ON CONQUEST BENT
At a few minutes before seven on Thursday morning the last coach rolled
away from The Wigwam. Everyone was in fine spirits. The morning was
mild and still, and the sun, low above the eastern hills, was burning
off the last pearl-grey wraiths of curling mist from the surface of
the lake, promising a fine day for the journey and the game to follow.
Only Kitty-Bett and Jerry remained behind to keep camp. Up the long
hill road went the coaches, swaying and creaking, while, inside and
out, filled with the excitement of the adventure, the boys laughed
and shouted merrily. At the last, since there had been a delay in
starting due to Ned Welch’s inability to remember where he had placed
his suit-case, there was a wild gallop into the town, the crazy stages
rolling like ships at sea, and an excited scrambling at the station
where the through express puffed and hissed impatiently. Then they were
off, with the rumble and click of flying wheels in their ears and the
green morning world speeding past them on each side.
They had one day-coach almost to themselves, and what few other
passengers were there were good-natured and sympathetic. Had they not
been they might have resented the noise and the pranks that ensued.
After awhile, though, the boys quieted down. Most of them had been
awake since dawn and by the middle of the forenoon many had laid their
heads back and were frankly sleeping. Later they changed to a branch
road. The new train, consisting of two coaches and a combination
baggage and smoker, was already fairly well-filled when they descended
on it, and so for the rest of the way many of them had to stand in the
aisles or perch themselves on uptilted suit-cases. Fortunately, this
phase of the journey was soon over and they were piling out on the
platform of a small station where carriages and wagons awaited them
and where three men in camp costume of grey shirts and khaki trousers
smilingly welcomed them. One of the men was Mr. Scovill, and the other
two were introduced as Mr. Phillips and Mr. Neetal. Mr. Scovill was a
very tall man with a thin face, sunburned, bearded, and kindly. The
two councillors were young college men, one stout and jovial and the
other slight and shy-looking. After introductions were over and baggage
had been rounded up the party poured into the carriages and were
whisked away over a pleasant sunlit road that ascended steeply, past
pastures and knolls and across a rattling bridge that spanned a stream,
toward where a rounded and wooded hill rose against the summer sky.
Mount Placid Camp was not greatly different from The Wigwam. The
buildings, five in number, were spread along a narrow plateau at
the base of the mountain from where one overlooked the valley below
and had an uninterrupted view of many miles of interesting country
beyond. The buildings were older than those at The Wigwam, and were
weathered to pleasing tones of grey and brown. Some eighty grey-shirted
youths had gathered in front of the mess-hall, the central building
at the camp, and cheered lustily as the visitors rolled up. The Mount
Placid boys averaged perhaps a year older than The Wigwam fellows,
and they impressed Sam, for one, as being a particularly fine and
healthy-looking lot. Mr. Scovill, for the occasion, had cleared an
entire dormitory, and to this the visitors were conducted. Three rows
of cots left the long hall rather crowded, but nobody minded and there
was a wild rush to claim beds. Dinner was served to the visitors at
twelve o’clock, after which the resident fellows had theirs. The Chiefs
and councillors of both camps ate together and quite filled one of
the long tables. Mr. Scovill and his assistants, seven in all, were
hospitable to a degree, and the food was excellent. It was quite a
merry party, and before they left the table it had been decided that
next year the Mount Placid Nine should journey to The Wigwam and play a
return game.
“We may not be able to treat you as well as you’re treating us,
Scovill,” said Mr. Langham, “but we’ll do our best.”
After the second table had been fed the fellows made friends quickly
and, in groups of from two or three to a dozen, went over the camp and
explored the trails that wound up the mountain. Shortly after dinner
a powerful roadster automobile shot into sight up the road with a
hoarse shriek of its horn and came to a stop in front of the camp. Mr.
Scovill, excusing himself, walked across and shook hands with the
man who had leaped nimbly out and brought him over to the group of
councillors.
He was a solidly built, broad-shouldered, and deep-chested man of about
thirty-three or four, with a sunburned face, a boyish eagerness of
manner, and a jovial laugh. There was something very winning in that
laugh.
