom and “Spider”
Wells.
“Is he going to let you play?” inquired Spider, who was a tall, thin
youth with mild blue eyes and a shock of corn-colored hair.
“When all the others are killed off,” replied Jerry cheerfully. “Say,
those chaps look pretty husky, don’t they?”
It was agreed that they did, and Teddy Thurston, who was seated behind
Willard, digging his sharp knees into that youth’s back, had an
admiring word for the natty gray uniforms and purple stockings of the
Providence team.
“They look like plums,” commented Jerry. “The Providence Plums! How’s
that for a name?”
“I hope we find them soft,” observed Tom.
“So do I. If we beat ’em I shall call them the Providence Prunes. There
goes Chester to warm up. Who’s he pitching to, Tom?”
“Poor, isn’t it? What’s the matter with letting Billy pitch?”
Jerry winked meaningly. “Ches wants some glory. They’ll bat him out of
the box in three innings; you see if they don’t.”
“Hope they do,” said Spider Wells, blinking almost vindicatively.
“Chester’s all the time trying to do things he can’t.”
“He can play third base,” said Willard. “I wish he’d stay there. I
suppose Tucker will play third. Look at the bunch of girls in the grand
stand, will you!”
“I pretty nearly got soaked for two grand stand seats,” said Teddy
Thurston. “My sister wanted to come, but she got a headache the last
time and I reminded mother of it and she said Bess couldn’t come. I’m
in fifty-five cents.”
“That’ll do for sodas when we get back,” suggested Jerry. “Any fellow
who will put up a game like that on his sister has to pay for it,
doesn’t he, fellows?”
It was the unanimous opinion of the crowd that he did, and Teddy,
after mentally figuring the expense, hesitatingly agreed. “Only,” he
bargained, “it’s to be straight soda, fellows; no ice-creams, you know!”
Jerry was for combating that ultimatum, but at the moment the
Audelsville team, in their gray and blue suits, took the field for
practice, and Jerry turned his attention to the home players.
“Who’s going to score?” asked Spider, taking a scorebook from his
pocket and tentatively wetting the tip of a pencil between his lips.
Spider was an indefatigable scorer, but as he was never able to quite
keep up with the plays it was necessary for his success that someone
else nearby should keep the score as well. Willard shook his head.
“I forgot to bring mine,” he said. Spider looked troubled until Teddy
Thurston brought forth a scorebook and borrowed a pencil from Tom. By
that time Audelsville had enjoyed her five minutes of fielding and
batting practice and Mr. Chase, the Assistant Principal, walked out to
the plate.
“Chase is going to umpire,” commented Willard. “That means we’ll get a
square deal.”
“So will the other fellows,” said Tom. “Now let’s see what they do to
Chester.”
The first one of the enemy was thrown out at first and the second
barely beat the ball out and was called safe. A sacrifice bunt placed
the runner on second base and, with two down, the local sympathizers
breathed more freely. But the next batsman, after waiting until Chester
Madden had put himself in a hole with three balls, found one to his
taste and wrapped a hot liner over second baseman’s head. Rightfielder
came in hard and threw to the plate, but the ball got there a fraction
of a second after the runner had crossed it in a cloud of dust, and
Providence had scored.
A pop fly to shortstop made the third out and the teams changed places.
Lyman, the diminutive shortstop, hit past the Providence pitcher and
reached first on second baseman’s error. But, although he got down to
second when Ness was put out at first, he died there, for both Cook
and Madden fanned. There was no more scoring by either team until
the fourth. Madden settled down and displayed a very fair article of
ball. He had but one strike-out to his credit, and most of the enemy
connected with his slants in one way or another, but a deal of sharp
fielding and a lot of good luck saved him until the first half of the
inning mentioned. Then things went bad from the start for the Blues’
captain.
The first purple-stockinged batsman took the first delivery, which was
a fast, straight ball, and sent it arching far out into centerfield.
