STOLEN PROPERTY
Erskine met with defeat that afternoon.
Arrowden did pretty much as she pleased; base-hits were as plentiful
as errors; the former were to the credit of the visitors, the latter
were the property of the home team. When it was over, and the audience
had clambered soberly down from the stands to shake their heads
disappointedly over the showing of the Purple as they tramped through
the golden evening back to the town and the college, Patterson, the
manager, slipped his pencil back into his pocket and softly closed the
score-book to shut from sight the obnoxious figures, 15--3. It had been
a veritable Waterloo.
In the locker-house little was said. Every one realized that the
team had taken a slump. Hanson stood aside, and “Baldy” Simson
became the man of the hour. His was the task of getting the men back
into condition, a task requiring patience and vigilance and all the
knowledge that many years of experience had brought him. This was
no time for fault-finding; on the contrary, Hanson was silent, and
“Baldy’s” tone was cheerful and soothing.
The news of Erskine’s trouncing brought delight to the hearts of the
Robinson players and coaches. Down there at Collegetown they had been
having troubles of their own of late. The brown-stockinged team was
inferior to its last year’s predecessor, and its coaches believed that
if Erskine came to Collegetown in two weeks with a nine equal to that
of the previous season she would win the dual championship. So it was
that Erskine’s defeat by Arrowden brought encouragement to Robinson;
for Robinson had met Arrowden ten days before and had shut her out to
the tune of 5 to 0. What pleased Robinson worried Erskine. The college
at large, with last year’s overthrow in memory, scented defeat. Hanson
wrote four telegrams on Sunday. The tenor of all was the same; that to
Thomas G. Higgins, captain of the defeated nine of the spring previous,
read as follows:
“Need you badly. Come at once. Wire when.”
Joe Perkins dropped a pound of weight every day until the middle of the
week. Examinations were imminent, and this fact, with his own condition
to think of and the worry caused by the general slump, came very near
to making him quite useless on the diamond or in class-room. There was
no practise on Monday for those who had played against Arrowden. They
were told to stay away from the field and rest. Joe moped in his room
until Tracy called for him and again took him out in the automobile.
Jack went to second base that afternoon, and during the hour and
a half’s practise made a good showing. His throwing to first and
to the plate pleased Hanson vastly. On Tuesday the first nine was
still largely composed of substitutes. Joe and Tracy remained out
and the battery was Knox and Griffin. “Wally” Stiles, the regular
second-baseman, was out, but as he wore his every-day clothes Jack knew
that the second bag was his for the afternoon.
Showell played Bissell’s place at center-field during the fielding
practise, and later, when base-running began, was selected to start the
procession. He played well off of first in obedience to Hanson, and
when Mears cracked a short grounder toward third base he was able to
reach second with time to spare. Jack was standing just in front of the
base-line, arms outstretched toward third-baseman, and Showell saw his
opportunity to get even for the uncomfortable position in which Jack
had placed him on the occasion of the mass-meeting. Lunging out of the
base-line he struck Jack in the back with his left shoulder with all
the force he could summon. Jack pitched forward on to his face, rolled
over, and lay there, feebly kicking the turf with his heels, and
Showell flung himself on to the bag.
The nearest players ran to Jack’s assistance and found him, white of
face, gasping painfully for breath. “Baldy” reached his side almost
with the first, and, kneeling above his head, he took his arms and
“pumped” them until the air was forced back into his lungs. After a
liberal dousing with water, Jack sat up, gasping, and looked about
him. His eyes fell on Showell, who was sitting on the bag watching
proceedings disinterestedly, and a wave of color swept into his face.
“Baldy” lifted him and supported him for a moment while he tried his
feet. Jack was angry clear through and wished that he and Showell were
alone that he might have it out with him. But he said nothing, and only
two or three near-by players knew that the affair was not an accident.
“Are you all right?” asked “Baldy.”
“Yes,” Jack answered. Knox handed him his gray cap and he pulled it
down over his forehead again and went back to the bag. Showell eyed him
sharply, evidently on the lookout for retaliation.
“You want to get out of the way,” he blustered.
“You’d better keep out of my way,” Jack replied grimly.
“Why, what would you do?” growled the other.
But Jack made no answer, save for a glance of contempt that brought an
angry flush into the somewhat sallow face of the other, and the game
went on.
After he had cooled off a little, Jack was heartily glad that he had
not got into a fuss with Showell, for Hanson hated any approach to
disagreement during practise, and was quick to show his displeasure by
putting the offenders on to the bench for long terms of idleness. But
Jack had the satisfaction of twice putting Showell out, once between
first and second, and once between second and third, and of knowing
that when the runner was replaced by another he had not made any too
good a showing. In the locker-house Showell kept his eye on Jack, still
not quite satisfied that the latter did not mean to resort to his
fists to even the score, and saw Jack go out accompanied by Clover and
Northup with feelings of relief.
