Needless to say, Ben would have liked to start out immediately after
dinner to look for the pocket in the rocks that was marked with a cross,
provided he could have found a good excuse to get away from the others;
for he was still of a mind to keep his discovery a secret for the
present. But the larder was in need of fresh supplies, and as soon as
they had finished their cleaning up Tom announced that their immediate
business was to sail across to Farmer Hapgood’s and buy some eggs and
milk. So the _Argo_ put out into the bay again, and soon the four
campers, the sailboat safely moored at the Hapgood landing, were
tramping up the road toward a gray-shingled cottage that had a couple of
beautiful, tall elms at either side of it.
Mrs. Hapgood sold them eggs, milk, and butter, and some large loaves of
freshly-baked bread. These were packed in a basket the boys had brought.
When they came out from the house they stopped a few moments to chat
with Mrs. Hapgood, and while they were talking two large automobiles
swung in from a crossroad and raced past the farmhouse door.
The two cars were filled with boys, boys on the seats and on the
running-boards. “They’re from Camp Amoussock, down along the shore a
way,” Mrs. Hapgood explained. “They’re going to have a baseball game
with the boys around here. My Sandy’s playing. He’s getting into his
things upstairs now, but he’ll be down in a minute.”
The cars disappeared in a cloud of dust, and almost immediately a
red-haired, freckle-faced young fellow, in a baseball suit, dashed out
from the front door.
“Hello,” he cried, nodding to the others. “That crowd made as much noise
with their horns as if they’d won the game already.”
“Pretty good team, are they?” asked David.
“Yes, they’re a good team,” said Sandy; “but mighty stuck on themselves.
They come from a lot of different cities, and most of them play on their
school nines. They’ve beaten us the last two summers. Gee, but we’d like
to get back at ’em to-day!”
“Who’s on your team?” asked Tom.
“Well, we call ourselves the Tidewater Tigers. Most of us live around
here. One, Billy Burns, comes from Barmouth. Native sons of New
Hampshire against the strangers—that’s what my father says.”
“We know Billy Burns,” said Ben. “He’s a good batter.”
“Yes, he’s good,” agreed Sandy. “But they’ve got a pitcher who’s a
corker. Lanky Larry they call him. He’s the goods all right—lots of
speed and a curve. I’ll say he is! Fanned me three times last year.”
Sandy clutched his bat. “Gee, but I’d like to sting him!”
“Let’s feel it,” said David. He took the bat and swung it several times.
“A little light, but not bad,” he pronounced judicially.
“Say, why don’t you all come along? We’ll show you some real excitement.
You can leave that basket here.”
The boys looked at each other, and suddenly Tuckerman burst out
laughing. “Lead us to it, Sandy. I can see these three have got their
tongues hanging out.”
“Well,” said David slowly, “I do hate to pass a good thing by.”
“He wants a sight of this Lanky Larry,” said Tom. “A good pitcher to
Dave is like a red rag to a bull.”
Mrs. Hapgood relieved Tom of the basket. “You boys are native sons,” she
said with a smile. “Go along and root for the Tigers.”
Up the road they went until they came to an open field marked out with a
baseball diamond. The two automobiles were parked on one side, and on
the other was a crowd of boys and girls, interspersed with a few older
people. Already some of the Tigers and some of the Amoussocks were
knocking out flies to their fielders.
“There’s Lanky, warming up,” said Sandy, pointing to a tall,
dark-skinned fellow who was throwing a ball to a catcher in front of the
automobiles. “They’re a swell lot, aren’t they? They’ve all got brand
new suits this summer, with red and white stockings, and a red A on
their chests.”
The Amoussocks did look very trim; more especially in contrast to the
native sons, who were dressed in all sorts of suits, the most of them
old and mud-stained.
“Here’s Billy Burns,” said Sandy; and as Tuckerman and the three boys
went up to join the crowd, Sandy darted away to report himself to his
captain.
Billy came up. “Hi, you fellows. What you doing here?”
“Digging clams for bait,” answered David. “Benjie wants to go fishing.”
“Come down to see us smear the strangers?” Billy continued, ignoring
David’s joke.
“I hear that Lanky Larry’s a terror.” This from Tom.
“Terror’s the word,” Billy admitted. “Say, Dave, you think you’re some
hitter in Barmouth. But you’ve never stacked up against his class.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said David. “I’ve sent some good men to the discard.
Howsomever, it’s not up to me this afternoon to tackle the strangers.
I’m neutral to-day.”
“Go to it, Billy!” said Ben. “We’re going to root for you. Of course we
are. We’re not pikers.”
It was clear that this was a big day in the eyes of the community. A
hay-wagon rattled up, loaded with empty boxes and a pile of boards. The
boxes were stood on end on the ground and the planks placed across them,
and the seats thus made were instantly filled by boys and girls. On the
opposite side waved a large banner, white with a gigantic red A in the
centre. There were shouts and cheers from both sides as the two teams
gathered round the umpire; then the Tigers ran out to take the field and
the first Amoussock batter stepped up to the plate.
