HITTING THE LINE
By Ralph Henry Barbour
PURPLE PENNANT SERIES
The Lucky Seventh
The Secret Play
The Purple Pennant
YARDLEY HALL SERIES
Forward Pass
Double Play
Winning His Y
For Yardley
Around the End
Change Signals
HILTON SERIES
The Half-back
For the Honor of the School
Captain of the Crew
ERSKINE SERIES
Behind the Line
Weatherby’s Inning
On Your Mark
THE “BIG FOUR” SERIES
Four in Camp
Four Afoot
Four Afloat
THE GRAFTON SERIES
Rivals for the Team
Winning His Game
Hitting the Line
BOOKS NOT IN SERIES
The Brother of a Hero
Finkler’s Field
Danforth Plays the Game
Benton’s Venture
The Junior Trophy
The New Boy at Hilltop
The Spirit of the School
The Arrival of Jimpson
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, Publishers, New York
[Illustration: The footsteps pounded behind on the frosty turf.]
HITTING
THE LINE
BY
RALPH HENRY BARBOUR
AUTHOR OF “RIVALS FOR THE TEAM,” “THE PURPLE PENNANT,”
“DANFORTH PLAYS THE GAME,” ETC.
[Illustration]
ILLUSTRATED BY
NORMAN ROCKWELL
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
NEW YORK LONDON
1917
Copyright 1917, by
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
Printed in the United States of America
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A CHANCE ENCOUNTER 1
II. THE BOY FROM OUT WEST 12
III. MONTY CRAIL CHANGES HIS MIND 25
IV. “OUT FOR GRAFTON!” 36
V. A ROOM AND A ROOMMATE 48
VI. BATTLE ROYAL 63
VII. MONTY SHAKES HANDS 77
VIII. THE NEW CHUM 88
IX. SOAP AND WATER 103
X. SOME VICTORIES AND A DEFEAT 121
XI. MONTY IS BORED 135
XII. KEYS: PIANO AND OTHERS 144
XIII. STANDART GETS ADVICE 155
XIV. THE MIDDLETON GAME 168
XV. MONTY GOES OVER 178
XVI. COACH BONNER TALKS 190
XVII. BACK OF THE LINE 203
XVIII. WHAT’S IN A NAME? 216
XIX. “BULL RUN” 229
XX. TACKLED 240
XXI. STANDART PLAYS THE PICCOLO 250
XXII. HOLLYWOOD SPRINGS A SURPRISE 262
XXIII. MONTY FINDS A SOFT PLACE 275
XXIV. THE “BLUE” 288
XXV. “FIRE!” 300
XXVI. MONTY RECEIVES CALLERS 313
XXVII. HITTING THE LINE 323
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
The footsteps pounded behind on the frosty turf _Frontispiece_
FACING
PAGE
“Great snakes, haven’t you had enough yet!” marveled Monty 72
“Then I guess you’ve already squealed, and I’d better――――” 164
“Help here, fellows!” 304
HITTING THE LINE
CHAPTER I
A CHANCE ENCOUNTER
Two boys alighted from a surface car in front of the big Terminal in
New York and dodged their way between dashing taxicabs, honking motor
cars and plunging horses to the safety of the broad sidewalk. Each boy
carried a suitcase, and each suitcase held, amongst the more or less
obliterated labels adorning it, a lozenge-shaped paster of gray paper,
bearing, in scarlet, the letters “G. S.,” cunningly angulated to fit
the space of the rhombus.
If I were Mr. Sherlock Holmes I should write, as a companion work to
the famous monograph on tobacco ashes, a Treatise on the Deduction
of Evidence from Hand Luggage. For one can learn a great deal from a
careful scrutiny of, say, a suitcase or kit bag. As for example. Here
is one bearing the initials “D. H. B.” on its end. It is quite an
ordinary affair, costing when new in the neighborhood of six dollars
perhaps. Its color has deepened to a light shade of mahogany, from
which we deduce that its age is about three years. While it is still
in good usable condition, it is not a bit “swagger,” and we reach the
conclusion that its owner is in moderate circumstances. There are no
signs of abuse and so it is apparent that the boy is of a careful
as well as a frugal turn of mind. A baggage tag tied to the handle
presumably bears name and address. Therefore he possesses forethought.
The letters “D. H. B.” probably stand for David H. Brown. Or possibly
Daniel may be the first name. We select David as being more common. As
to the last name, we frankly own that we may be mistaken, but Brown is
as likely as any other. The letters “G. S.” on the label indicate that
he belongs to some Society, but the G puzzles us. It might stand for
Gaelic or Gallic――or Garlic――but we’ll let that go for the moment and
look at the other bag.
