AT THE BATTING NETS
Meanwhile Erskine had won a victory over Robinson, a victory which did
not, perhaps, occasion as much enthusiasm as would have a triumph on
the gridiron or the diamond, but which, nevertheless, pleased everybody
greatly, and added new laurels to the wreath, encircling the brow of
Anthony Zeno Tidball. Erskine won the debate. The result was never in
doubt after Anthony delivered his argument, and when the last word
had been said the judges did not even leave their seats, but, after a
moment of whispered conference, awarded the victory to the visitors.
The debaters and their small company of supporters did not return to
Centerport until noon the next day, and long before that the morning
papers had arrived and the college at large had proudly read their
account of the contest. That explains why when Anthony, attired in a
long, yellowish plaid ulster of great antiquity, and carrying his
nightgown and toothbrush wrapped in a piece of brown paper, lurched
from the train to the station platform and looked about him, his jaw
dropped in ludicrous dismay, and he made a hurried effort to retreat.
But his companions were crowding down behind him and he was forced
forward into the ungentle hands of the cheering students, who filled
the platform. Somehow, he never knew quite how, he was thrust and
lifted to a baggage truck, from which, since his legs were securely
pinioned by several enthusiastic jailers, he found it impossible
to make his escape. So he hugged his bundle desperately and beamed
good-humoredly about him, recognizing the advisability of making the
best of things. The other debaters were hustled to his side in a wild
medley of cheers, and then, clutching each other madly in an effort
to maintain their balance, they were wheeled up and down the long
platform in the vortex of a swirling throng and cheered to the echo,
individually and collectively. For his part, Anthony was filled with a
great relief when the train with its long line of grinning faces at the
windows drew away, and with a greater relief when one of the occupants
of the truck, losing his hold, tumbled between the framework, and so
brought the triumphal procession to an end.
The prey were allowed to escape, and Anthony drew his long ulster
about his thin shanks and scuttled ungracefully into Town Lane and so
out of the rabble of still cheering students. But he hadn’t escaped
Jack, for that youth, somewhat out of breath, overtook him before he
had reached the corner and showered fragmentary congratulations upon
him.
“I got up--almost before--light,” panted Jack, bravely trying to
keep up with Anthony’s long strides, “and went--down and--got
a--paper--and--read--read-- Oh, don’t go so fast, please!”
Anthony moderated his pace and put an arm affectionately over the
other’s shoulders.
“Did you?” he asked. “Well, now, that was real friendly.”
“And when I--saw--that you’d won--I danced a jig in--the--middle of
Main Street!”
“And haven’t got your breath back yet?” laughed Anthony.
“But--aren’t you glad?” asked Jack.
“I should say so,” answered the other. “So tickled that I don’t mind
the money it cost.”
Another event, important to a large part of the college, took place
a day or two later. March, which had raged in with a big snow-storm,
relented and attempted the rôle of April. The ground dried and became
firm and springy and little warm breezes almost induced one to believe
that he had somehow lost track of the months and had torn one too few
leaves from his calendar. Erskine Field, given over during the winter
to snow and winds, clothed itself in a new green livery and suddenly
became the Mecca for more than half the college. One Thursday morning
the following welcome notice hung in the window of Butler’s bookstore:
UNIVERSITY BASEBALL.--Outdoor practise on the Field at 4 sharp.
Candidates must bring their own togs.
Jack went out to the field early and, having got into his baseball
clothes, threw his white sweater over his back, and sat down on
the steps of the locker-house in the sunshine. Many fellows passed
him, going in and out of the building, some according him a word of
greeting, others a mere nod, while still others pretended not to
see him. But Jack was beyond slights to-day. The spring was in his
blood and he would have liked to throw himself down on the grass and
roll over like a colt for mere joy of living. Instead, he only beat
a restless tattoo with his heels and watched the passers. Presently
the varsity squad trotted out; King, who played left field and
was substitute pitcher; Billings, third-baseman; “Wally” Stiles,
second-baseman; Knox, last year’s shortstop and substitute pitcher;
“Teddy” Motter, crack first-baseman; Lowe, center-fielder, and several
more, with Gilberth emerging last of all in talk with Joe Perkins.
Jack watched Gilberth as he went by, much as a cat watches a mouse
beyond its present reach. He had a score to even with Tracy Gilberth,
and he was convinced that in good time the opportunity would come to
him to even it. Meanwhile he waited patiently, observing Gilberth like
a calm, inscrutable Fate. Gilberth had a firm grasp on the pitcher’s
place, while Jack was only one of the second squad, and so, of late,
their paths seldom crossed, and the senior had had no chance to give
expression to his sentiments regarding the freshman. Of this Jack
was glad, since Gilberth’s contemptuous glances roused his hatred as
nothing else could.
The varsity squad took possession of the diamond and began practising.
Presently Bissell, the varsity center-fielder, made his appearance and
took the second squad in charge. Bissell was out of the game for the
while with a sprained ankle, and Hanson, the head coach, had placed
the second squad under his wing. There were sixteen of them in all,
for the most part upper classmen who had failed to make the varsity
the year before, with a sprinkling of sophomores and two freshmen.
The freshmen were Jack and a small, wiry chap, named Clover, who was
trying for shortstop. Bissell led the way to the batting nets and soon
they were hard at work. A third squad, made up of some twenty more or
less hopeless candidates, many of them freshmen who would later form
the nucleus of their class nine, were occupying an improvised diamond
at the farther end of the football field. The scene was animated and
interesting. The sharp crack of bat meeting ball, the shrill cries of
the coachers, and the low thud of flying spheres against padded gloves
filled the air.