The campers from Cotterell’s Island sat on the grass with the New
Hampshire boys. Half the fun of watching any contest is in rooting for
one side to win, and naturally the campers were backing the home nine.
The Amoussocks had a superior air, partly due perhaps to their snappy
suits and partly to the fact that they had beaten the Tigers each of the
two summers before. And they knew how to play baseball; there was a snap
and precision about their work that was the result of constant coaching
in teamwork.
Against them the home team, mostly the sons of neighboring farmers, boys
who had to coach themselves and only played together on Saturdays,
showed at a decided disadvantage. They had plenty of fighting spirit and
kept right up on their toes, playing for all they were worth, taking big
chances in stealing bases and backing each other up on every throw. But
they couldn’t hit Lanky Larry—not to any extent; and the Amoussocks
could, and did, hit Sam Noyes, the Tiger pitcher.
David shook his head as the third inning ended. “That Lanky’s got ’em
where he wants ’em,” he said. “He eases up a bit, and lets us get a hit
or two; but watch him in the pinches. He can tighten up and shoot ’em
over. Yes, siree,—nothing he likes better than a couple of them on the
bases, and then putting over three strikes, simple as you please.”
Tom took a blade of grass from his mouth. “And he keeps grinning.
Nothing riles a batter worse than that sort of a pitcher. ‘See how
simple it is,’ he says with that smile. ‘Like taking candy from a kid to
get a strike on you’—and he goes ahead and shoots one over while you’re
planning how you’ll wipe the grin from his face.”
Billy Burns dropped down beside them. “Two to nothing,” he declared.
“Sam’s doing mighty well, but Lanky’s doing better. It’s that in-shoot
of his. I know just where it’s going, but hang it all! every blessed
time I reach right out for it.”
“He’s got your goat,” said David. “You’re so all-fired mad that you
don’t wait for the ball to get near you.”
“Huh, it’s easy to talk! I suppose you could wait all day.”
“Well, I wouldn’t get tied up tight, stiff as a stick. That’s the
trouble with all our team. They’re so keen to hit they can’t wait.
Larry’s got them going before they walk out there; and he knows it too,
believe me!”
“I suppose you’d be as cool as a cucumber,” Billy jeered.
“As fat as a cucumber, you mean,” suggested Ben. “When Dave leans
against the ball it’s like a ton of bricks.”
“We’re out again,” announced Billy, picking up his fielder’s glove.
“We’re not so worse in the field; but golly, if we could only hit!”
The Tigers couldn’t hit, however. The crowd on the benches rooted as
hard as they could, but the native sons stayed behind. And the visitors
grew more dashing. They kept talking to each other on the bases, little
remarks filled with self-esteem; it was easy to see they were very well
pleased with themselves.
David kept pulling blades of grass, chewing them, spitting them out.
Every time that a Tiger came to bat David felt as if it were he himself
who was facing that smiling pitcher.
The fifth inning came and went; the score was still the same. Billy
Burns, in spite of what David had told him, had struck out again.
Tom stood up and stretched. “No, boys, it isn’t our day—unless
something different happens. I guess that old New Hampshire’s got to
take the short end.”
Something did happen; but not what Tom expected. Billy Burns, in the
outfield, running after a deep fly to centre, made a dive for the ball
at full speed, stumbled, fell headlong, but held up the ball in his
hand.
“Batter’s out!” cried the umpire.
The loyal rooters cheered. Billy, however, lay flat, and when, after a
moment, he tried to get up, he sat down quickly again.
The other fielders ran over to him and stood him up between them. Billy
held up one foot, put it down, gave a groan. “Twisted my ankle, I
guess,” he muttered. He tried to take a step forward. “No go,” he added.
“Hang it all, just my luck!”
Two fielders brought him in between them, Billy hopping on one foot. The
Tigers held a consultation, while the Amoussocks threw the ball around.
Then Sam Noyes, the Tiger captain, stepped over to David. “Billy’s down
and out,” he said. “He can’t play any more. But he says you think you
can hit their pitcher; and you’re from Barmouth, so that’d be all right.
Want to take Billy’s place?”
David glanced up. He knew by the look on Sam’s face that the Tiger
captain didn’t believe he could bat any better than the others. “All
right,” he answered. “I didn’t mean to boast, you know; but I’ll do my
darndest.”
“No one can do more,” murmured Tuckerman behind him.
David peeled off his coat and put on Billy’s glove. He lumbered out to
centrefield while Sam Noyes explained the substitution to the Amoussock
captain.
In the last half of the sixth inning David came to bat. Lanky Larry
patted the ball caressingly, surveyed the new player from head to foot,
and then grinned as if he had suddenly remembered a tremendous joke.
David dug his feet into the earth of the batter’s box, wishing he had on
the cleated shoes he wore when he played on his school team, swung his
bat—one he had carefully selected from the varied assortment offered by
the Tigers—and then grinned as if he also had thought of something very
funny.
