WEATHERBY’S INNING
“Good morning, Mr. Tidball!”
Anthony, making his way briskly down Main Street, raised his head
at the greeting, and glanced across the street. Professor White,
immaculate in his Sunday attire of black frock coat, gray trousers,
and silk hat, was picking his way gingerly between the little puddles
left by the night’s shower. Anthony returned the salutation, and waited
for the other to join him. Then they went on together down the quiet
street in the shade of the elms. The village seemed deserted. It was an
hour after noon, and staid, respectable Centerport was dining on all
the indigestible luxuries that comprise the New England Sunday dinner.
As for the college--well, the college was at the depot awaiting the
arrival of the 2.12 train.
“Going down to welcome the victors?” asked the professor gaily.
“Yes,” answered Anthony. “And I guess you are too. Sort of late, aren’t
we?”
He produced his big gold watch, removed it tenderly from its pouch,
and saw that it announced eight minutes after the hour. The professor
nodded, and they mended their pace.
“You didn’t go down, did you?” asked the latter.
“No, I wanted to, but couldn’t afford it. But we got the news at
Butler’s by innings. We had quite a celebration all to ourselves before
the rest of you got home.”
“Didn’t keep you from taking a hand in the bonfire last night, though,
did it?” laughed the professor.
“No, I guess every one went out to the field. It must have been an
interesting game, professor.”
“It was. But it was rather conducive to heart-disease toward the end.
We came pretty near to being outplayed, and a good deal nearer to
being beaten. When Robinson had the bases full in the ninth and their
left-fielder rapped out that liner--well, I shut my eyes and held my
breath! I didn’t see Weatherby make his catch; when I looked he was
throwing to third. Well, it was great, simply great!”
“Yes, but I didn’t quite understand what it was Jack did. If he hadn’t
caught the ball the other chaps would have made three runs, isn’t that
it?”
“Well, two runs anyway, three probably; you see, the bases were full,
and that hit was good for a two-bagger, I think, if Weatherby hadn’t
got his hands on it. It was a hot one, too, and ’way over his head.
As it was, he put out the batsman by catching the ball, tagged second
before the runner from that base could get back, and then threw to
third and put out the man there. You see, a runner is required to hold
his base until a fly has either been caught or has touched the ground.
Well, Robinson thought Devlin’s hit was a safe one; it surely looked
like it; and every one ran. Then when Weatherby caught it they had to
get back to their bases; but they couldn’t. Condit was almost home. It
was very pretty. Triple plays like that have been made before, but they
don’t happen very often. And then the difficulty of Weatherby’s catch
added to the brilliancy of the thing. Well, he’ll be a hero now as long
as yesterday’s game is remembered.”
“I’m mighty glad,” said Anthony quietly. “Jack’s had sort of a hard
time of it, take it all ’round. I’m glad things look better for next
year.”
“Oh, he can have pretty near anything he wants after this,” laughed
the professor. “I’m quite as well pleased as you are, Tidball. There’s
one thing, however--” He hesitated. “We can’t get around the fact that
Weatherby’s been largely to blame for his own unhappiness, Tidball.
We’re both friends of his, and we can afford to recognize the truth. It
was his duty, to himself and more especially to others, to put himself
right. He should have explained why he apparently made no effort to
go to the rescue of that boy in the river. It looked bad; I saw the
whole thing, and to all appearances it was just a case of cowardice.
I was mistaken; and I said what was in my mind, which was a still
greater mistake. But don’t you see, Tidball, he should have spoken up
and said that he couldn’t swim. None would have blamed him then. He
had no right to allow others to misjudge him. Then, too, his attitude
wasn’t of the kind to attract friends to him. From what I can make out
he appears to have taken umbrage because the fellows didn’t seek him
and make his acquaintance when he first came, and subsequently repelled
every advance by his apparent indifference and self-sufficiency. It
was--unfortunate.”
“Yes, I guess you’re right. But I can’t altogether blame Jack, for I
know just how sensitive he is. Sometime he’ll get over it, but it’s
something you can’t change at once. Wasn’t that the whistle?”
“I didn’t hear anything, but if you like we’ll sprint a bit.”
