“GREYSIDES”
Sam opened his eyes sleepily and blinked about him. Near at hand a
wide-open window, hung with blue-and-white chintz that swayed gently in
the entering breeze, admitted a flood of sunlight. Beyond the window
was a white bureau. The paper on the walls was grey with a tiny stripe
made up of blue rosebuds. Sam closed his eyes again and wondered where
he was. Then, stirring under the bedclothes, he experienced a dull,
jarring ache in one knee, and suddenly recollection came to him and he
opened his eyes more widely and stared around him.
Last night the room had been shadowed and dim, with only a little lamp
on the white reading-stand beside the bed, and he had gone to sleep
almost as soon as Mr. York and Steve had helped him between the cool,
soft sheets. Now, in the early morning light, the room looked much
larger, and so bright and cheerful that it was a pleasure to just lie
there and look about.
There were three windows on two sides of the spacious room, and through
each of them, below the shade, Sam could see blue sky between the green
branches of trees. On the reading-stand, beside the small lamp with its
pale-blue shade, lay two magazines and a book and a glass tray that
held a pitcher of water, a drinking-glass, and matches. The bed was
enamelled white and over the footboard lay a dainty cream-white puff
with blue poppies sprawling over it. Grey rag rugs with blue borders
were spread here and there on the polished floor. Two wicker chairs,
prettily cushioned in the prevailing colours, flanked a red brick
fireplace in the middle of the further wall, and a straight-backed
white-enamelled chair was half hidden under Sam’s clothes. A table
between two of the windows held his old-fashioned valise.
Sam sighed luxuriously and wondered what time it was. Not, however,
that it mattered much, he supposed, for he had been told that he was
not to get up this morning until he had had his breakfast and his
knee had been rebandaged. He snuggled his head more comfortably in
the generous pillow, inadvertently moving his knee and grimacing as
a result, and recalled last evening. The trip in Mr. York’s roadster
had occupied but a very few minutes, for which Sam had been very
thankful, since, in spite of all the trouble they had taken to arrange
him comfortably beside Mr. York, the jarring had set his knee thumping
painfully. Steve had ridden on the running-board and had helped lift
him in and out of the car. Sam remembered the big room into which they
had entered from the twilight darkness, a room of dark woodwork and red
hangings and cushions and many lamps which left the upper part of the
room in pleasant and mysterious gloom. He hadn’t been allowed to see
much down there, though, for they had at once carried him up a broad
flight of stairs and into this blue-and-white chamber, the like of
which Sam had never viewed. He remembered saying good night to Steve
and having his knee done up afresh in cool, wet cloths, and--well, not
much after that. He must have gone to sleep almost the next instant!
Somewhere downstairs a clock struck in silvery tones. He counted.
Five--six--seven--eight! Eight o’clock! It couldn’t be possible! He
must have counted wrong. Why, he couldn’t remember when he had lain in
bed, much less slept, as late as that! He began to wonder uncomfortably
if his injury could really be more serious than he had supposed, for
with Sam only real illness excused staying in bed until such an hour.
He lifted his head experimentally and turned it from side to side. It
seemed to feel all right. And he couldn’t detect any signs of fever. He
had, of course, heard of folks being internally injured, but he didn’t
know what the symptoms would be, and so wasn’t certain if he had them.
He really felt remarkably well, except that his knee hurt if he moved
it or flexed the muscles, and, on the whole, he concluded, not without
a feeling of relief, that he had mistaken the striking of the clock.
From somewhere not far off came the subdued rushing of water. Someone
was going to have a bath. Therefore it couldn’t be very late. Also,
a moment later, he was pleasantly aware of a faint aroma of coffee
and something else that might be broiling ham or bacon. He suddenly
knew that he was very, very hungry. A door slammed nearby and a merry
whistle floated down the hall. Then silence again. Sam closed his
eyes----
“----Breakfast coming up in a minute,” a voice was saying, “and I
thought maybe you’d like to wash up a bit.”
Sam blinked dazedly. Beside the bed stood Mr. York, smiling, fresh and
cool in white flannels. Sam viewed him in consternation.
“I--I believe I went to sleep again!” he stammered.
“I’m sure you did!” laughed his host.
“But--but what time is it?”
“Oh, about eight-thirty. It’s not late.”
