JACK COURTS THE MUSE
April passed into May, and uncertain skies gave way to placid expanses
of blue, whereon soft fluffs of white moved slowly, blown by warm and
gentle winds. Down at the boat-house, bare-legged and bare-headed, men
filed across the floats, bearing the slender, glinting shells, or,
with hands on oars, bent and unbent in unison to the sharp commands of
important and diminutive coxswains; on the newly rolled cinder-track
other men sped or jogged, heads well back and knees high, with white
trunks fluttering in the breeze; in front of the stand the jumpers and
pole-vaulters plumped themselves into the freshly spaded loam; on the
diamond, brilliantly green in its carpet of carefully tended turf, the
players darted hither and thither amid the crack of batted ball and the
cries of coaches.
By the beginning of the second week in May, baseball affairs had
assumed a more encouraging look. The training-table had taken on
six more men--among them Showell and Clover--and the unsuccessful
candidates had gone to the freshmen team or found other branches
of athletics to interest them. Erskine had played eight games, had
won six, tied one, and lost one. What was practically a preliminary
season was well-nigh over and with the middle of the month the serious
contests would begin.
Meanwhile, Jack had found himself. After a vicarious existence as
a general outfield substitute, he had settled down as substitute
second-baseman, a position which he had never attempted hitherto, but
one which he took to in a way that vindicated his right to it. He
showed that he possessed the three essentials of a good second-baseman:
coolness, quickness, and judgment. With the exception of third base,
second is the most difficult of the infield positions; it has been
called the “keystone of the infield,” and that very aptly. So far
as handling the ball is concerned--that is, catching, stopping,
or throwing--second-baseman has no harder work than shortstop or
third-baseman; it is in studying the batsman that he encounters his
difficulties.
Jack started in with a good knowledge of the fundamentals of baseball
and took kindly to coaching. Gradually he acquired the intuitive sense
which enabled him to tell where the ball was going before it had left
the bat, and to govern himself accordingly. He learned that a nine’s
success depends upon team-work and not upon individual brilliancy, and
to control his zeal; to anticipate the shortstop’s movements and to
know, without looking, where that player and the third-baseman were;
to keep always in mind that the best policy is to put out the runner
nearest home; and much more besides.
With a definite position to try for, Jack found it much easier to put
every effort into playing. Even the fact that “Wally” Stiles, the first
choice for second-baseman, would in all likelihood play out the big
games, those with Harvard, Artmouth, and Robinson, did not trouble him.
There would be other games which, if less important, were well worth
winning, and in those he would probably take part.
So Jack put his whole mind into learning his position, studying its
possibilities, developing an eighth sense, which enabled him time and
again to judge almost with exactitude in what direction, and how far,
the ball, scarcely away from the bat, was going, and learning, too,
to “size up” a batsman’s prowess from the way he stood and looked and
swung his stick. I have said that he possessed a good knowledge of
the fundamentals of the game when he started in; but there were still
things to learn which his baseball education had not taught, such
little niceties as stopping grounders with his feet together so that,
in case of a miss, the ball could not go between his legs, and, after
catching or stopping a ball, to start at once toward the point whither
the ball was to be thrown instead of standing still, so that by the
time he had gathered himself for the throw the distance for the ball to
travel had been lessened; little things these, but of the sort that win
or lose a game.
One thing that had a deal to do with Jack’s ability to put his heart
into his work on the diamond was the attitude of the other players
toward him. Had the old scarcely concealed contempt and dislike been
manifested he could never have shown up as varsity material. But that
was past. In the minds of most of the fellows time had dimmed the
memory of the incident at the river, now nearly three months ago, and
Jack’s attitude and behavior of late had aided.
For a while the neutrality observed by Gilberth made him suspicious
that the pitcher was only husbanding his powers of annoyance in order
to indulge in some more than usually brutal expression of contempt.