This bears the initials “J. T. L.,” not in plain block letters but
in Old English characters. It is of approximately the same age as
the first one, but cost nearly twice as much, and has seen twice as
much use and more than twice as much abuse. The handle is nearly off
and those spots suggest rain. There is no tag on it. The initials
probably stand for John T. Long. The gray label with the scarlet
letters indicate that the owner of the suitcase is also a member of the
mysterious Society. Other facts show that he is wealthy, careless, not
over-neat, fond of show and lacks forethought. There!
And just at this moment “J. T. L.” lays a detaining hand on his
companion’s arm and exclaims: “Wait a shake, Dud!” And we begin to lose
faith in our powers of deduction and to fear that we will never rival
Mr. Holmes after all!
Dud――his full name, not to make a secret of it any longer, was Dudley
Henry Baker――paused as requested, thereby bringing down upon him the
ire of a stout gentleman colliding with the suitcase, and followed his
friend’s gaze. A few yards away, in a corner of the station entrance,
two newsboys were quarreling. Or so it seemed at first glance. A second
look showed that one boy, much larger and older than his opponent, was
quarreling and that the other was trying vainly to escape. The larger
boy had the smaller youth’s arm in a merciless grip and was twisting it
brutally, eliciting sharp cries of pain from his victim. The passing
throng looked, smiled or frowned and hurried by.
“The brute!” cried Dud indignantly, and started across the pavement,
his companion following with the light of battle in his eyes. But the
pleasure of intercession was not to be theirs, for before they had
covered half the distance a third actor entered the little drama. He
was a sizable youth of about their own age, and he set the bag he
carried down on the ledge of the step beside him, stuffed a morning
paper in his pocket, seized hold of the larger boy with his left
hand, placed his right palm under the boy’s chin and pushed abruptly
backward.
Needless to say, the smaller boy found himself free instantly. The
bully, staggering away, glared at his new adversary and rushed for
him, uttering an uncomplimentary remark. The new actor in the drama
waited, ducked, closed, crooked a leg behind the bully and heaved. The
bully shot across the sidewalk until his flight was interrupted by the
nearest pedestrian and then, his fall slightly broken by that startled
and indignant passer, measured his length on the ground. At the same
instant a commotion ensued near the curb and the rescued newsboy
sensing the reason for it, exclaimed: “Beat it, feller! The cop’s
coming!” and slid through the nearest door. His benefactor acted almost
as quickly, and when the policeman finally pushed his way to the scene
he found only a dazed bully and an irate pedestrian as a nucleus for
the quickly-forming crowd.
Dud and his companion, grinning delightedly, followed the youth with
the bag. The newsboy had utterly vanished, but his rescuer was a few
yards away, crossing the waiting-room. On the impulse Dud and his
companion hurried their steps and drew alongside him, the latter
exclaiming admiringly: “Good for you, old man! That was a peach of a
fall!”
The other turned, showing no surprise, and smiled slowly and genially.
“Hello,” he responded. “What did you remark, Harold?”
“I said that was a peach of a fall.”
“Oh! Were you there? I guess we’d have had some real fun if the cops
hadn’t butted in. Is this the way to the trains, Harold?”
“Yes, but my name isn’t Harold,” answered the other, slightly
exasperated. “What train do you want?”
The boy observed the questioner reflectively for a moment. Then: “What
trains have you got?” he inquired politely.
“Come on, Jimmy,” said Dud, tugging at his friend’s sleeve. “He’s too
fresh.”
“Thought you might be a stranger, and I was trying to help you,” said
James Townsend Logan stiffly. “You find your own train, will you?”
They had emerged into the concourse now and the stranger stopped and
put his bag down, facing Jimmy with a quizzical smile. “I guess you’re
an artist,” he said. “Making believe to get mad would fool most any
fellow. What is it now? Eskimo Twins? Or――――”
“That’ll be about all for you!” said Jimmy hotly. “If I’m an Eskimo
you’re――――”
“Back up, Harold! You don’t savvy. Far be it from me to take a chance
on your nationality――――”
“Oh, dry up!” growled Jimmy, turning away.
“Well, but you’re not going, are you?” called the stranger in surprised
tones. Jimmy _was_ going, and Dud was going with him. And on the way
to the gate they exchanged short but succinct verdicts on the youth
behind.
“Flip kid!” sputtered Jimmy.
“Crazy!” said Dud, disgustedly.
The subject of the uncomplimentary remarks had watched them amusedly
as long as they were in sight. Outraged dignity spoke eloquently from
Jimmy Townsend’s back. When the two boys were hidden by the throng
about the gate the stranger chuckled softly, took up his bag again
and moved toward a ticket window. He had a long, easy stride, and the
upper part of his body, in spite of the heavy kit-bag he carried, swung
freely, giving the idea that he was used to much walking and in less
crowded spaces.
“One of your very best tickets to Greenbank, please,” he said to the
man behind the window.
“Any special Greenbank?” asked the latter, faintly sarcastic.
