SAM OFFERS A SUGGESTION
Dripping and grinning the two warriors were pulled into row-boats and
taken ashore, where Mr. Gifford, referee of the tournament, announced
the match a draw.
There was a senior diving contest, won by Tom Crossbush, and a junior
contest for the younger youths. And there were several other swimming
races of varying distances. And, finally, a special race of an eighth
of a mile, more or less, between Sam and Steve Brown, in which Sam
allowed his competitor something like fifty yards and beat him out
handily.
There were no prizes given, but Steve Brown recorded the events and the
names of the winners with a hot poker on a wooden panel and the panel
was hung in The Wigwam.
The ball games went on twice each week and the Indians, thanks to
George Porter’s pitching, distanced their rivals without much trouble.
It was well into August before the Mascots again won a victory from
Mr. Gifford’s team, having meanwhile lost four more games to it. The
Brownies were easy picking for both the other nines, and, in fact, won
but two games all the season, defeating the Mascots once, 12 to 10,
and the Indians, 7 to 4. In the latter game Porter was suffering, as
he later acknowledged, from too many unripe apples, and his pitching
was far from being up to his standard. Toward the middle of August
there was a noticeable improvement in the work of all the teams. The
fellows batted better, fielded better, and ran bases better, and,
too, developed not a little team-play. Even the Brownies had their
star performer, that same Ralph Murdock who had piloted George Porter
through the tilting bouts. Murdock was a born first baseman and a fine
batsman as well, and had his team-mates possessed half his ability the
Brownies would have been a nine to fear.
The councillors usually played only in practice, but once or twice, by
common agreement, they took part in a game. When they did the fielders
were busy. Mr. Gifford was the slugging kind of a batter and in one
game drove out three home runs, a double, and a single in five times
at bat. The Indians were playing the Brownies that day, and Steve
Brown, while he did not succeed in rivalling Mr. Gifford’s batting
record, always managed to reach first and then showed what could be
done by a smart base-runner. He stole second brazenly, using the
fallaway slide to such purpose that it was a hopeless matter to try
and stop him. Once on second, he had scarcely more difficulty reaching
third and on two occasions he made barefaced steals to the plate. In
one inning he reached first on a scratch hit and then stole home before
the following batsman had been retired! The Indians soon got so that
they only half-heartedly attempted to stay him in his delirious romps
around the bases, only Mr. Gifford daring to dispute his progress.
Mr. Gifford played in centre field and once, having come in almost to
the base-line to field a short fly, he conceived the idea of catching
Steve off third. Steve was enjoying a twelve-foot lead at the moment,
doubtless considering his chance of getting home ahead of the ball. Mr.
Gifford pegged suddenly to third baseman and that youth made a perfect
catch. But, contrary to expectation, Steve didn’t scuttle back to
safety at third. Instead, he dashed for the plate at top speed. Third
baseman heaved the ball to catcher. Steve turned and doubled back.
Catcher went after him along the base-line. By that time most of the
infield had gathered about to help retire the annoying Mr. Brown and
there was much shouting and confusion. But it was evidently not the
first time that Steve had been caught between bases. He ran and ducked
and doubled as coolly and craftily as if he quite enjoyed it, which he
doubtless did. And at last, just when the shortstop, who had joined the
fray, was on the point of tagging him, Steve spurted back to third,
upsetting two players on the way and slid into the bag in safety.
Much applause then from the audience of non-combatants and from the
bench where the Brownies were congregated. Much laughter, too, and not
a little “ragging” of the Indians. Out near second Mr. Gifford shook a
threatening fist at Steve as the latter arose and patted the dust from
his flannel trousers. Disconsolately and a bit sheepishly, the Indians
returned to their places. At the plate, Jimmy Benson stooped to pick
up his mask. In the pitcher’s box George Porter, ball in hand, back
to the plate, waited for the fielders to get in position. And at that
psychological instant Steve Brown trotted home!
He didn’t even hurry. There was a shout of alarm from the third baseman
and Porter turned to see the councillor halfway to the plate. Porter
raised his arm to throw, but there was Benson, intensely agitated but
helpless, struggling with his mask. And so Steve crossed the home-plate
at a slow lope and turned smilingly toward the bench. The ball reached
the plate a moment later and rolled against the backstop. The Indians
were not allowed to forget that incident for many days.
In another contest, when Sam was playing left field for his team and
Mr. Gifford was with the Indians, there was a batting contest that
was worth seeing. Sam was something of a heavy hitter himself, and he
didn’t find George Porter very difficult. Sam and Mr. Gifford, then,
vied with each other and kept the opposing outfields very busy indeed.
Mr. Gifford got no home runs that time, but he made a record of two
doubles and three singles, and his doubles might have gone for triples
if the Mascots’ outfielders hadn’t been playing well back. Sam got
one three-bagger, a double, and two singles, on the other occasion
popping a foul to first baseman. In the matter of total bases the two
councillors came off even, but it was claimed by the Mascots that Sam’s
triple had gained him the palm. As far as the game itself went, the
Indians won it easily.
