MAKING THE NINE
Busy days followed. The Wigwam fixed its mind on the following Thursday
and laboured enthusiastically. On the morning after Mr. Langham’s
announcement Mr. Gifford, Sam, and Steve walked up the slope to what
was known as the Pulpit Tree, a big beech, under whose far-spreading
branches divine service was held on Sundays when the weather permitted.
There, sitting cross-legged on the ground, they held council over the
making of the baseball team that was to represent the camp.
“Let’s start with the battery,” said Mr. Gifford. “Of course George
Porter will pitch.”
“He may not last the game, though,” said Sam. “The question is who
shall we put in after him?”
“One of us, I guess. Can you twirl?”
Sam shook his head. “Neither can I,” said Steve. “How about you, Andy?”
“A little; at least, I’ve done some of it. But I haven’t anything much
on the ball. I used to be able to pitch an out-shoot that sometimes got
over, and that’s about all, except a fairly fast ball.”
“My idea, then,” said Sam, “would be for you to start the game and hold
them as long as you can. Then we’ll put in Porter.”
“Maybe they won’t tumble to you for three or four innings,” said Steve
encouragingly. “I dare say Porter will be able to go six. You’ll catch,
Sam?”
“Why, yes, I suppose so. Or if you think we’d better give the fellows
all the show we can, Benson could start.”
“We need a steady catcher, Sam. Of course, we want to let the fellows
get all the fun they can out of it, but there’s no use throwing the
game away on that account. Battery, then, to start, Gifford and Craig.”
He set it down on the pad he held. “Now then, who for first?”
“Wait a minute,” said Sam. “Where’s Steve going to play?”
“Put me in the outfield,” said Steve. “I can catch a fly fairly well,
but that’s about the limit of my abilities.”
“I’ve seen you run bases quite a bit,” said Mr. Gifford drily.
“You wouldn’t want to play second?” asked Sam.
Steve looked alarmed. “Great Scott, no!”
“All right. Only I’d like mighty well to have a chap on second who
could handle throws from the plate. Ed Thursby’s a good fielder, but
he’s weak at covering the bag on a steal.”
“Why don’t you try it, Steve?” asked Mr. Gifford. “We’ve got a dozen
fellows who can play in the outfield.”
“Well, if you like,” replied the other doubtfully. “Maybe I can get the
hang of it after a few days.”
“Good. Now, first baseman: Sawyer?”
“I suppose so,” agreed Sam.
“Rot!” said Steve. “Murdock can play all around Sawyer.”
It was Mr. Gifford’s turn to look doubtful. “He’s pretty good, but it
seems to me Sawyer is steadier.”
“Look here,” said Sam. “Seems to me we’re going at this thing all
wrong. What we ought to do is to pick out three or four fellows
for each position and give them all a fair try. There’s no need of
selecting the final team until, say, next Tuesday. By that time the
fellows will have shown what they can do.”
“That’s so,” agreed Steve. “Why not make up two teams, Andy? A First
and a Second, you know. Pick out those we think are the best for the
First, and then if any of the Second team fellows show up better we can
swap them over.”
“That sounds reasonable. Come on, then. First Team: Porter, pitcher;
Craig, catcher; Murdock, first baseman. Second Team: Gifford, pitcher;
Benson, catcher; Sawyer, first baseman. How’s that?”
“All right. Now let’s go on with the First. Steve will play second. For
shortstop there’s either Fairchild or Charrit. I guess Charrit has the
call. That puts Fairchild on the Second. For third?”
“Your man is better than mine there,” said Mr. Gifford. “Don’t you say
so, Steve?”
“Yes, Jones ought to have it, unless you put Crossbush there. He plays
pretty well at first and might do better at third.”
“We’ll put him down for the Second,” said Mr. Gifford. “For that
matter, fellows, there’s Thursby. He’s going to get left out of the
game unless we put him in the outfield. We’ve got to consider batting
ability as well as fielding, haven’t we?”
“That’s so,” Steve agreed. “Better put Thursby down on the Second and
let Crossbush substitute. We’ve got to fix it so we can give them all a
fair trial. It’s not going to be so easy.”
“First Team outfield, now. Peterson? Meldrum? And how about Codman?
He’s a bit young.”
“We ought to get hitters in the outfield,” suggested Sam. “Codman isn’t
much of a batter, is he, Andy?”
“No, he isn’t. How about that centre fielder of yours, Steve? Wonson,
isn’t it?”
“Jack Wonson, yes. He’s only fair, though. Joe Groom is a good hand
with the stick. Why not put him in the outfield?”
“Might try him. That makes it Peterson, Meldrum, and Groom for the
First. For the Second----”
“Codman,” suggested Sam, “and Simpson.”
“And Wonson?” asked Mr. Gifford.
“Give him a try,” agreed Steve.
“That fixes it, then. Better have a substitute infielder, though, for
the First.”
“Temple,” said Sam.
“Right-o. Anything else?”
“Don’t think so.” Steve took the list and looked it over. “That looks
all right to me. Suppose Sam captains the First and you the Second,
Andy.”
“All right. I suppose some of the fellows are going to be disappointed.”
“Bound to be some,” agreed Steve. “Can’t be avoided, though. We can
take a good big string of substitutes, I suppose, and that will help
some.”
“If the game happened to go our way we might use a lot of subs,” Sam
said. “Anyway, we could take them along on the chance.”
“You and Andy work up your batting orders,” said Steve. “Put me about
second on the list, Sam. If I can get my base one way or another I dare
say I can worry that Placid pitcher.”
“He will be mighty placid if you don’t,” chuckled Mr. Gifford.
“I’ll copy your list off for you, Sam.”
“I wonder who they’ll have to umpire,” said Steve while Mr. Gifford was
busy writing. “Sometimes a good deal depends on that.”