“Which one would you advise?”
The man shot an appraising look at the boy, smiled, pulled a slip of
cardboard from a rack, stamped it and pushed it across the ledge.
“Two-sixty-eight, please.”
“Thank you. You think I’ll like this one?”
“If you don’t, bring it back and I’ll change it.”
“That’s fair. Good-morning.”
At the news-stand he selected two magazines, paid for them and then
glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes past eleven exactly. He drew a
watch from his pocket and compared it with the clock. “Is that clock
about right?” he asked the youth behind the counter.
“Just right,” was the crisp reply.
“Honest? I make it three minutes slow.” He held his own timepiece up in
evidence. The youth smiled ironically.
“Better speak to the President about it,” he advised. “He just set that
clock this morning.”
“Wouldn’t he be too busy to see me?” asked the other doubtfully.
“Naw, he never does nothin’! He’d be glad to know about it.”
“Well, I’m sure I think he ought to know. I guess he wouldn’t want
folks to be too early and miss their trains!” He smiled politely and
moved away, leaving the news-stand youth to smile derisively and
murmur: “Dippy Dick!”
The sign “Information” above a booth in the center of the concourse met
his gaze and he turned his steps toward it. “Will you please give me a
timetable showing the train service between New York and Greenbank?” he
asked gently.
“Greenbank, where?” demanded the official bruskly.
“Yes, sir.”
“Come on! Greenbank, Connecticut? Greenbank, Rhode Island?
Greenbank――――”
“Which do you consider the nicest?” asked the boy anxiously.
“Now, look here! I haven’t got time to fool away. Find out where you
want to go first.”
“I’m so sorry! I saw it said ‘Information’ here and thought I’d get a
little. If I’m at the wrong window――――”
“This is the Information Bureau, son, but I’m no mind reader. If you
don’t know which Greenbank you want――Yes, Madam, eleven-thirty-two:
Track 12!”
“Maybe this ticket will tell,” hazarded the boy, laying it on the
ledge. The man seized it impatiently.
“Of course it tells! Here you are!” He tossed a folder across. “You
oughtn’t to travel alone, son,” he added pityingly.
“No, sir, I hope I shan’t have to. There’ll be other people on the
train, won’t there?”
“If there aren’t――Yes, sir, Stamford at twelve, sir――you’d better put
yourself in charge of the conductor!”
“I shall,” the other assured him earnestly. “Good-morning.”
“Just plain nutty, I guess,” thought the man, looking after him.
Eleven-twenty-four now, and the boy approached the gate, holding his
bag in front of him with both hands so that it bumped at every step and
fixing his eyes on the announcement board, his mouth open vacuously.
“Look where you’re going!” exclaimed a gentleman with whom the boy
collided.
“Huh?”
“Look where you’re going, I said! Stop bumping me with your bag!”
“Uh-huh.”
The gentleman pushed along, muttering angrily, and the boy followed,
his bag pressed against the backs of the other’s immaculate gray
trousered knees. “Greenbank, Mister?” he inquired of the man at the
gate.
“Yes. Ticket, please!”
“Huh?”
“Let me see your ticket.”
“Ticket?”
“Yes, yes, your railway ticket! Come on, come on!”
“I got me one,” said the boy.
“Well, let me see it! Hurry, please! You’re keeping others back.”
“Uh-huh.” The boy set down his bag and began to dig into various
pockets. The ticket examiner watched impatiently a moment while
protests from those behind became audible. Finally:
“Here, shove that bag aside and let these folks past,” said the man
irascibly. “Did you buy your ticket?”
“Huh?”
“I say, did you buy your ticket?”
“Uh-huh, I got me one, Mister.”
“Well, find it then! And you’d better hurry if you want this train!”
“Huh?”
“I say, if you want this――Here, what’s that you’ve got in your hand?”
“This?” The boy looked at the small piece of cardboard in a puzzled
manner. “Ain’t that it?” he asked. But the man had already whisked it
out of his hand, and now he punched it quickly, thrust it back to the
boy and pushed him along through the gate.
“Must be an idiot,” he growled to the next passenger. “Someone ought to
look after him.”
“All aboard!” shouted the conductor as the boy with the bag swung his
way along the platform. “All aboard!”
“Is this the train for Greenbank?”
The conductor turned impatiently. “Yes. Get aboard!”
“Pardon me?” The boy leaned nearer, a hand cupped behind his ear.
“Yes! Greenbank! Get on!”
“I’m so sorry,” smiled the other. “Would you mind speaking a little
louder?”
“_Yes, this is the Greenbank train!_” vociferated the conductor. “_Get
aboard!_”
“Thank you,” replied the boy with much dignity, “but you needn’t shout
at me. I’m not deaf!” Whereupon he climbed leisurely up the steps of
the already moving train and entered a car.