“Eight-thirty! Why, I never slept that late in my life!” exclaimed Sam
in horrified tones. Mr. York laughed delightedly.
“You have now, old chap. How’s it seem?”
“Fine, only--I’m wondering if--if I’m all right. You don’t suppose I
got hit on the head or--or anything like that, do you, sir?”
“Great Scott, no! You just slept because you were tired out and were in
a new place and, if I do say it, had a good bed. Now, how’s the knee
this morning?”
Mr. York himself attended to putting on new bandages, in spite of
Sam’s expostulations, and brought him water in a bowl and soap and a
face-cloth and found his tooth-brush for him and generally valeted him.
Sam was all for doing things for himself, even for being allowed to get
up and have his breakfast downstairs, but when, at Mr. York’s request,
he gently bent that right knee, he concluded that he was not, after
all, quite ready to assert his independence. The thing was as stiff and
lame as could be.
“Thought so,” said the other. “You keep it quiet to-day, Craig.
To-night we’ll get at it with liniment and to-morrow you’ll be up
and around again, I guess. After breakfast we’ll get you down on the
veranda. There you are, now. How’s your appetite?”
Sam smiled. “I could eat a hedgehog, quills and all,” he answered.
“Sorry we haven’t hedgehog this morning,” laughed Mr. York. “I’m afraid
it’s only the usual ham and eggs and trimmings. But I’ll see that you
get enough of that.”
An hour afterwards, attired in a dressing-gown of his host’s, Sam
was lying at length in a long wicker chair, propped up with many red
cushions, on the broad veranda. Although considerably lower than the
neighbouring camp, “Greysides,” as Mr. York called his place, was still
pretty well up in the world, and from the veranda one could look over
rolling hills and see, on fair days, the distant blue of Lake Erie.
The house was large, or seemed so to Sam, and was of field stone and
grey weathered shingle, with numerous wide stone chimneys and many
squatty gable-ends. The veranda that skirted three sides of the house
was as wide as a room, and from it, between stone pillars, one saw on
each side miles of rolling hills, wooded or meadowed. A path turned
and twisted down a little slope from the broad steps to a break in
the stone wall that lined the road. There there was a roughly-made
trellis-arch of unbarked logs on which a rose vine was showing a few
late blossoms. Behind the house the ground sloped upward again, and the
trees, well thinned out in front, closed their ranks. Sam thought the
place wonderful and perfect, inside and out, and all during that first
forenoon was sorely tempted to pinch himself to make sure that he was
really there.
Presently Mr. York joined his guest, pulling a chair near to Sam’s
and chatting as he opened his morning’s mail. Sam accepted a day-old
newspaper and idly glanced over the first page of it, but somehow
newspapers seemed of little interest up here away from the world,
and he soon let it drop and returned to his contented and dreamy
contemplation of the distant hills. After a while Mr. York tossed aside
his letters and papers and leaned back in his chair. Then they talked.
Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that Sam talked, for Mr. York
wanted to know many things and Sam was soon telling all about himself
and about Amesville and the high school nine, with Mr. York only
contributing an occasional encouraging word or a question. Normally Sam
wasn’t very much of a talker, and he didn’t remember ever having said
so much at once or told so many intimate facts about himself before.
Afterwards he was surprised and a little embarrassed when he recalled
his loquacity.
But it wasn’t altogether one-sided, for Sam learned somewhat of his
host that morning, and more subsequently. Mr. York--John Orville York,
in full--was an architect by profession and lived in Cleveland. He was
alone in the world save for a sister whom he called Topsy--Sam didn’t
learn her real name. Topsy, Mr. York explained, was just now away on a
visit to friends in the East and he was keeping bachelor’s hall. He had
been at “Greysides” since the middle of July, with an occasional visit
to the city, and his vacation would be at an end in another ten days.
Although he did not say so, his visitor concluded that he was wealthy;
everything at “Greysides” indicated it. He had graduated from Warner
College, where he had played three years on the baseball team, and
had afterwards studied his profession in Chicago. He confessed to two
passions. One, he said, was baseball, and the other chess. Did Craig
play chess? No? Well, he ought to learn it. It was the finest thing in
the world. After dinner they’d get the board out and have a lesson, by
Jove!
Almost before Sam realised that the morning had gone luncheon was
announced and they adjourned, Sam leaning on Mr. York’s shoulder, to a
screen-enclosed porch that opened from the dining-room, and sat down at
a small table laid for two.
