MR. HALL TALKS BASEBALL
On the way to the office Sam narrated the story of his meeting with Mr.
York, and his companion chuckled at intervals. Sam had not concluded
his narrative when they passed through the door of the Adams Building
and entered the elevator. Up they shot to the tenth floor and there Mr.
Hall led the way to an office on the side of the building. The door
held the inscription, “John T. Hall, Attorney and Councillor-at-Law.”
The office was small, but light and cheerful, and was plainly
furnished. Mr. Hall hung his Panama on a hook behind the door and
pulled a chair forward for his visitor, seating himself at his desk
between the two broad windows.
“Now we can be comfortable,” he said. “So John said he’d write me a
letter, eh?”
“Yes, sir. Didn’t he--hasn’t he----”
“No, nor ever will,” laughed the other. “I’ve known him for almost
twenty years and I’ve never had but three letters from him! He hates
them like poison; writing them, I mean. But it doesn’t matter a bit,
Craig. I’m just as glad to know you as if he’d written twenty pages
about you. Besides, you can tell me more than he can, anyway. You live
here in Amesville, of course?”
“Yes, sir, on Curtis Street.”
“Then we’ll soon get acquainted. Your name sounds familiar to me, by
the way. Have I met your father, perhaps?”
“No, sir, he’s dead. There’s just my mother and sister and me, sir. You
might have met my sister, though. She does typewriting here. She has a
room on the third floor.”
“Of course! Miss Craig and I have had a lot of business together. So
she’s your sister, is she? Well, she’s a fine, smart girl, Craig, and
a good stenographer, too, by George! I suppose you and John talked
baseball a good deal, eh?”
“Yes, sir, quite a lot.”
“And he gave you a heap of advice, too, I’ll wager!”
“Yes, sir, some.”
“Of course! He’s as full of advice as a pudding is of plums. He’s the
sort who wants everyone to do things his way,” chuckled Mr. Hall. “We
used to have some fine old spats when we were in college together. John
not only wanted to catch, but pitch, too. If he could have had his way
he’d have played every position on the team, I guess!”
“He told me two or three things I didn’t know about catching, Mr. Hall.”
“Oh, he can tell you things, all right! He’s full of perfectly
wonderful information. He’s the sort who, if he was presented to the
King of England, would start right off telling that gentleman how to
improve his batting average!”
Sam smiled. “What he told me sounded pretty good, though,” he said
defensively.
“It _was_ good; no doubt about that, Craig. Theoretically, John York
was the best catcher Warner ever had. Actually, he was the most
uncertain. You see, he was full of theories. He doped everything out
ahead and when things didn’t go the way he’d arranged them there’d be
trouble. He’d study a new batter when he came up and decide that the
man would hit a high ball over the outside corner into left field.
Then he’d signal for a low one and the batter would crack it into the
middle of next week, and John would be so surprised and grieved about
it! After the inning he’d sit on the bench and prove conclusively to
you that the man had no business hitting a low one, that he was built
for high ones! The trouble with John was that he wouldn’t practise what
he preached. He knew how a thing ought to be played, but he had a hunch
that he’d get better results if he played it differently. I used to
tell him he thought too much with his head. But in spite of all that
we loved him. He was one of the most popular fellows in college. And
you’re not to think that he always went wrong with his game, for he
didn’t. Lots of times his theories worked out like miracles.”
“I remember”--Mr. Hall picked up a paper-knife and, leaning back in his
swivel chair, played with it and smiled reminiscently--“I remember a
game we played with Michigan. John was captain that year. (We made him
captain because he’d have been it anyway and we thought there’d be no
use having two.) We were two runs behind Michigan in the seventh and
hadn’t got a run across for three or four innings. Michigan’s pitcher
had us eating out of his hand, and if anyone did start a rally their
infield cut it off. So, in the seventh John said, ‘Look here, fellows,
we’re playing too close to the ground. What we’ve got to do is cut
loose and run wild for a couple of innings. Now I want every one of
you to hit at anything you see, as long as you don’t have to walk out
of the box for it, and when you get on first I want you to go down to
second on the first ball. And when you get to second, try for third.