The next day, Wednesday, Erskine played State University with a team
still largely made up of substitutes. Joe Perkins was back behind
the plate and Gilberth went into left-field, King occupying the box.
But Motter’s place at first was taken by Mears, and Jack again held
down second. Knox was back at shortstop, but the outfield, aside from
Gilberth, was made up of substitutes. The most encouraging feature of
the contest was the improved condition and hard, sharp playing of
Joe. The rest, in spite of the fact that he had fretted continually
under the enforced idleness, had done him lots of good. Erskine won,
5 to 0, and the students strolled back to the college talking more
encouragingly of the nine’s chances.
On Friday “Wally” Stiles got back into the practise and Jack, greatly
to his disgust, retired again to the bench, or, to be more exact, to
the net where Bissell was coaching a squad in bunting. Saturday’s game
was with Erstham, and before it was half over Jack was morally certain
that unless Stiles improved greatly during the next few days the
second-baseman in the Robinson game would be one Jack Weatherby.
Stiles, unlike most of the other players, had not recovered from the
slump, and his playing that afternoon was deplorable. Yet, since
Erskine took the lead in the second inning and held it throughout the
contest, he was not replaced, Hanson hoping that he would find his pace
before the last man was out. But he didn’t, even for a moment. The
team, as a whole, showed up strongly, and Erstham went home with a 10
to 2 score against her.
Jack was sorry for Stiles, really and truly sorry, he told himself; yet
he would have been less than human had he not experienced a feeling of
delight in the thought that, after all, it was not improbable that he
would get into the Robinson game. There was no certainty about it, of
course, he reflected, for Stiles might, in fact probably would, take a
brace on Monday, and, during the five days that would then intervene
before the last contest, win back his title to the position. But there
was ground for hope, and since Jack had hitherto never for a moment
really expected to have a chance in the big game, that slender hope
brought happiness. He went back to Elm Street and the sympathetic and
patient Anthony, whistling merrily or humming “Down with Robinson,”
much out of tune.
His poetical production had duly appeared, among many others, in
the Purple, and for several days he had been highly delighted. Each
contribution had been signed with the author’s name, and Jack had
experienced not a little good-natured teasing by his friends. But there
had been praise also, for his verses were better than the rest, and
even Professor White had congratulated him.
Jack was discovering that he had a good many friends. Not many were
intimate, to be sure, but all were apparently genuine. Joe Perkins had
promptly spread the story of Jack’s swimming lessons, and at last the
true reason for the latter’s failure to distinguish himself in the rôle
of life-saver had become generally known. If the college had been quick
to condemn, it was equally prompt to acknowledge its mistake, and
while few fellows made mention of the matter to Jack, yet many of them
went out of their way to show him courtesy and kindness.
Tracy Gilberth had never mentioned the subject to any one since the
truth had come out, not even to Joe. But Jack was aware that the
varsity pitcher very frequently sought his companionship nowadays and
seemed intent upon making up for the injustice he had done him. Jack
willingly met him half-way, his olden longings for revenge forgotten in
his present content. Nor, as has been said, was Tracy the only one who
sought to ease his conscience by paying little attentions to the fellow
he had formerly despised. From an object of scorn and derision Jack had
changed into something approaching a hero.
On the Sunday succeeding the Erstham game Jack and Anthony were seated
in the latter’s room shortly after noon when Mrs. Dorlon knocked on the
door and announced a caller, presently ushering in with many excited
sniffles Professor White. The professor carried a newspaper in one hand
and his immaculate silk hat in the other. He greeted the two and took
the chair that Anthony promptly pushed forward. But remarks on the
beauty and seasonableness of the weather seemed to interest him but
little, and as soon as politeness would permit he plunged into the
subject which had brought him.
“Do you own a watch, Tidball?” he asked.
Anthony stared, shot a glance at Jack, and after a moment of hesitation
answered: “Yes, that is--well, in a way.”
“You have it now?” the professor went on. Jack scented mystery, and
listened attentively, wondering the while why Anthony looked so
uncomfortable. Surely it was no disgrace to borrow money on one’s own
property! Anthony hesitated again, then answered “No.”
“Was it stolen?” continued the professor.
“Stolen? Well, now-- But, look here, professor, suppose you tell me why
you want to know?”
“Perhaps I had better,” responded the other. “You’re probably thinking
me pretty cheeky and inquisitive. But I was reading the paper a few
minutes ago, and saw that they’d arrested a tramp over in Gerrydale,
and had found a lot of pawn-tickets on him. When they visited the
pawn-shop and recovered the property they found among other jewelry
a watch with the inscription--let me see.” He found the place in the
paper he held and read: “‘Gold watch and chain; former inscribed
Anthony Z. Tidball, from Henry Wright Porter--July, 1902.’ That’s your
name, and I thought perhaps the watch was yours. Is it?”