Perhaps Cook should have got under it, but he didn’t, thus saving
himself from a possible error and allowing the runner to get safely to
second base. The next man laid the ball down about six feet in front
of the plate and both Madden and George Connors, the catcher, made for
it. Connors got it and hurled it down the base line. It was a hurried
throw and, instead of landing in Ness’s hands, the ball took the runner
squarely between the shoulders, sent him staggering over the bag and
then bounded off into the crowd at the foot of the grand stand. The
Providence coach hustled the astonished and breathless runner to his
feet and sent him sprinting to second, while the man on that bag raced
home.
Confusion ensued at once. Mr. Chase sent the first runner back to
third, as the ball had been interfered with, but allowed the batsman
to hold second. Captain Madden objected strongly, claiming that the
batsman should be allowed but one base. The Providence captain rushed
up and added his voice to the controversy and players of both teams
crowded around. Whereupon the purple-stockinged youth on third base
nonchalantly walked home and the runner on second ambled to third
and would have followed his team-mate’s example had not Jerry Lippit
shrieked a warning to Madden, who held the ball.
“You’re on third!” cried Madden, pointing accusingly at the runner who,
having crossed the plate, had now joined the group. “Mr. Umpire, send
him back to third, sir!”
“I can’t do that, Madden,” replied Mr. Chase quietly. “Time has not
been called.”
“It hasn’t?” ejaculated Madden, aghast.
“Certainly not. You didn’t ask for time.”
Murmurs of resentment arose from the Audelsville players, while the
visitors grinned or openly chuckled. Madden flushed angrily.
“Seems to me it was your business to call time, sir,” he said.
“Not at all. You rushed up and protested my decision. You had no right
to do that, Madden. If you had wanted time called you should have said
so. The runner is safe at the plate. That man is safe on third. Play
ball!”
Audelsville howled its disapproval from the stands, but Mr. Chase was
not to be shaken from his position, and after a few minutes of further
argument and protest the game continued. But now Captain Madden was “up
in the air” with a vengeance. The next man took his base on balls and
stole second immediately, Connors being afraid to throw down to head
him off. The subsequent batsman took kindly to Madden’s third delivery
and hit safely between shortstop and third, and two more runs came
across.
Dissatisfaction reigned on the bleachers. “Why doesn’t he start Billy
warming up?” demanded Spider Wells. “He’s losing the game for us.”
“He’s mad,” chuckled Teddy Thurston. “He isn’t thinking a thing about
Billy or anyone else just now. Watch this big chap smash a homer!”
The big chap didn’t accomplish that feat, but he had no trouble with
one of Chester Madden’s slow balls and sent it whizzing into short
left, a clean hit. With men on first and second and none out, things
looked bad for the home team. Connors walked down and talked with
Madden, and the latter nodded. Billy Younger arose from the players’
bench and began to warm up to Poor. The spectators murmured their
relief.
Madden made four attempts to catch the man off at second and then
turned his attention to the impatient batsman. The man happened to be
the opposing pitcher and a poor hand with the stick. But in spite of
that Madden seemed unable to put the ball over the plate to Mr. Chase’s
satisfaction and the Providence pitcher ambled to first, advancing the
other runners and filling the bases. Cries of “Take him out!” “Put in
Younger!” arose, demands which increased the captain’s unsteadiness.
Certainly Billy Younger had not had time to get the kinks out of his
arm, yet even so it would doubtless have been well to substitute
him for Madden just then. For the next batsman, one of the Purple’s
heaviest hitters, rapped a sharp one down the third base line that was
just out of Tucker’s reach and two more runs came in. Connors took
affairs in his own hands then, and talked earnestly to Madden, with
the result that the captain, shrugging his shoulders, dropped the ball
in the box and went over to third base, displacing Tucker, and Billy
Younger, pulling off his faded blue sweater, ran on to the field. The
stands applauded loudly and Billy, rescuing the ball, pulled his cap
down and faced the situation.