Those chaps aren’t used to fireworks. Let’s show them some.’
“Well, we wanted that game; we were always crazy to beat Michigan; and
it didn’t look as if we were going to get it. Michigan was playing
one of those scientific games--every man fielding perfectly; pitcher
and catcher working together like two cog-wheels; everything figured
according to the laws and commandments of baseball. There didn’t seem
to be anything to lose by following John’s scheme and so we tried
it. The first batter up for our side acted as if he’d never heard
of waiting. He whaled away at everything in sight and got a scratch
hit somehow and went to first. And then he started down the path on
the first delivery. He was thrown out, though. But you could see
that Michigan was beginning to wonder. Our next man slammed around
and knocked fouls and finally got a clean hit, the first for half an
hour. He followed instructions and stole second easily, in spite of a
pitch-out, catcher throwing low to the base. Then we had them going.
The next man drew his base and the man on second lighted out for third.
He ought never to have got it, but he did. Someone fumbled. After that
we ran wild on the bases. Even with two out we didn’t show any sort of
baseball sense. We did everything we shouldn’t have done, and Michigan
found herself as far up in the air as a balloon. We got five runs
across in that inning on two hits and a pass!”
“And won the game?” asked Sam.
“N-no, we didn’t, as a matter of fact. We ought to have, but those
chaps got to me in the ninth and knocked me out of the box. I suppose
romping around the bases and sliding on my ear sort of tuckered me.
Anyway, they hammered me to the bench and then got two hits off Whipple
and scored enough to win. Still, as John showed us, we _ought_ to have
won!”
“I’d like to have seen it,” said Sam.
“It was some game,” assented the other. “I guess I’ll have to go out
to-morrow and see you fellows play. I will if you’ll let me sit on the
bench and mix in.”
“I wish you would,” said Sam. “I dare say you could tell us some things
that might help, Mr. Hall.”
“Oh, I’m no John York!” laughed the lawyer. “I haven’t many theories,
Craig. I’ve always played the game by rule of thumb, so to say. This
close-harmony, inside stuff has always been a bit beyond me.”
“But there’s a good deal in it, isn’t there?” asked Sam. “Inside
baseball, I mean.”
“Oh, yes, I guess so. Only I never could figure it. What time do you
play to-morrow?”
“Three o’clock, sir.”
“I’ll be there.” He opened a desk drawer and dropped the package he
had brought from the store into it. “Those can wait,” he said. “I like
golf, but I guess I’d rather see a good ball game, after all.”
“I don’t know how good to-morrow’s game will be, Mr. Hall,” said Sam
doubtfully. “Most of the fellows are pretty young and we make lots of
mistakes.”
“Well, what’s the odds, eh? It’s fun, isn’t it? Hold on, don’t run
away, Craig.”
“I guess I’ll be going, sir, thanks. I’ve got some things to do at
home. I’ve been away so long things have sort of got behind there.”
“Well, you know where to find me. And, look here, do you ever play
golf?”
“No, sir, I’ve never tried it.”
“You’re not too old,” replied the other, with a smile. “Some day you
and I’ll go out to the Country Club and have a whack at it. You’ll like
it, and I’ve got plenty of clubs. Want to?”
“Yes, thanks, only it--it wouldn’t be much fun for you.”
“How do you know that? You don’t know me well enough yet to say what
my sort of fun is, Craig.” He smiled quizzically. “As a matter of
fact, I’d like it. I’ll see you to-morrow. By the way, I live at the
Amesville Club. Come around some evening and chin. There’s something
that passed between you and John York that you haven’t told me about
yet. Good-bye.”
Sam shook hands again and took his leave, descending by the stairs to
the sixth floor and making his way to a door whose ground-glass bore
the legend, “Miss Craig, Stenographer,” and from behind which came the
busy clatter of a typewriter. Nell Craig was hard at work when Sam
entered, and she only nodded and smiled until she had finished the
sheet she was on and had pulled it from the carriage. Then she laid it
aside and turned to view Sam questioningly. She was a rather pretty
girl of eighteen, with light hair and more delicate features than her
brother’s. She looked alert and capable, and quite businesslike in the
plain black gown she wore.
