A FARCICAL GAME.
The game with the team from Boston was to be played in New Haven on
Wednesday, leaving Jim Phillips two full days to rest and get ready for
the test against Harvard on Saturday. That game would be played in
Cambridge, however, and would involve a railroad journey of nearly four
hours for the Yale team. A special car would be provided, and the team,
starting early Friday evening from New Haven, would arrive in Boston in
time to sleep comfortably in a great hotel, driving to the field on
Saturday morning in a flock of taxis.
On the day of the game with the Boston Athletic Association nine, Bill
Brady and Jim Phillips drove out together to the country club.
“Wasn’t that Carpenter I saw come downstairs with you?” Brady asked
curiously.
“Yes,” said Jim, laughing. “He and Shesgren called on me last night.
They’ve been pretty sore at us, Bill, for getting better marks than
they’ve had, but they seem to have made up their minds to take it the
right way at last. They were very cordial last night, and Carpenter said
he had come in to see if I had been able to get up any good outside
reading on that course in European history. I gave him the names of a
few books he seemed never to have heard of, and he told me some things
I’d only guessed at before. So it was an even trade. When we got
through, we both knew more about it than we had before.
“I told him that was the way to go to work—that I didn’t care anything
about marks, but wanted to learn the subject. He seemed to be surprised
at that—guess he’d never thought of it that way before, but he said I
seemed to keep on getting good marks, anyhow, and we all laughed. Then
he came around this morning to talk about some things he’d forgotten
last night, and stayed quite a while. He seemed mighty nervous about
something.”
“I don’t like either of them,” said Brady shortly. “I wouldn’t have much
to do with them, Jim, if I were you. You tried to do the square,
friendly thing by them before, and they acted as if they were afraid you
were going to bite. Let them alone now. Be decent to them if they come
around, but don’t go out of your way with them. By the way, did you hear
from that tailor in New York? I told him to send you some samples.”
“Yes, I guess so,” said Jim, pulling a number of letters from his
pocket. “I got quite a bunch of mail this morning. Registered letter
from dad—my allowance, I suppose. He always sends the check in a
registered letter, though it’s safe enough without it. He’s a crank
about it. Another registered letter, too. Don’t know who else can be
sending me money. And a lot of other stuff. I’ll open them now, and see
what they’re all about.”
He was busy for several minutes.
“That’s certainly funny,” he said. “I must have been seeing double. I
was sure there were two registered letters that I signed for. But I must
have been mistaken. There’s only one here.”
“Left it behind, perhaps,” said Brady. “Maybe you dropped it on the
floor back in your room. It’s safe enough if you did. I guess we won’t
have any more robberies around these parts.”
Brady referred to the theft of some class funds from Jim’s room not long
before. The money had been stolen at the instigation of a criminal enemy
of Jim’s in such a way as to throw suspicion upon the sophomore pitcher,
but Dick Merriwell’s cleverness had foiled the plot and uncovered the
real culprit.
“I suppose I did,” said Phillips. “However, I might have been mistaken
about the whole thing. I was in a great hurry. The postman was late and
I was trying to get my bag packed to take out here—and I talked to
Carpenter—all at the same time. I might have just dreamed the other
registered letter.”
“Well, we’ll forget it now and think about baseball,” said Brady. “Here
we are. I guess we’ll have to get dressed right away.”
The scene of the game was very different from that of most games in
which Yale players took part. There were no great stands. Around the
diamond a few circus seats had been put up for the ladies, who had
turned out in great numbers to watch the play, but the men contented
themselves with places on the ground.
The crowd itself, gathered by invitation of the members of the club,
made a pretty spectacle; the men being dressed mostly in white flannels
and other appropriate summer clothing, and the whole scene was one of
great color and animation.
There was no organized cheering when the teams appeared for practice, as
at the college games, nor did the teams observe all the usual
formalities. Most of the players on both sides were old friends, who
remembered other contests when they had been in college, and a good many
since those happy days.
The two teams practiced together, sharing the diamond, and laughing at
the misplays that each side made frequently, as a number of the men had
had little chance, owing to their business duties, to do any practicing.