“Hope you’ll find enough to eat,” said Mr. York. “We don’t have very
hearty lunches. I usually play golf in the afternoon and find that a
heavy meal makes me slow.”
Sam truthfully replied that he didn’t doubt but what there was more
than enough, and events proved him right. After cold meats and two
vegetables and a salad and hot rolls and a pastry and two tall glasses
of iced-tea he wondered what Mr. York would consider a heavy meal!
“If you want to do anything--play golf, I mean, sir--please don’t mind
me,” said Sam when he had hobbled back to the veranda. “I’ll be all
right alone. I can read or--or just sit here and look at things.”
“Not many things to see, are there?” laughed Mr. York.
“I mean just the view. It’s fine to be able to see so far, isn’t it?”
“It’s quite a view, and that’s a fact. But I don’t care for golf
to-day, Craig. Later on I’ll run over to the village and get a letter
off. Meanwhile we’ll chin some more and then you’d better lie down a
while and have a nap. How’s the knee now?”
“It isn’t nearly so sore, I think.”
“That’s good, but we ought to moisten that bandage again. I’ll tell
William to bring some water in a basin, and, as there’s no one to see,
we’ll perform the operation right here.”
They talked baseball while the sun travelled into the west and
the shadows began to lengthen under the trees. Mr. York had many
reminiscences of college days, some exciting and some humorous, and Sam
was well entertained. From stories Mr. York switched to the subject of
catching. “There’s one thing you ought to learn, Craig,” he said, “and
that’s to throw ‘from your ear.’ Ever try it?”
“I don’t believe I know what you mean, Mr. York.”
“I mean throwing to base without taking a step.”
“No, sir, I’ve never tried it. I don’t think I could do it.”
“Oh, yes, you could. You can learn it. It’s not as hard as it may seem.
The beauty of it is that it gives you another fraction of a second on
the runner, a matter probably of two or three feet at the base. Try it
some time and see what you can do with it. It takes a snap of the arm
instead of the long, full swing, a quick snap that’s mostly from the
elbow; like this.” And Mr. York went through the motions of catching a
ball and throwing to the base.
“It looks hard,” said Sam. “I don’t believe I ever saw anyone throw
that way.”
“Plenty of the league catchers do it. Have you seen many league games?”
“No, sir, only two.”
“Really? It’s a good idea to go to them and watch how they do things.
You can pick up a lot of good tricks that way. You’ve got the making
of a fine catcher, Craig, and I’d like to see you go right ahead.
You’ve got brains, for one thing, and I’d rather have that in a catcher
than mechanical ability--if I had to choose between the two, that is.
Another thing that’s going to make you a clever lad behind the bat is
that you’re no weak hitter yourself. There’s one criticism I’d like to
offer, though: you’re a little bit inclined to ‘slug,’ Craig. Don’t
do it. I know that the slugging hitter sometimes makes a corking good
slam, but, in the long run, he doesn’t deliver a good average. He isn’t
generally there in the pinches, Craig. Any pitcher will tell you that
he’d rather pitch to a ‘slugger’ than to a batter who shortens his
bat and his swing and ‘pushes’ the ball. A long swing is likely to
take your eyes off the pill just when they should be glued to it, for
one thing. And then, again, you can’t place your hits so well. Take
the hit-and-run play, for instance. Suppose the runner’s going down
to second and shortstop’s covering the bag, and you’ve got to poke
one between second and third. You can’t deliver the goods with a long
swing. You’ve got to shorten. If you do swing long and connect with
it, it’s dollars to doughnuts the ball will go anywhere but down that
alley. And then, the first thing you know, you’re doubled up. I dare
say you think I’m cheeky for criticising you like this, but I’d like to
see you make good. You’ve got a lot of the ear-marks of a natural-born
catcher, old man, and good catchers--really good ones--are almost as
scarce as hens’ teeth.”
“I don’t mind it at all,” Sam assured him earnestly. “It--it’s awfully
good of you to tell me. And I’d like to know how to do better.”