And they did, reaching the station just as the train rolled in, and
the victorious baseball team and attendants descended into the dense
throng of students to an accompaniment of wild cheers. For a moment
the players were swallowed from sight. Then they came into view again
on the shoulders of privileged friends, and were borne to the three
hacks that were to take them in triumph up to the college. Jack caught
a brief glimpse of Anthony’s tall form as he was borne, swaying and
bobbing, across the platform, and waved a hand to him. Then, with the
cheering crowd jostling and shoving about the carriages, the journey
was begun.
Jack found himself in the second of the hacks, sandwiched between
Billings and Knox. Facing them, on the front seat, sat King, Motter,
and Showell. As they turned into the Square, the horses prancing
excitedly because of the crowd and the noise, Jack caught a glimpse
of the carriage ahead and of Joe Perkins leaning out to shake hands
with the nearest of his admirers. There was no attempt at conversation
between Jack and his companions. Even had the tumult allowed it they
were all too sleepy and tired to talk much.
Training had ended for the season with the ending of the game. They had
remained in Collegetown as Robinson’s guests, and had been dined, and,
later, had attended a performance at the little Opera House in company
with their hosts. After that they had returned to the hotel, assembled
in Joe’s room, and chosen a new captain. The honor had fallen to King.
There had been no dissenting voice. King, although only a junior next
year, was already a veteran player, having captained his school team
before coming to Erskine, and having played two years with the varsity.
Jack was pleased. He liked King better than any of the fellows who
would be eligible for the next year’s nine. And King, he believed,
liked him.
Jack forgot the cheers and the singing and the enthusiastic throngs
that filled the sidewalks and almost surrounded the carriage, and
closing his eyes, leaned back and gave himself over to thought. In
three days the term would come to an end, and he would go home for the
summer, a summer which promised to be one of the pleasantest of his
life. Anthony was to visit him in July for a week, and later, if all
went well, he was to spend a few days in Jonesboro, and finish his
natational education with surf bathing. Then, in September, Erskine
once more. But what a difference there would be! He would return to
college to find fellows not merely willing but eager to claim his
acquaintance, to call him friend. The stigma of cowardice would no
longer be placed upon him; rather he would be looked upon as a hero,
as the one who had saved the college from defeat.
Already he had tasted the intoxicating draft of popularity. Ever since
the crowd had poured on to the field the day before he had never for an
instant been allowed to forget that the college looked upon him as one
whom it was a pleasure to honor. The time when he had read “Coward!” in
each averted face seemed very dim and far. And yet the vindication of
which he had dreamed then, a vindication of his physical courage, had
not come. Well, perhaps next year----
He came to earth with a start. King had leaped to his feet, and was
staring excitedly down the street. The tumult had changed from joyous
cheers to cries of alarm. The crowd about the carriage was frantically
struggling toward the sidewalks and above its voice sounded the
pounding of hoofs on the hard road. Jack turned and looked. Behind
them, sweeping down the narrow street between the fleeing throngs,
swayed the third hack, the horses, frightened beyond control, plunging
forward with outstretched heads. On the box the driver tugged vainly
at the lines and shouted warnings to the crowd. A moment or two and a
collision was inevitable.
Their own driver had heard and seen; the hack sprang forward, and King
tumbled into Jack’s arms. At the same instant Showell struggled to his
feet with pale, drawn face, and, with an inarticulate groan of terror,
threw open the carriage door and leaped blindly into the road. Over and
over he rolled in the path of the oncoming team. Jack pushed King from
him, and in a moment was balancing himself on the sill, clinging to
the woodwork beside him. Some one strove to get by him, and he pushed
him back.
“Stay where you are,” he shouted.
Then he jumped.
As he did so he saw dimly the crowd crushing back against the shops,
panic-stricken, struggling for safety. He landed and kept his feet, and
even before the momentum had passed had swung himself about, and was
racing back down the street toward the motionless form of Showell and
the plunging horses. As he ran there was no fear in his heart; rather
an exultant consciousness of power; here was the opportunity to wipe
out forever the stigma of cowardice.
“It’s my inning at last!” he thought gladly.