But, as time went by, Jack was forced to conclude that hostilities from
that source were over. At length, the neutrality was succeeded by a
show of friendliness. It was impossible to practise together day after
day without an occasional word or two, and Jack and Tracy soon found
themselves in the habit of greeting each other when they met, very
ceremoniously, to be sure, and of sometimes exchanging observations
on the bench much after the manner of slight acquaintances who find
themselves thrown together at a party. Jack was very glad. The old
thirst for vengeance on his enemies had wasted perceptibly under the
influence of congenial companionship, and he was ready to cry quits.
Just what Tracy’s sentiments were at this time it is hard to say; it is
doubtful if he knew himself.
He had made up his mind to let Jack alone, and was doing it. Only one
thing troubled him, and that was the fear that Anthony Tidball might
think that his course was the result of the other’s threats. And it is
only fair to state on behalf of Tracy’s physical courage that such was
not the case. Joe Perkins’s remonstrances had borne weight, and when,
shortly after Anthony’s visit, Professor White had added his request,
Tracy had decided that, after all, he had possibly mistaken the
sentiment of the college. Professor White had said to him very much the
same things that Joe had said, but he had put them more convincingly.
He knew Tracy, and did not make the mistake of ruffling his temper; on
the contrary, when he had left, Tracy felt that there was one person at
Erskine who understood him. And for the sake of that person and of Joe
he would do as they asked him.
Professor White’s efforts in Jack’s behalf were not limited to the
talk with Tracy. He saw Joe Perkins and Hanson and King and several
others with whom Jack came in daily contact and asked for the boy fair
treatment. And he encouraged Jack to visit him and, when the latter did
so, used every effort to hearten him. On the whole, it is safe to say
that to the professor belonged a greater part of the credit for the
betterment of the boy’s condition. Such was the state of affairs when,
on a certain Saturday evening, about the middle of the month, Jack and
Anthony sat talking on the edge of Mrs. Dorlon’s porch.
Anthony had washed up his supper dishes and Jack had just strolled
back from dinner at the training-table. The moon, well into its first
quarter, was sailing in a clear sky over the tops of the elms in the
yard. The evening was musical with the hum and whirr of early insects
and the varied sounds from open windows. Somewhere farther up the curve
of Elm Street an uncertain hand was coaxing the strains of Mandalay
from a guitar, and now and then the faint music of a piano floated
across from Walton Hall. Anthony had lighted his pipe and, with its
bowl aglow in the dusk, was leaning against a pillar, one knee tucked
up under his chin. Jack sat a yard away, his hands in his pockets,
staring up at the moon.
“Did you ever write poetry, Anthony?” he asked suddenly.
“No.” Anthony sucked reflectively at the pipe and shook his head
slowly. “No, I’ve had the measles and whooping-cough and scarlatina,
but I’ve never had poetry yet. Of course, I’ve tried my hand at blank
verse in Latin, but it wasn’t poetry; even the instructor acknowledged
that.”
“Oh, I meant just plain every-day poetry, you know,” Jack explained. “I
thought if you had you could tell me something about it.”
“Well, I didn’t say that I didn’t know poetry when I saw it,” answered
Anthony. “I’ve read a good deal of it, you see. What do you want to
know?”
“I want to know whether you have to have all your lines rhyme.”
“Depends, I guess. What are you going to do, anyway, turn into a poet?”
“No, only I thought I’d try my hand at writing some verses for the
fellows to sing at the games, you know. The Purple says we ought to
have some new songs for the Robinson game.”
“Oh. Well, now, from what I’ve seen of such things it doesn’t matter
any whether lines rhyme or don’t rhyme, I should say. As long as the
words fit the music the rhymes just hump along as best they can. Have
you written anything yet?”
“N--no, not exactly,” answered Jack cautiously. “I’ve got an idea, but
I didn’t quite know about rhyming. Of course, all the poetry you read
rhymes all through, like Tennyson, or else it doesn’t rhyme at all,
like Milton. What I was wondering was whether it was all right to just
rhyme now and then, you know, when you could, and not bother about it
when you--you can’t. What do you think?”