“That’s the stuff! No one knows it all--although maybe you think I
talk as if I did! I don’t, not by a whole big lot. When I was catching
for Warner I did a lot of the things I’m telling you not to. I was
the worst old heavy hitter on the team. I was a regular joke on the
batting list. About once in every game I’d come through with a regular
whale of a slam, usually into right field. Sometimes it would be good
for three bases, or sometimes two. More often, though, a fielder would
pull it down. Or, if he didn’t, that hit would come along with the
bases empty. When there was a man on third and the pitcher tightened
up I was a frost. I pursued that misguided course for two years. Then
one day--we were playing one of our big games--I happened to overhear a
remark made by the other team’s pitcher. ‘York?’ he said. ‘I’ll pitch
to him with my eyes shut. The man’s a “swinger”!’ That opened my eyes.
I’d always thought the reason I couldn’t hit when I wanted to hardest
was because the luck was against me or because the pitcher put a little
extra on the ball, knowing my reputation as a long hitter. But that
day it dawned on me that it was no one’s fault but my own. And the
next morning I went out to the net and I started to learn to bat all
over again. I never got into the three-hundred class, but I got where
it wasn’t necessary to pull me out of the game in the eighth or ninth
inning when a hit was needed to win.
“Mind you,” continued Mr. York, when he had lighted his pipe again,
“I’m not saying there aren’t lots of ‘free hitters’ and ‘swingers’ with
big reputations; some of them have headed the list in their time; but
sooner or later the pitchers find their weakness and then they go down
quickly. No, sir, it isn’t the ‘swinger’ who gets on oftenest, and it
isn’t the ‘swinger’ who makes the best clean-up hitter. It’s the man
who takes a short swing, not a ‘chop’; that’s poor stuff; but a healthy
short swing, who comes across oftenest. You try it, Craig. Don’t stand
back and have to reach for the ball, either. Crowd the plate a bit. Get
‘over the ball,’ as they say.”
“I will,” replied Sam. “I guess you’re right about a long swing. It
_is_ harder to judge the ball. I’ve noticed that, especially when the
ball breaks close up. On a straight ball I can generally connect, but
anything foxy has me guessing. I almost always get fooled on a drop or
a floater.”
“It stands to reason. You’ve got to watch that sort until the last
minute and then you’ve got to swing quick, and from the elbows and not
the shoulders. As far as hitting for extra bases is concerned, why, I
can point out men who can almost ‘chop’ the ball for a two-bagger. I
sort of wish we had a ball and you were able to use that leg of yours,”
added Mr. York wistfully, “and a bat.”
“That sounds like the old darky in Washington who used to say, ‘If
I had a little milk I’d have a little mush if I had a little meal,’
doesn’t it?” asked Sam.
Later Mr. York went off in his automobile and Sam lay down on a couch
in the big living-room, and, to please his host, tried to take a nap.
He didn’t succeed, however. Dinner came at seven, with the dining-room
windows wide open and the blue-black sky, a-twinkle with white stars,
in sight whenever Sam looked away from the mellow radiance of the
candles. And after that he had his initiation into the mysteries of
chess. Mr. York said he did very well, but Sam feared that he had been
terribly stupid when the chessmen were finally put away.
“That,” said Mr. York, seating himself again in a big easy-chair and
taking one knee into his hands, “almost did me out of my diploma at
college. One of the instructors and I used to play chess five evenings
a week until all hours. I just scraped through my finals. Speaking of
college, Craig, I suppose you’ve got yours all picked out, eh?”
“Me? No, sir. I--I guess I won’t go to college.”
“Won’t go! Why not?”
“Can’t afford it, sir,” replied Sam, with a twinkle. “They say it costs
money.”
“Oh, that!” said Mr. York carelessly. “You’d like to, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, sir, I’d like to well enough, but----”
“Lots of chaps go through without a cent, or, at least, with almost no
money. There were half a dozen chaps in my class at Warner who were a
heap--er--who had less to spend than you have.”
Sam looked puzzled. “But how did they do it, sir? You mean
scholarships?”
“Partly, in one or two cases. The trouble is with scholarships, Craig,
that you usually have to work hard for them and you can’t ever be
certain you’ll pull one down. No, the chaps I was thinking of were
fellows who were rather prominent in sports--football, baseball,
track. They found jobs waiting them. A couple were managers of frat
houses, one was a sort of assistant in the Athletic Director’s office
and had the programme privilege. There are quite a few jobs like that
to be had by wide-awake chaps with--er--athletic ability.”
“Oh,” said Sam softly, “I see.”