FRED PITCHES A BOMBSHELL INTO TRAINING CAMP
"One, two, three, four! One, two, three, four!
"Halt! Rest!"
"Attention! Overhead to front and back. Commence! One, two,
three, four!"
Coach Luce's voice rang out in a solid, carrying tone of military
command.
The baseball squad was hard at work in the gymnasium, perspiring
even though the gym. was not heated above fifty degrees.
Dumb-bell drill was going off with great snap. It was followed
by work with the Indian clubs. Then, after a brief rest, the
entire squad took to the track in the gallery. For ten minutes
the High School young men jogged around the track. Any fellow
in the lot would have been ashamed to drop out, short of breath.
As a matter of fact, no one was out of breath. Mr. Luce was what
the boys called a "griller," and he certainly knew all about whipping
a lot of youngsters into fine physical shape.
This training work was now along in the third week of the new
winter term.
Three times weekly the squad had been assembled. On other days
of the week, the young men were pledged to outside running, when
the roads permitted, and to certain indoor work at other times.
Every member of the big squad now began to feel "hard as nails."
Slight defects in breathing had been corrected; lung-power had
been developed, and backs that ached at first, from the work,
had now grown too well seasoned to ache. Every member of the
squad was conscious of a new, growing muscular power. Hard, bumpy
muscles were not being cultivated. The long, smooth, lithe and
active "Indian" muscle, built more for endurance than for great
strength, was the ideal of Coach Luce.
After the jogging came a halt for rest. Luce now addressed them.
"Young gentlemen, I know, well enough, that, while all this work
is good for you, you're all of you anxious to see the production
of the regular League ball on this floor. Now, the baseball cage
will not be put up for a few days yet. However, this afternoon,
for the rest of our tour, I'm going to produce the ball!"
A joyous "hurrah!" went up from the squad. The ball was the real
thing in their eyes.
Coach Luce turned away to one of the spacious cupboard lockers,
returning with a ball, still in the sealed package, and a bat
with well wrapped handle.
"I'll handle the bat," announced Mr. Luce, smiling. "It's just
barely possible that I, can drive a good liner straighter than
some of you, and put it nearer where I want it. Until the cage
is in place, I don't like to risk smashing any of the gymnasium
windows. Now, which one of you pitchers is ambitious to do something?"
Naturally, all of them were. Yet none liked to appear too forward
or greedy, so silence followed.
"I'll try you modest young men out on my own lines, then," laughed
the coach. Calling to one of the juniors to stand behind him
as catcher, Luce continued:
"Darrin, as you're a candidate for pitcher, show us some of the
things you can do to fool a batsman."
Dave took his post, his face a bit red. He handled the ball for
a few moments, rather nervously.
"Don't get rattled, lad," counseled the coach. "Remember, this
is just fun. Bear in mind that you're aiming to send the ball
in to the catcher. Don't let the ball drive through a window
by mistake."
A laugh went up at this. Dave, instead of losing his nerve, flashed
back at the squad, then steadied himself.
"Now, then, let her drive---not too hard," ordered Mr. Luce.
Dave let go with what he thought was an outcurve. It didn't fool
the coach. He deliberately struck the ball, sending it rolling
along the floor as a grounder.
"A little more twist to the wrist, Darrin," counseled the coach,
after a scout from the squad had picked up the ball and sent it
to this budding pitcher.
Dave's next delivery was struck down as easily. Then Darrin began
to grow a bit angry and much more determined.
"Don't feel put out, Darrin," counseled the coach. "I had the
batting record of my college when I was there, and I'm in better
trim and nerve than you are yet. Don't be discouraged."
Soon Dave was making a rather decent showing.
"I'll show you later, Darrin, a little more about the way to turn
the hand in the wrist twist," remarked the coach, as he let Dave
go. "You'll soon have the hang of the thing. Now, Prescott,
you step into the imaginary box, if you please."
Dick took to an inshoot. His first serve was as easily clouted
as Dave's had been. After that, by putting on a little more steam,
and throwing in a good deal more calculation, Dick got three successive
balls by Mr. Luce. At two of these, coach had struck.
"You're going to do first-rate, Prescott, by the time we get outdoors,
I think;" Mr. Luce announced. "I shall pay particular attention
to your wrist work."
"I'm afraid I showed up like a lout," whispered Dave, as Dick
rejoined his chums.