“Oh, I guess they’ll find a chap who’ll be fair to both sides,” replied
Sam.
“I don’t doubt that. Only thing is, will he know how? I’d rather play
with an umpire who knew how to ump and who was ag’in’ me than with one
who didn’t know and was as fair as all-get-out. It’s the blundering
sort who raise the dickens with a game sometimes.”
“There you are,” said Mr. Gifford. “And let’s start things up as soon
after two as possible. We’ve got good material in camp, fellows, and
we ought to be able to turn out a corking team. If we had two weeks
instead of one we’d do it, too.”
“Well, we’ve been playing steadily all summer,” said Steve, “and it
won’t be for lack of practice if we get licked.”
“Let’s not get licked,” said Sam quietly.
“Hm,” said Steve, and, “Oh, all right,” Mr. Gifford laughed. “Just as
you say, Sam!”
Five days of hard work, then, for all hands. But enthusiasm was rampant
and no one lagged. The journey to Mount Placid, the game, and the hike
back had caught the fellows’ fancy, and nothing much else was talked
about. As Mr. Gifford had predicted, there were some boys who felt keen
disappointment at being left off the teams, but they all tried their
best not to show it. “Every fellow for the Camp!” was the slogan. On
Monday the First and Second played a full nine-inning game and played
it for all they were worth. It was understood that the first selections
for the two teams were only tentative and that a player had only to
show his right to a position on the First Team to get it. And with this
in mind every fellow worked his hardest, either to stay where he was
on the First or to secure promotion from the Second. There were a few
changes, but not as many as might have been looked for. On the whole,
the councillors’ selections for the First Team proved wise ones.
That Monday game was ultimately won by Sam’s team, 13 to 10, and was
featured by a lot of hard hitting by both sides and some really fast
fielding. Mr. Gifford, in the points for the Second, pitched a fair
game and Benson caught him handsomely. But George Porter was on his
mettle, too, and had the better of the battle. Sam doubted the wisdom
of allowing Porter to pitch the whole of nine innings, but the desire
to win that game got the better of his discretion, and, besides, there
was no one to take Porter’s place.
On Tuesday there was no real game, but there was a full two hours of
the most strenuous batting and fielding and base-running, with every
candidate getting a chance. And then, on Tuesday evening, the three
councillors got together and picked the team that was to battle for the
honour of The Wigwam on Thursday. It was no light task, that, as Mr.
Gifford explained later at camp-fire.
“We all wished,” he announced to the attentive audience, “that a
baseball team comprised eighteen men instead of nine, because there
are at least eighteen of you who deserve places. It’s been hard work
making a choice in lots of cases, and we may have made mistakes.
But we’ve done our honest best, fellows, and we’ve judged you only
on performance. Some of you are going to be disappointed. That’s
unavoidable. To those who have striven and failed the camp owes its
thanks. One thing I am quite sure of, however, and that is that those
of you who aren’t chosen will hold no resentment, but will ‘pull’ just
as hard. Well, here’s the list, fellows.”
Mr. Gifford leaned forward so that the firelight fell on the sheet of
paper he held.
“Porter and Gifford, pitchers; Craig and Benson, catchers; Murdock,
first base; Brown, second; Crossbush, third; Thursby, shortstop;
Meldrum, right field; Groom, centre field; Peterson, left field;
substitutes, Charrit, Temple, Sawyer, Simpson, and Wonson.”
A hearty cheer arose as Mr. Gifford finished. Disappointed ones grinned
hard and shouted loudest. Successful candidates were pummelled and
thumped and there was a great to-do until Mr. Langham arose.
“I don’t know much about it, fellows,” he said, “but I guess we can
trust Mr. Gifford and Mr. Brown and Mr. Craig. I feel certain that they
have chosen fairly and well. A good many of you had to be left out.
They left me out, too. And Mr. Haskins. But he and I, and all the rest
of us who haven’t been selected, are going to cheer just as hard.
I hope we shall win that game, fellows, but if we don’t, let’s show
those Mount Placid chaps that we are bully good losers. In any case,
we’re going to have a good time. We’re going to stand together and pull
together for a victory, and if we don’t get it we’re going to keep on
smiling. That’s all, I guess, except that I think we ought to give a
good big cheer for the team!”
It was given with a will, not once but twice, and there were cries of
“Speech! Speech!” And that reminded someone that they hadn’t been told
who was to captain the team and the question was propounded. It was
decided that the team members should vote for captain and instantly the
names of the three councillors were proposed. But Mr. Gifford replied
that he believed the honour should go to one of the boys and in the end
the choice fell on Ed Thursby. They cheered Ed then and again demanded
a speech, but the newly elected captain firmly refused to oblige. It
was Mr. Gifford who finally came to his assistance.
“Since,” he said, “Thursby is overcome with the honour you have done
him and is blushing over there so that for a moment I mistook him for
the fire, I take it on myself to reply for him. Here’s what Ed would
say if he made that speech: ‘Fellows, I appreciate what you’ve done and
I thank you for it. Let’s all do our best from now on. For my part,
fellows, I don’t see why we shouldn’t everlastingly whale the daylights
out of those chaps up there. Anyhow, let’s try to! I thank you one and
all!’”
When the laughter subsided Mr. Gifford added: “To-morrow, fellows,
there’ll be only a very short practice, for there’s going to be a lot
to do in the way of packing and getting ready. Right after siesta
every fellow must get his bag ready. Don’t put in more than you’ll
need. Remember that when we start the hike we’ve got to get down to
essentials. Those of you who were here last year will know what to
take. For the benefit of those who were not I’ll just say that the
nearer you can come to limiting your pack to a toothbrush and a cake of
soap the better off you’ll be! Now then, let’s have a song or two to
end up with. What’ll it be, fellows?”