JACK AT SECOND
Half a mile beyond Warrener’s Grove, the wooded bluff at the end of
Murdoch Street, the river makes in the shore an indentation which is
known as the Cove. It is not an attractive body of water. At some time
in the past there was a brick-yard there, and even yet the remains of
two weather-beaten sheds and a couple of high troughs in which the clay
was mixed may be seen. During a spring freshet the river went over its
banks and flowed into the pits left by the excavations. Later, the
water and the frost connected the stagnant pond with the river; rushes
gained foothold in the clay bottom and the old quarry took on the
appearance of a natural cove. Save in one or two places the depth is
but slight, and, in consequence, the Cove offers warmer bathing in the
spring than does the river. On the side nearest the railroad there is a
stretch of gradually shallowing water that answers all the purposes of
a beach. It was here, then, that Anthony and Jack, during the latter
part of May, came almost every morning, and, exchanging their clothes
for gymnasium trunks, played the parts of teacher and pupil.
The first time that Jack found the cold water lapping his knees he went
pale with terror, and would have fled ignominiously had not Anthony
seized and encouraged him. In the end, he allowed the other to persuade
him to remain where he was and, after gingerly splashing himself with
water, watch his teacher a few yards beyond illustrate the method of
swimming. Anthony realized that he had a task before him that required
a deal of diplomacy, and he carefully avoided saying or doing anything
to increase Jack’s dread of the water.
After four lessons Jack had gone the length of immersing himself and,
held tightly by Anthony, had essayed a few wild strokes with arms and
legs. Anthony strove to teach confidence first of all, and it was not
until Jack could allow him away from his side that Anthony set about
the easier part of his task. As soon as Jack could struggle for a few
strokes through the water Anthony taught him to float. And it was not
until Jack could float in every possible position that the swimming
lessons were resumed. Then progress was rapid. By the middle of June
Jack could swim out to a rush-covered raft which had been anchored
about a hundred feet from shore by enterprising duck-hunters. At first
Anthony kept beside him; later, they had races in which Anthony left
Jack half-way to the goal; in the end, Jack found courage to swim to
the raft and back by himself. But, as I have said, that was not until
June was half over, and before that other things had happened.
It was on the fourth of the month, a Wednesday, that Jack, for the
first time, played a game through as second-baseman. Erskine’s
opponents were the Dexter nine, a hard-hitting aggregation of
preparatory schoolboys, and to meet them Hanson and Perkins put in a
team largely composed of substitutes. This team, in batting order, was
as follows:
Perkins, catcher.
King, pitcher.
Northup, right-field.
Mears, first base.
Weatherby, second base.
Smith, third base.
Clover, shortstop.
Lowe, left-field.
Riseman, center-field.
The last six, with the exception of Lowe, were substitutes, and before
the game was over Lowe, too, had been replaced, Showell going in for
him. Jack’s playing that afternoon raised his stock fully a hundred
per cent. He was in fine fettle--he had never felt better in his life
than he had since he began his morning dips in the cold waters of the
Cove--and covered the second of what Anthony had called the salt-bags
in a manner that opened the eyes of his companions and caused “Wally”
Styles much uneasiness. His batting, too, was as good as his fielding;
he had the honor of making the first hit and the first run for Erskine,
and was the only man on the team that afternoon, with the exception
of Perkins, who knocked out a home run in the sixth, able to hit
the Dexter pitcher for more than one base. In the fifth inning his
three-bagger was clean and timely, bringing in two runs and placing him
where he was able to score a minute after on a passed ball.
Dexter made things extremely interesting for a while in the seventh
inning, getting in two runs and filling the bases again directly
afterward. It was Jack, then, who, in a measure, saved the day. With
the bags all occupied, Dexter’s catcher went to bat and lined out a hot
ball just to the right of King. There was one out. King got one hand
on the ball, but failed to stop it. Jack, who had run forward to back
him up, found the ball in the air and threw quickly and true to the
plate in time to put out the runner. Then Perkins, without more than a
second’s pause, returned it to Jack, who was again covering second, and
Jack found the Dexter catcher two feet off base.