“I say, what’s the joke, you two fellows?” sang out a man who was
standing back of the benches.
That made everybody laugh, with the result that Lanky, when he pitched
the ball, threw it wide and missed the plate by a couple of inches.
“Ball one!” proclaimed the umpire.
“Make it be good!” yelled Ben.
David hitched up his trousers and lifted his bat again. Lanky patted the
ball and smiled, but not so broadly. He shot the next one across the
plate with speed and precision, David letting it go by without swinging
at it.
“Strike one!” sang the umpire.
“You’ve got him, Lanky!” came a voice from the ranks of the Amoussocks.
“Oh dear!” sighed a girl on the Tiger’s bench, loud enough to be heard
across the diamond; “I thought this fellow looked like he could knock a
home run!”
There was a titter, a ripple of laughter, and Larry, fondling the ball,
looked over in the direction of the girl and grinned from ear to ear.
The ball shot from his hand. There was a crack—sharp and
stinging;—Larry reached out, missed the ball as it whizzed by—whizzed
on over the bag at second base, sizzled on into the outfield.
Centrefield couldn’t touch it; that ball simply wouldn’t stop, and
didn’t until it struck a stone wall at the end of the field.
By the time the ball got back David was standing on third base, and the
Tiger rooters were splitting the air with yells.
“Dave leaned against it all right, didn’t he?” said Ben to Tuckerman.
“He came around on it just as easy; but when he struck he made every
ounce tell.”
“He’d have had a home run if it hadn’t been for that stone wall,” said
Tuckerman. “The field’s too short; it doesn’t give our Dave a show.”
Lanky Larry looked less amused. He frowned and grew thoughtful; with the
result that the next Tiger up got a neat hit to right field, and David
came trotting home.
But the inning ended on the next play, the Tiger being caught out at
second base. The score was two to one, in the Amoussock’s favor. The
crowd felt somewhat better as the Tigers took the field again. The
Amoussocks, however, managed to get in another run at their turn at bat,
and had a good lead of two.
The seventh and eighth innings repeated the same old story. Lanky was in
form again, and none of the batters could hit him. And with the score at
three to one the Amoussocks prepared to mow down their rivals in the
last half of the ninth.
David was to be the third batter, and he swung two bats over his
shoulder as he waited for his turn. Lanky knew what he was doing, was in
fact watching him out of the corner of his eye, and looking forward to
his next chance at the cocky David. Thinking what he would do to David
he forgot the job in hand, and struck Sam Noyes on the arm. The umpire
sent Sam to first. Larry scowled and bit his lip. The next Tiger got a
hit, and Sam went to second.
The crowd jumped to its feet, both sides were rooting madly. “If only
there was room for a home run!” sighed Ben. “Old Barmouth could do it!
Keep cool, Dave my lad!”
David was perfectly cool, to all appearance at least, as he walked up to
the plate. He smiled and gave the least little nod at the tall,
dark-skinned pitcher.
A duel between these two;—that was what the crowd felt in the air. The
fielders were hopping about, crouching, their hands on their knees; Sam
and the Tiger on first base were flapping their arms, all ready to dash
for the next base. But nobody looked at them; all eyes were on the two
who were regarding each other with pleasant smiles.
“Strike one!”
David stepped back, a bit surprised, while the crowd gave a groan.
“Ball one!” There was a little ripple of satisfaction.
“But he’s got to hit it,” Tom muttered in Tuckerman’s ear. “A base on
balls won’t do. The next fellow’d go out.”
And David knew he’d got to hit it, and kept telling himself not to
tighten up. “Easy does it, easy does it,” kept singing over and over in
his mind. If he tried too hard Lanky would get him just as he had gotten
the others; and he knew perfectly well that was what Lanky intended that
he should do.
“Strike two!”
Larry had outguessed him that time, giving him a slow drop. David eased
his muscles, smiled his confident smile, settled evenly on his feet.
This next would be the in-shoot. Larry would save that for the last.
“Easy does it; take your time.” David looked at the pitcher, not
angrily, not intently, just with a jovial dare.
And the bat, with David’s shoulders behind it, and his waist and his
legs as well, met that ball as it curved in toward him fair and square
on the nose. There was a mighty crack—the sort that sings in the ears
and makes the pulses tingle—and away and away went the ball. Over the
pitcher’s head, over the heads of the fielders; far out in the field it
struck the ground at last and bounded over the stone wall. It brought up
against a cow, that was lying down in a meadow, and it gave her such a
bump that she rose in haste and went galloping away, not knowing what
had struck her. And by the time the first Amoussock outfielder touched
that ball Sam Noyes and the next Tiger and David had circled the bases
and the game was won.
Billy Burns hopped over to David, forgetful of his sprained ankle. “Put
it there, old scout!” he cried, holding out his hand. “I never saw such
a hit! Gee whillikins! Dave, you’re the stuff all right!”
“Easy does it,” said David, who couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Easy!” exclaimed Billy. “You call that easy! I’d like to know what you
do to a ball when you hit it hard!”