"No, you didn't," Dick retorted. "You showed what all of us
show---that you need training to get into good shape. That's
what the coach is working with us for."
"I'm betting on you and Dick for the team," put in Tom Reade,
quickly.
"Dick will make it, and I think you will, too, Dave," added Harry
Hazelton.
"I wish I were as sure for myself," muttered Greg Holmes, plaintively.
"Oh, well, if I can't make the team," grinned Dan Dalzell, "I'm
going to stop this work and go in training as a mascot."
"Look at the fellow who always carries Luck in his pocket!" gibed
Hazelton, good-humoredly.
Coach Luce was now calling off several names rapidly. These young
men were directed to scatter on the gym. floor. To one of them
Mr. Luce tossed the ball.
"Now, then," shot out Luce's voice, "this is for quick understanding
and judgment. Whoever receives the ball will throw it without
delay to anyone I name. So post yourselves on where each other
man stands. I want fast work, and I want straight, accurate work.
But no amount of speed will avail, unless the accuracy is there.
_And vice versa_!"
For five minutes this was kept up, with a steam engine idea of
rapidity of motion. Many were the fumbles. A good deal of laughter
came from the sides of the gym.
"Myself!" shouted Luce, just as one of the players received the
ball. The young man with the ball looked puzzled for an instant.
Then, when too late to count, the young man understood and drove
the ball for the coach.
"Not quick enough on judgment," admonished Mr. Luce. "Now, we'll
take another look at the style of an ambitious pitcher or two.
Ripley, suppose you try?"
Fred started and colored. Next, he looked pleased with himself
as he strode jauntily forward.
"May I ask for my own catcher, sir?" Fred asked.
"Yes; certainly," nodded the coach.
"Rip must have something big up his sleeve, if any old dub of
a catcher won't do," jeered some one at the back of the crowd.
"Attention! Rip, the ladylike twirler!" sang out another teasing
student.
"Let her rip, Rip!"
A good many were laughing. Fred was not popular. Many tolerated
him, and some of the boys treated him with a fair amount of
comradeship. Yet the lawyer's son was no prime favorite.
"Order!" rapped out the coach, sharply. "This is training work.
You'll find the minstrel show, if that's what you want, at the
opera house next Thursday night."
"How well the coach keeps track of minstrel shows!" called another
gibing voice.
"That was you, Parkinson!" called Mr. Luce, with mock severity.
"Run over and harden your funny-bone on the punching bag. Run
along with you, now!"
Everybody laughed, except Parkinson, who grinned sheepishly.
"Training orders, Parkinson!" insisted the coach. "Trot right
over and let the funny-bone of each arm drive at the bag for
twenty-five times. Hurry up. We'll watch you."
So Mr. Parkinson, of the junior class, seeing that the order was
a positive one, had the good sense to obey. He "hardened" the
funny-bone of either arm against the punching bag to the tune
of jeering laughter from the rest of the squad. That was Coach
Luce's way of dealing with the too-funny amateur humorist.
Fred, meantime, had selected his own catcher, and had whispered
some words of instruction to him.
"Now, come on, Ripley," ordered Mr. Luce, swinging his bat over
an imaginary plate. "Let her come in about as you want to."
"He's going to try a spit ball," muttered several, as they saw
Fred moisten his fingers.
"That's a hard one for a greenhorn to put over," added another.
Fred took his place with a rather confident air; he had been drilling
at Duxbridge for some weeks now.
Then, with a turn of his body, Ripley let the ball go off of his
finger tips. Straight and rather slowly it went toward the plate.
It looked like the easiest ball that had been sent in so far.
Coach Luce, with a calculating eye, watched it come, moving his
bat ever so little. Then he struck. But the spit ball, having
traveled to the hitting point, dropped nearly twenty inches.
The bat fanned air, and the catcher, crouching just behind the
coach, gathered in the ball.
Luce was anything but mortified. A gleam of exultation lit up
his eyes as he swung the bat exultantly over his head. In a swift
outburst of old college enthusiasm he forgot most of his dignity
as a submaster.
"_Wow_!" yelled the coach. "That was a _bird_! A lulu-cooler
and a scalp-taker! Ripley, I reckon you're the new cop that runs
the beat!"
It took the High School onlookers a few seconds to gather the
full importance of what they had seen. Then a wild cheer broke
loose:
"Ripley? Oh, Ripley'll pitch for the nine!" surged up on all
sides.