There came a rainy spell in the middle of the month, that made baseball
out of the question for several days and the boys began to show signs
of fidgeting. There wasn’t much they could do to work off their
surplus animation when it rained. Not that the rain kept many of them
indoors, for it didn’t; but knocking about in wet boats and canoes
soon palled, tennis was impracticable, and there seemed to remain no
outdoor amusement. By the fourth day the fellows had begun to get into
mischief in sheer boredom and Mr. Langham realised that something must
be done; that some outlet must be provided for the stored-up energy.
The councillors talked it over in the office that morning. The rain
still pelted down and the buildings were damp and cheerless in spite
of the fires that flared all day in the big chimney-places. Sam, who
had put on his raincoat and had his pockets bulging with bait-box and
fishing tackle, hoped the conference would soon be over, for he and
Tom Crossbush were going down the lake after bass. As it turned out,
however, there was to be no fishing for them to-day.
“I suppose,” said Mr. Langham, “we couldn’t get up any sort of an
athletic meet, Brown?”
“No, sir; everything’s flooded at the field. The pits are mud-holes.”
“Well, we ought to get them busy at something, fellows. They’ll be
getting into trouble if we don’t. I thought I detected a strong odour
of cigarettes under the window yesterday.”
Mr. Haskins nodded. “Three or four of the older boys were in the trunk
cellar. I--er--I went down there, but failed to apprehend them.”
The Chief tried not to smile. They all knew that Mr. Haskins had
undoubtedly warned the boys of his approach and carefully waited until
they had hidden all incriminating evidence before he had confronted
them. Mr. Langham coughed and looked out the dripping window.
“We mustn’t have smoking, Haskins,” he said gravely.
“No, sir. If you’d like the names----”
“No, no,” responded the Chief hurriedly. “If there’s no evidence----
What we’ve got to do is to get them busy so they won’t get into any
deviltry. Anyone got a suggestion?”
Apparently no one had. At least none spoke for a moment. Then Mr.
Gifford said doubtfully: “We might let them go over to the village for
the afternoon, sir.”
The village lay across and down the lake some two miles, a tiny hamlet
boasting of three or four stores, a blacksmith shop, and a station,
from which an occasional train rambled away to the north on an
unimportant branch line. Mr. Haskins smiled.
“There isn’t much for them to do over there,” he said. “They might buy
root-beer and candy and make themselves sick, but that’s about all.”
“What we want is something they can go at hard,” said Mr. Langham,
frowning over the problem. “Something that’ll leave them healthily
tired out.” Another silence followed and then Sam asked:
“Would it do them any harm to sleep out of doors, sir?”
“Sleep out of doors? Why, on wet ground, yes, I presume it would.” He
looked questioningly at Sam.
“I was thinking that we might have a hike, sir.”
“A hike,” repeated the Chief thoughtfully. “I don’t know, Craig. You
see----”
“That’s what they need, Chief,” said Mr. Gifford. “What’s your idea,
Sam?”
“Well, I thought we might select a place say five or six miles away,
divide the fellows into two parties and set out with blankets and grub
and see which party could get there first. There might be some sort of
prize or reward. Of course, it would mean sleeping outdoors----”
“But if the parties started out together it would just be a race,
wouldn’t it?” objected Mr. Gifford. “Pretty strenuous, I’m afraid, Sam.”
“I thought we could set out different ways, perhaps. We could see that
the fellows didn’t overdo it. The idea would be to get there first, but
in good condition. That would mean resting along the way, taking the
easiest routes, and so on. It’s just a suggestion. And I don’t know
anything about the country around here. Maybe it wouldn’t do.”
“I say,” exclaimed Steve Brown, “isn’t there a picnic-ground or
something of that sort over at Miles, Chief? Seems to me I remember a
big open building near the railway.”
“Yes, a park they used to hold Chautauquas in. You mean we could sleep
there, eh? Not a bad idea. In fact, the scheme sounds good. What do you
think?”
“Excellent,” voted Mr. Haskins. “And I’d like it myself first-rate. My
legs certainly need stretching.”
“We’d have to take blankets and eats, wouldn’t we?” asked Steve. “And
some cooking things, too, I suppose. Or we might find some place to
feed over there.”
“It would be more fun for the boys if we cooked our own grub,” said Mr.
Gifford. “Let’s do it, Chief!”
“Well, by Jove, we will! And I’ll go along. Now let’s figure on rations
and luggage.”
And that is how the Marathon Picnic, as the boys called it, came
about. Shortly after dinner--siesta being disregarded that day--the
boys congregated in The Wigwam and the plan, of which they had already
caught an inkling, was explained to them. It met with instant acclaim.
Had the Chief suggested a trip to the North Pole they would have
welcomed it. Mr. Gifford and Sam alternately selected members for
the rival parties until every boy had a place on the “Reds” or the
“Blues,” as they chose to call them. Mr. Haskins was finally drawn by
Mr. Gifford and Steve Brown by Sam. Mr. Langham, when they set out,
elected to throw in his lot with the “Reds,” Mr. Gifford’s party. Every
fellow rolled up his blanket, tied the ends together and slipped it
over a shoulder. Then he donned his raincoat. Food and a few cooking
utensils were apportioned out and went into pockets or were slung over
shoulders, and a tin cup graced every belt. At half-past two all was
ready for the start.