“Langham,” said Mr. Scovill, “I want you to know Mr. York. Mr. York is
a neighbour of mine and has a small place of a few thousand acres just
below here. He has very kindly consented to umpire for us if that is
agreeable to you. Mr. York, Langham is Director of The Wigwam Camp, at
Indian Lake.”
“Temporarily removed to Mount Placid,” laughed Mr. Langham as he shook
hands. “We’ll be pleased to have Mr. York officiate this afternoon.
Very kind of him, I’m sure, to accept such a thankless task.”
“Not at all. I’m going to enjoy it,” responded Mr. York, shaking hands
with the visiting councillors. “I used to play a bit myself. You have a
fine day for your visit, Mr. Langham.”
The group seated themselves on the steps and Mr. York, observing Sam
closely, said: “I’ve seen you somewhere before, haven’t I, Mr. Gray?”
“Craig is the name,” corrected Mr. Scovill. Sam, surprised, shook his
head doubtfully.
“I don’t think so,” he replied. “I live in Amesville, Ohio.”
“Amesville! Of course! Thought I wasn’t mistaken.” Mr. York smiled in
satisfaction. “I’ll tell you where I saw you, Mr. Craig, and how. It
was about three months ago. I stopped off at Amesville to see a friend
of mine, John Holden. Perhaps you know him?”
Sam shook his head.
“Well, he’s a newcomer in Amesville; practising law; a nice chap. You
ought to meet him. When you go home drop into his office some day and
tell him John York said you were to be friends. You’ll like him and he
will like you.”
Sam murmured rather embarrassed thanks.
“It happened to be a Saturday and Johnny and I, having nothing better
to do, jumped on a car and went out to see the high school team play
ball with some visiting nine; forget who the other chaps were. Johnny
used to play shortstop when I was catching for Warner College, and
we’re both fans. So we went out and saw that game. It was a good one,
too. You were catching for the Amesville team, Craig.” Mr. York paused
for corroboration and Sam nodded.
“You fellows won. You had a pitcher who had grey matter under his cap.
Had a lot on the ball, too. What was his name?”
“Pollock, sir.”
“That’s it! I remember it was some sort of a fish. Well”--Mr. York
turned to the others enthusiastically--“that chap Pollock turned the
trick in the last inning as neatly as you please. As I recall it the
score stood something like three to one in favour of Amesville. That
right, Craig?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The visitors were at bat and there were two out and the bases were
filled. Mind you, the visitors only needed two to tie, and, with two
gone, they were desperate. This chap Pollock had pitched a fine, heady
game, and he went after the next batter as cool as a cucumber. Had two
strikes on him, I think, when the man on third lit out for the plate on
the wind-up. I suppose when Pollock got himself together that runner
was halfway to the plate. Now”--Mr. York put the question to one of the
Mount Placid councillors--“what would you have done, Williams, if you’d
been in Pollock’s place?”
Mr. Williams hesitated. “Only one thing to have done,” he said finally.
“Plug to the catcher as fast as I knew how!”
Mr. York chuckled. “That’s what I’d have done. I guess that’s what
Craig here expected. But this Pollock chap had a head on his shoulders.
When the man on third dug for the plate the other runners set out after
him, of course. Well, Pollock realised that if he threw to the catcher
the ball might go wide or the catcher might--begging Mr. Craig’s
pardon--might drop it or it might be too late in any event to make the
out. So what does he do but whirl around and slam the ball over to
third baseman, who was running back to cover the bag. Third baseman
makes a nice catch, blocks off the runner from second and--there you
are! Three out and the score three to two!”
“Clever work!” said Mr. Williams. “You’re right, Mr. York; that fellow
had brains.”
“You bet he had! Where is he now, Craig?”
“Amesville, sir. He has two more years in High School.”
“Isn’t that the same chap who visited camp a week or so ago?” asked Mr.
Gifford.
“Yes, that was Tom,” replied Sam. “He’s a nice fellow and we think he’s
a pretty fine pitcher.”
“Looked so to me,” agreed Mr. York. “And I want to say, too, that you
caught as pretty a game as I want to see, Craig. As I used to wear a
mask myself I always watch the catcher’s work, and you certainly played
a nice game. Are you catching to-day?”
“Yes, sir. At least, I’m going to start the game.”