Brady smiled as he waited to warm up with Phillips; for, on the other
side, serving as catcher for the famous Hobson, was Bowen, the Harvard
captain.
“He didn’t need to come down here at all,” said Bill to Jim, “but he
wants a chance to see you in action. We’ll make him work pretty hard to
get any valuable information, though. There’s more ways of killing a dog
than hanging him, they say, and I guess we can show him that there are
several ways of pitching, too. For instance, the sort of balls you’ll
pitch to-day and the sort you’ll pitch on Saturday in the same
circumstances. I’m glad we’re here, Jim. I think we’ll have some fun
before this game is over.”
It was a true prophecy. There was no fault to be found with the work of
either battery. Both pitchers were at their best, but they could hardly
be expected to strike out every man who faced them, and the fielding of
both the amateur nines was wretched. Hobson and Jim, both inclined to be
disgusted at first as they saw easy taps rolling between the legs of the
fielders, and allowing the batters to turn sure outs into safe hits,
soon saw the humor of it, and laughed as heartily as any one. The
Bostonians, depending upon the skill of Hobson, had brought down a weak
fielding team, and, while the New Haven team was at full strength, it
was no better than its Boston rival, even so. In the sixth inning, the
score was tied, each team having made six runs, and of these only one
run on either side had been earned.
Rather than allow Bowen to see what Jim could do in a real pinch, Brady
had called for a straight ball when Bowen was at the bat with a man on
third, and the Harvard captain had promptly slammed out a three-bagger,
while Bill himself had selected one of Hobson’s choicest curves and
unmercifully hammered it to the furthest boundaries of the field for a
clean home run.
Then both pitchers put on their mettle by the miserable playing of the
teams behind them, had settled down, and the ninth inning came, with New
Haven batting last, without another run for either side. Jim, smiling
lightly, had decided to cut loose for the first time in the game, and he
had struck out the three Bostonians who had faced him in the ninth on
nine pitched balls. Bowen, watching his every move, whistled softly as
the feat was accomplished.
“By George!” he said to Hobson, “that fellow Phillips has been under
wraps. I wondered what old Brady was about—but I guess Bill has learned
a thing or two since I knew him at Andover. He’s been keeping this
fellow Phillips on a lead all through the game so we wouldn’t find out
anything about him.”
“Did you only just find that out?” asked Hobson, with a laugh. “I knew
he was a good pitcher as soon as he pitched his first ball. He’s got the
style. He’s got control, too. Unless I’m mightily mistaken, he’s been
pitching in a freak style all through the game just to keep you
guessing. It takes a pretty good pitcher to do that.”
“Well, you’re just as good as he is,” said Bowen. “Finish them off now,
and we’ll try to win in the tenth.”
But there wasn’t to be any tenth inning in that game. Hobson wasn’t
quite able to duplicate Jim’s feat. He struck out the two men who batted
first, but Hasbrook, swinging wildly, drove the first ball pitched to
him to right field, and the Boston outfielder, juggling the ball,
dropped it, and then threw so wild that Hasbrook scored the winning run
for New Haven.
“That was a pretty weird game,” said Jim, shaking hands with Hobson. “I
think you’d beat me in a straight game, with good teams behind us,
Hobson.”
“Not in a thousand years,” said Hobson. “I’ve been doing my best, and
you were under wraps. However, I hope I’ll have another chance with you.
It’s been good fun, anyhow, even if we did lose.”
“Good work, Phillips!” said Bowen heartily. “I bet you won’t give me
another straight ball on Saturday with men on the bases.”
The two rivals laughed, and Brady, coming up, joined in the laugh.
“You’ll win that bet, Bowen,” he said. “How are you, anyhow? I haven’t
seen you since the old Andover days.”
“Well, we’ll make up for lost time now,” said Bowen. “I’ll see both of
you at Cambridge on Saturday, I suppose, and then there again the week
after. I can’t wish you fellows good luck—but may the best team win.”
“That’s what we all want,” echoed the Yale men.
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