Jack had just finished his first turn at bat by sending a hot grounder
across the grass, and had taken his place at the end of the line again
when he heard an authoritative voice addressing Bissell, and looked
around to find the head coach standing by.
“Haven’t you got a man who can pitch better than that, Bissell?” asked
the coach.
Bissell surveyed the candidates doubtfully and the man who was
pitching, quailing under the disapproving eye of the coach, threw his
next ball over the batsman’s head and so completed his disgrace. The
head coach was a small man, small in stature and small of limb and
feature, but possessed of a shrewd and sharp brown eye that was the
terror of shirking candidates. He was unmistakably good-looking, was
Hanson--his full name was Alfred Ward Hanson--and had the faculty
of commanding instant respect, rather a difficult feat for a small
man. He was aided there, however, by a reputation for wonderful
playing; nothing commands the respect and allegiance of the soldier
or the athlete as does past prowess, and an army officer or college
coach whose history contains valorous deeds is seldom troubled with
insubordination or discouraged by half-heartedness in the ranks. Hanson
was liked, respected, admired, and--feared.
“You must have somebody here that’s able to pitch a straight ball,”
continued the coach.
“There ought to be,” replied Bissell. “How about it, you fellows? Can
any of you pitch?”
There was a moment’s silence. Undoubtedly several of them could, but
with Hanson’s dissatisfied gaze upon them they hesitated to make known
their accomplishment. It was Jack who spoke first.
“I can pitch some,” he said, in matter-of-fact tones, stepping out of
the line. “I’ll try, if you like.”
“Go ahead then,” said Hanson. “It isn’t necessary to pitch curves; just
get an occasional ball over the plate.”
The head coach went over to the other net and Jack took the place of
the retired pitcher. He hadn’t tried pitching since the summer and his
first ball went very wide. The line of waiting batsmen grinned; some
even laughed audibly.
“That’s a great deal better,” remarked one of them with fine sarcasm,
and the laugh became general.
“That’ll do, Showell,” exclaimed Bissell. “We don’t need your opinion.”
Showell, a junior, and the fellow whom Jack had ousted, grinned
sheepishly under the amused glances of the others and Jack settled
down to business. After a few poor balls he got his hand in again and
Bissell nodded approvingly. One after another the candidates took their
places in front of the net and stayed there until they had made clean
hits. Jack did not attempt to puzzle them, for at this time of year,
despite the practise in the cage, batting work was still pretty poor.
He delivered straight balls as slow as possible and the line moved
along quickly. When Showell took his place, however, Jack remembered
his sarcastic remark and resolved to make the former pitcher earn his
hit. He attempted no curves or drops, but sent the first ball very
straight over the square of wood that did duty as a plate. But if it
was straight it was also swift, so swift that Showell merely looked at
it go by and then glanced inquiringly at Jack as he tossed it back to
him.
He gripped his bat afresh then, and waited the next ball confidently.
It came, and was, if anything, swifter than the one before. Showell
struck at it hard, but was half a foot too late. The watchers began to
guess what was up and looked on interestedly.
“Shorten your swing, Showell,” directed Bissell. “You were way too late
then.”
Showell’s face took on a deep red and he gritted his teeth as Jack
slowly and calmly threw up his arms for the next delivery. Again the
ball came straight and fast over the plate and this time Showell struck
an instant too soon and the sphere glanced up off his bat, bounded
against the hood of the net, and came down on his head ere he could
duck. He picked it out of the dust and tossed it back with no pleasant
expression. The line was grinning appreciatingly by this time, but
Jack’s face showed neither amusement nor interest. Again Showell struck
and missed miserably.
“What are you pitching, Weatherby?” Bissell asked suspiciously.
“Just straight balls,” answered Jack, simulating surprise.
“Well, now look here, Showell,” said the acting coach, “do try and
remember what you’ve been taught. Give me the bat.” Bissell took the
other’s place. “Don’t stand as though you were going to run away. Face
the plate; if you’re hit you’ve got your base. Now, watch me. All
right, Weatherby.”
Jack sent him a fairly fast ball, and Bissell took it neatly on the end
of his stick and sent it sailing in a short flight toward right field.
“You see, Showell? Swing back easily and don’t try to slug the ball. If
you swing hard you miss your balance nine times out of ten. Bring the
bat around easily on a line with the ball, hold it firmly and you’ve
got your hit. Try it again, please.”
Showell did try it again and struck a palpable foul. Once more he tried
and missed entirely. By this time he was as mad as a hatter.
“I can’t hit them unless he sends them over the plate,” he growled,
eying Jack aggressively.
“You need to learn how to bat,” said a voice behind him. “I guess it
would do you good to have a term with the third squad.”
He looked around into the face of Hanson, who unnoticed, had been
watching his work for several minutes. He subsided and again faced the
pitcher. But Jack had no desire to bring about Showell’s removal to
the third squad, and so sent him a slow ball that he could not help
hitting. When Showell had yielded his bat to the next man and stepped
away Hanson turned to Bissell.
“Who’s that fellow?” he asked.
“Showell, a junior.”
“Junior? No, no; I mean the youngster that’s pitching.”
“Oh, that’s Weatherby, a freshman.”
“Weatherby? Oh, yes.” He watched Jack send in a couple more balls and
then turned to Bissell again. “You’d better let him keep on pitching,”
he said. “Seems to me he’s rather promising. What do you think?”
“I’ve never seen him pitch until to-day,” answered Bissell. “But he
seems to be able to send in good, clean, straight balls. I don’t
suppose he knows much about anything else, though.”
“Well, keep your eye on him,” said Hanson. “Can’t have too many
pitchers, and that chap looks as though he might learn.”