“How’s your pitcher?”
“Fairly good for a youngster,” said Mr. Gifford. “Porter’s only
fifteen, I believe.”
“You don’t say?” The speaker turned, with a laugh, to Mr. Williams.
“You’ll have to watch out, Williams, and not let the kid outpitch you.”
The councillor looked a bit dismayed. “Perhaps we ought to let one of
the boys pitch,” he said doubtfully. “It doesn’t seem quite a fair
thing. We thought, Mr. Langham, that probably one of your councillors
would pitch for you.”
“Don’t let that worry you,” replied the Chief. “We have Mr. Gifford
here to step into the breach if he’s needed. Porter’s a pretty clever
pitcher if he _is_ young. By the way, what time do we start, Scovill?”
“Three o’clock. It will be a little cooler by then. Besides, it gives
a chance for the Greenwood boys to get over here. There’s another camp
on the other side of the mountain, Langham. We had a sort of a date to
play with them to-day, but they were quite satisfied to postpone it.”
“Why, I’m sorry! I didn’t know we were interfering with----”
“Not a bit! Not a bit! Greenwood’s just as well pleased to come over
and look on to-day. It takes them nearly an hour to hike around here,
and that’s one reason I thought we’d wait until three.” He looked at
his watch. “They ought to be showing up pretty soon now. I suppose your
boys will want to do a little practising before the game. Any time
they’d like to go down to the field I’ll send someone along to show
them the way.”
Mr. Gifford consulted his watch in turn. “It’s twenty past two,” he
said. “Perhaps we’d better go now, Mr. Scovill. I’d like them to put in
about twenty minutes or so to limber up.”
“Certainly. Joe, you show Mr. Gifford the way, will you?”
Mr. Phillips assented with alacrity and Mr. Gifford, Sam, and Steve
went off to get into their togs and gather the players together. When
they had left, Mr. York said: “A born ball-player, that young Craig.
I’ll be glad to see him in action again. It’s funny about catchers.
Their job is the pivotal one on the team and yet they don’t get half
the credit they deserve. I suppose the average fan will tell you
what every man on the team did in a game before he will mention the
catcher’s work at all. There’s not very much chance for spectacular
stunts behind the plate, and I guess that’s why the catcher doesn’t
get in the spotlight more. Just the same, if I had to build up a ball
team I’d start in by finding a good catcher--if I could. There aren’t
so many of them, by jingo! And then I’d build up the team around that
catcher. Someone ought to grab Craig about now and take him in hand. A
man who knew how could make a fine backstop of that fellow!”
“Why don’t you try it?” asked Mr. Scovill, with a laugh.
“Not a bad idea,” replied Mr. York soberly. “At least, I might put
someone onto him. I wouldn’t mind seeing him playing with Warner in a
year or two. Happen to know, Mr. Langham, whether he has his college
picked out?”
“No, I don’t. But”--and here Mr. Langham’s eye twinkled--“there are
three loyal Burton men at my camp, and----”
“Help!” laughed Mr. York. “Nuf ced! Still, if he did manage to escape
you chaps I’d like a chance at him. Suppose we walk down and see them
practise.”
Mr. Langham remained behind with Mr. Scovill, at the latter’s request,
to meet the Greenwood party who were just then coming into sight up
the road, while one of the councillors was despatched to the kitchen
to see about a supply of lemonade which Mr. Scovill had ordered to be
prepared and taken to the ball-ground. When Mr. York and his companions
reached the field the visiting players had just started their practice
and the audience had already begun to assemble. The field was a fine,
level expanse of close turf about an eighth of a mile from the camp,
reached by a well-worn path through the woods. The foul-lines and
boxes had been freshly marked out in honour of the event and the
lime shone dazzlingly in the sunlight. By degrees The Wigwam boys
gathered together at the farther side of the diamond, making themselves
comfortable on the warm grass. Mr. Gifford and Steve Brown were batting
to infielders and outfielders respectively, and Sam was at the plate,
feeding the balls to Mr. Gifford. The fellows went at practice with
plenty of snap and the ball fairly flew about the bases. At ten minutes
to three the visitors yielded the field to the home team and at a few
minutes past the hour Mr. York called, “Play ball!”