If it has taken long in the telling, yet in the doing it was the matter
of a moment. He reached the inert body of Showell, and, with desperate
strength, sent it rolling toward the sidewalk. Then the horses were
upon him. With a gasp for breath he leaped forward, arms outstretched,
as it seemed into the path of death.
[Illustration: With a gasp for breath he leaped forward.]
But brief as had been his moment of preparation, he had not misjudged.
His clutching hands caught at rein and mane, and he was swept off his
feet and borne onward. Then his left hand found a place beside the
right, and with all his weight back of the bit and the horse’s hoofs
grazing his legs at every plunge, he clung there desperately with
closed eyes. For an instant there was no diminishment of the pace; then
the horse’s head came down, and Jack’s feet again touched earth. Plunge
after plunge followed; a confusion of cries and cheers filled his ears;
the team veered to the left, and his feet felt the sidewalk beneath
them. There was a crash as the heavy pole splintered against one of
the granite posts of the college fence, and Jack, striking violently
against something that drove the last breath from his body, loosed his
hold and fell backward into darkness.
* * * * *
When he opened his eyes again, a minute later, he was lying, weak,
shaken, and gasping, just inside the fence, his swimming head supported
on the knee of Professor White. About him excited yet kindly faces
looked down, while on the sidewalk the trembling horses were being
unharnessed from the carriage. He strove to sit up, but the professor
restrained him.
“Hurt, Weatherby?” he asked.
Jack stretched himself carefully, shook his head, and struggled into a
sitting posture.
“No,” he gasped, “all right; breath--knocked out--that’s all.”
“Well, sit still a minute.” Jack obeyed, and closed his eyes. About
him were low voices and whispers, and his name being repeated over and
over. Then he became aware of a sudden commotion, and opened his eyes
to see Anthony pushing his way through the ring.
“I found him,” he gasped. “He’s coming right over. How is he?” He
dropped to his knees at Jack’s side, sending an anxious glance at the
professor.
“Nothing broken; just out of breath.”
Anthony seized Jack’s hand and held it tightly, his broad mouth working
yet unable to voice his words. Jack grinned up into his face.
“You’re a sight, Anthony,” he said. “You’ve gone and lost your specs.
Help me up.” The professor nodded. Anthony seized him about the
shoulders and lifted him to his feet. Jack tried his legs tentatively,
and found them apparently sound. Then he turned to Anthony.
“Showell?” he asked anxiously.
“He’s all right, Jack; just stunned a bit from the fall.”
“Take him over to his room, Tidball,” said Professor White. “I’ll send
the doctor when he comes.”
The throng made way for them. As they passed through, Anthony
supporting Jack as carefully as though the latter were a basket of
eggs, the crowd found its voice. Jack glanced into some of the faces
and read therein a new respect and liking. He dropped his eyes, the
color flooding into his cheeks, and hurried on. The throng grew
momentarily. In front it broke and parted, and Joe Perkins and Tracy
Gilberth confronted them.
“All right, Jack?” panted Joe.
“Of course I am,” Jack muttered sheepishly.
“All right, then. Up you go, old man!” Before he could resist he found
himself on the shoulders of Anthony and Joe, with Tracy supporting him
behind.
“Let me down, you idiots!” he pleaded.
But they paid no heed. The individual voicing of approval suddenly
merged into a confused cheering that grew and grew in volume until
Jack’s remonstrances were drowned beneath it. He clung to Anthony’s
head, and tried to look as though he didn’t mind, and only succeeded
in looking like a thief on the way to the stocks. Of late, he silently
marveled, he seemed to be continually swaying about on fellows’
shoulders!
Near the museum the chaos of sound took form and substance, and Jack,
still somewhat confused and dizzy, found that he was bobbing along in
time to the loud, deep, and measured refrain of “_Weatherby! Weatherby!
Weatherby!_”
THE END
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Transcriber’s Notes:
--Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
--Except for the frontispiece, illustrations have been moved to
follow the text that they illustrate, so the page number of the
illustration may not match the page number in the List of
Illustrations.
--Printer, punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently
corrected.
--Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.
--Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.
--The Author’s em-dash and long dash styles have been retained.
End of Project Gutenberg's Weatherby's Inning, by Ralph Henry Barbour