“I saw him,” said Sam. “He seems rather nice.”
“Of course he does. I told you you’d like him,” replied Nell. “He’s the
nicest customer I have.”
“He said you were a smart girl and a good stenographer,” answered Sam.
“Looks like a case of what-do-you-call-it--mutual admiration.”
Nell laughed. “It’s more fun working for men you like, Sam. Some of
them are rather gruff and horrid. What did he say to you?”
“Nothing much. Said he was glad to know me.”
“But didn’t you talk at all?”
“Yes, I suppose so. We talked baseball a good deal, I guess.”
Nell’s nose wrinkled. “Baseball! Is that all you could find to talk of?
Did you tell him what Mr. York said about you going to college?”
Sam shook his head. “No. I guess that wouldn’t interest him much.”
“But you ought to. Maybe he might know of someone who would help you
or--or something, Sam.”
“I don’t believe so. Anyway, I don’t want to--to know folks just so’s
they can help me, do I? He’s coming to see us play Lynton to-morrow.
And he wants me to go to the Country Club with him some day and learn
golf.”
“Well, I think you got on splendidly,” said Nell delightedly. “Everyone
says he’s awfully smart, Sam, and I guess he’s beginning to get quite
a practice. I know I do three times as much work for him as I did at
first. I’m sure he will be a splendid man for you to know.”
“I don’t want to know him just because he might do something for me,”
objected her brother. “Folks can be friends for--for other reasons,
can’t they?”
“Of course, but there’s no harm in having friends that are influential,
Sam,” replied Nell wisely. “Folks who get on, I notice, cultivate
friends who can help them. That’s plain common sense, Sam.”
“Plain common selfishness, you mean,” he answered. “All folks can’t do
that sort of thing, because look at the people who have been nice to me
lately. Much good I could do them!”
“I’m not so sure,” replied Nell thoughtfully, smiling a little. “There
are lots of ways to help a person, Sam. Now, that Mr. York, I dare say
you helped him.”
“Helped Mr. York!” ejaculated Sam. “I’d like to know how!”
“I don’t know that. Maybe, though, you took his mind off some worry, or
cheered him up when he was feeling unhappy.”
“I guess he never needed cheering up,” said Sam. “But I see what you
mean, sis. It doesn’t sound so bad that way. Well, I must get along.
I asked Tom up to supper to-night. He and I are going to practise a
little for to-morrow. If you’re going home early, I’ll wait around
awhile for you.”
“I’m not, Sam, not very early to-day, thanks. I’ll try to get home by
one, though. Tell mother not to wait for me. I’ve promised all this by
twelve, and then I’ve got some letters to take for Mr. Hall.”
“Oh,” said Sam musingly, watching Nell deftly introduce a “carbon
sandwich” into the carriage of the typewriter. “Mr. Hall.”
“Exactly,” replied Nell, spacing briskly.
“Hm. I wonder, now----”
“What?” she asked as he stopped.
“I wonder whether Mr. Hall likes me. He sort of seemed to.”
“Why shouldn’t he?” she asked cheerfully.
“That’s so. Maybe I could help him, you know.”
“Of course! That is--well, in what way, Sam?”
“There are lots of ways, you said. I might”--Sam edged toward the
door--“I might say a good word for him to my sister!”
Nell tossed her head. “You can’t tease me about Mr. Hall, Sam,” she
said untroubledly. “He and I are good friends, but we’re both of
us--businessmen!”
“Then what are you blushing for?” demanded Sam meanly.
“I’m not blushing, silly! Do run away and let me get to work!”
“Oh, all right.” Sam went out, but, just before the door closed finally
behind him, he added softly, “Say, sis!”
“Go away, please!”
“He’s not bad-looking, is he?”
The hurried clatter of the machine followed him along the hall until,
with a little smile around his eyes, he turned the corner and pressed
the elevator signal.