The game ended with the score 5 to 2, and of those five tallies two
were opposite Jack’s name. The other three belonged to Perkins and
Northup. Jack’s record that day included four put-outs and five
assists, and held no errors. Perhaps it was the consciousness of having
done a good afternoon’s work that put him in such a state of elation
that composing verse alone seemed to satisfy him. When half past
seven arrived and he had not appeared in Anthony’s room, Anthony went
in search of him and discovered him curled up in a ball on his bed,
laboring with pencil and pad and flushed cheeks.
“I’ve got it!” cried Jack.
“Got what?” asked Anthony.
“The song! Listen!” Jack squirmed about on the creaking cot until he
had his back against the wall. Then he waved his pad triumphantly over
his head. “It goes to the tune of ‘John Brown’s Body’; you suggested
that, you know; and I didn’t have any trouble at all; and the rhymes
are all right, too, I think! Now, then!” And Jack, beating time with
his pencil, recited sonorously his verses:
“Robinson is wavering, her pride’s about to fall;
Robinson is wavering, she can not hit the ball;
Erskine is the winner, for her team’s the best of all;
Oh, poor old Robinson!
Glory, glory to the Purple!
Glory, glory to the Purple!
Glory, glory to the Purple!
And down with Robinson!
“Purple is the color of the stalwart and the brave;
Purple are the banners that the conq’ring heroes wave;
Purple are the violets above the lonely grave
Of poor old Robinson!
Glory, glory to the Purple!
Glory, glory to the Purple!
Glory, glory to the Purple!
And down with Robinson!”
“Fine!” cried Anthony. “That’s the sort of thing! Let’s see it.” He
took the paper and, turning it to the light, began to hum, then sing
the words to the old marching song, nodding his head in time to the
music. Anthony had about as much melody in his voice as a raven, but
Jack, watching and listening eagerly from the bed, thought he sang
beautifully, and was enormously pleased with the production. When the
final refrain was reached he joined his own voice, rocking back and
forth in ecstasy, and the concert ended in a final triumphant burst of
mel-- Well, no, not melody; let us say sound.
“Do you like it?” Jack asked, as eager for praise of his lines as any
poet.
“Great!” Anthony answered. “And I should think it would do for a
football song, too, wouldn’t it?”
“Would it?” cried Jack. “Yes, I believe it would! That’s fine, isn’t
it? Of course, I don’t want you to think I’m stuck up, Anthony, but I
really think it’s better than any that the Purple has published yet.
What do you say?”
“Well, I haven’t read many of ’em; should think it might be, though.
Better send it in right off, so it’ll be in time for the next issue,
eh?”
“Yes, I’m going to mail it to-night; as soon as I make a good copy.”
Then, after a moment’s hesitation: “I say, Anthony, would you mind
copying it off for me? I write such an awful fist, you know.”
So they adjourned to Anthony’s room, and Jack leaned anxiously over
his friend’s shoulder while the lines were copied in the most careful
of copperplate chirography, folded, sealed, and addressed. Then Jack
bought a one-cent stamp from Anthony and took the letter to the
post-office, marching back through the warm June evening humming “Glory
to the Purple,” and in imagination leading the cheering section at the
Robinson game.
After he had gone to sleep he dreamed that he had been appointed
poet-laureate of Erskine College, and was being driven along Main
Street in Gilberth’s automobile between serried ranks of applauding
students and townfolk, his brow adorned with a golden fillet of
laurel-leaves. The automobile was extremely spacious, since it held
besides himself not only the faculty, but Anthony and Joe Perkins and
the entire baseball team. When he acknowledged the plaudits of the
multitude he had to hold his laurel wreath on with one hand, which
annoyed him a great deal. In the end the president solved the problem
by tying it on with a red silk handkerchief. Then, at the moment of his
greatest triumph, Showell arose from somewhere and shouted in a voice
that drowned the cheers: “He didn’t compose it! The writing was Anthony
Tidball’s! I saw it!” Jack tried to deny the awful slander, but none
would listen to him, and he awoke breathless and despairing, to find
the sunlight streaming in the end window and the robins singing matins
to the early day.