“Oh, I’d just do the best I could and not worry,” answered the other
gravely. “The--hum--sentiment seems to be the most important thing
about college songs.”
“Yes, I suppose so. It’s funny how few rhymes there are when you come
to look for them,” said Jack thoughtfully. “Now there’s ‘purple’; I
can’t find anything to rhyme with that.”
“Purple? Now that does sound difficult. Let’s see; I guess ‘turtle’
wouldn’t do, eh?”
“I’m afraid not. I’ve tried everything. I thought maybe it wouldn’t
matter if it didn’t rhyme.”
“Don’t believe it will. Let’s hear what you got.”
“Oh, it isn’t anything much,” answered Jack modestly. “It--it goes to
the tune of ‘Hail, Columbia!’ you know.”
“All right; sing it if you’d rather.”
“I can’t sing; I’ll just say it. It--it begins like this:
Hail to Erskine, conq’ring band!
Firm together we will stand!
While the battle rages high
We will fight until the last!
Underneath the purple banner we
Will live or die for victory!
What--what do you think of it?”
“Well, if you want my honest opinion,” replied Anthony, “I think it’s
too classic, Jack. Seems to me what you want in those kind of songs is
a lot of ‘rah, rah, hullabaloo!’ And I don’t believe ‘Hail, Columbia!’
is a good tune; seems too jerky. Course, I’m not an authority, and
maybe I’m mistaken. But if I were you I’d try again; get more swing
into it. I’ve always thought ‘John Brown’s Body’ was the best tune to
set football songs and such things to. Of course, it’s older than the
hills and has been used by every college from Maine to Mexico, but that
doesn’t matter if you get some good words. I’d forget about the rhymes
at first; just find some lines that’ll swing along, you know; kind of
sing themselves; afterward, you can go back and tuck a rhyme in here
and there. Try it.”
“I guess I will. I wasn’t just satisfied with that ‘Hail, Columbia!’
one, but I didn’t know what ailed it. I thought maybe it was because I
couldn’t find a rhyme for ‘high.’ There was ‘die,’ but I’d used that in
the last line, you see.”
“I see.” Anthony knocked the ashes from his pipe and stretched himself.
“Guess I’ll have to go up and do some studying,” he said.
“Wait a minute,” Jack pleaded. “There’s another thing I wanted to ask
about. Is it hard to learn to swim?”
“Never learned, Jack, and can’t say from experience. But from what I’ve
seen I’d say it was blamed hard.”
“Never learned! But I thought----”
“It was like this with me. When I was about knee high to a grasshopper
I went in wading and saw my daddy out in a dory about fifty feet from
shore. So I went out to him. They say I didn’t have much breath left
when they pulled me in; I don’t remember. I guess I swam, though; if I
didn’t I don’t know how I got there. Anyhow, after that I knew how all
right.”
“Just imagine,” mused Jack. “I know I couldn’t do that, but I do want
to learn. Do you think I could?”
“Course you could, but I guess it would take time. If you want me to
help, I’ll do it.”
“Will you, really?” exclaimed the other. “Glory! that will be fine! I
wanted to ask you, but didn’t quite like to; I’ve been so much of a
bother to you already.”
“Oh, get out. We’ll go down to the river and find a place where it’s
not too deep; I think I know of one. The water’ll be plaguy cold,
though, this early. Want to wait a while longer?”
“No, I want to begin right off--before my courage fails me; you know,
I’m an awful fool about water, Anthony.”
“Because you don’t understand it. Water won’t hurt you if you know what
to do.”
“And you won’t mind if--if I’m a bit scary at first?”
“No, I won’t mind. If you say you want me to teach you to swim, I’ll do
it if I have to throw you in the water and hold you there. Do you?”
Jack took a long breath and looked hard at Anthony’s face in the
moonlight. What he saw evidently reassured him, for after a pause he
said faintly:
“Y--yes!”