TWO DESPERATE CHANCES.
Bill Brady, when he emerged from the drug store and saw no sign of the
taxicab in which he had left his pitcher, thought at first that Jim had
played a joke on him by ordering the driver to take him back at once to
the hotel. He had looked around for a few minutes, and had then, with a
promise to himself to exact due vengeance, taken another cab, and gone
back himself. But when he arrived, he found that Jim had not returned.
He waited a little while, and then, beginning to be vaguely alarmed,
sought Dick Merriwell, and told him what had happened.
As hour after hour passed without a sign of Jim, the coach and the
catcher became deeply worried. All their efforts to trace the missing
pitcher were in vain. They consulted the police, but there had been no
report of any accident that might account for his disappearance, and a
search of all the hospitals failed to reveal the presence as a patient
of any one at all like Jim.
Brady, naturally enough, had paid no particular attention of the number
of the cab, and there was thus no way of tracing it.
After an almost sleepless night, Dick Merriwell and Brady resumed their
search in the morning. They had said nothing to the other players of
Jim’s strange absence, for Merriwell saw no need of worrying them, and
thus reducing their efficiency for the game when they could not possibly
do anything to bring Jim back. But, after breakfast, when Jim was still
missing, Dick had to take some of them, at least, into his confidence.
If Jim did not return, Bob Gray would have to do the pitching, and Dick,
without going into details, told the senior to be prepared, in an
emergency, to go into the box.
When it was time to start for Cambridge, Jim was still missing, and by
that time the whole team, surprised and disturbed, knew that for some
reason he was not along. Dick Merriwell was pestered on all sides with
questions.
“I think that Phillips will report at the field in time for the game,”
he said, in reply to all the questions that were showered upon him. “In
any case, we’re going to play the game, and I want you fellows to go in
there determined to win, with him or without him.”
A great crowd had turned out for the game. The city of Boston is loyal
to Harvard teams always. But there were a great many old Yale men in
business there, who were ready to turn out to cheer for the blue.
Moreover, every Yale student who could scrape together the railroad
fare, had come on to Boston to see the game. The result was that the
biggest crowd the Yale team had seen all season was in the stand when it
was time for the two teams to begin their final practice. Jim Phillips
was still missing, and Gray and Taylor warmed up as the Yale battery,
while Bill Brady, in his uniform, sat dejectedly on the bench beside
Dick Merriwell, who blamed himself bitterly for not having taken
precautions to prevent such a thing.
“Jim is the victim of some trick,” said Dick. “I’m sure of that. He
would never leave us in the lurch this way, without some word of what
was keeping him away, of his own free will.”
Suddenly a murmur of excitement ran through the crowd. Far away, over
the Charles, winging in from the distant ocean, something in the sky was
causing heads to turn and necks to crane toward it.
“By George!” cried Bowen, the Harvard captain, running over to the Yale
bench, “that’s a pretty sight! One of the aviators from Squantum, I
suppose, coming over to see the game. See him come down!”
The two Yale men, hardly interested in such a sight now, though at any
other time they would have been as enthusiastic as Bowen himself, looked
up apathetically, and saw a biplane volplaning gracefully to earth from
a great height. It held a single figure, in dark clothes, and it was
evidently the aviator’s intention to land in the part of the enormous
Harvard field set aside for the use of motorists. There was plenty of
room there, and it was impossible for the crowd to hamper his descent.
Bowen led the way, and Brady and Dick Merriwell followed him, more for
something to do than because they were really deeply interested. But in
a moment their apathy was turned to joyous excitement.
They could see the aviator plainly now. He wore neither goggles nor cap,
and, as he came nearer, they saw, to their intense amazement, that it
was Jim Phillips himself, who was speeding toward them through the air.
He brought the machine gracefully to a stop, and, leaping out, was at
once beset by questions.
“I was kidnaped,” he cried, seeking to explain in a word. “They thought
I couldn’t get away—never dreamed that I knew how to run one of these
machines. So they didn’t watch except in the distance. It was easy to
jump this machine and get over here. Am I in time for the game?”
There was no time for further explanations. Ten minutes later, with just
five minutes to spare for Jim to warm up with Brady, Yale’s sophomore
star was in his uniform and on the field, and the Yale team, overjoyed
by his opportune appearance, was doubly determined to reward his pluck
and skill with such support that the victory was sure to be his.
Yale was first to the bat, as the visiting team, and when Briggs, the
famous Harvard pitcher, who was relied upon by all the crimson rooters
to check the victorious career of Jim Phillips, wound up to deliver the
first ball to Tom Sherman, veteran of three series against Harvard, a
mighty cheer from the crowd on the Harvard side of the field rent the
air. The first ball was a perfect strike, cutting clean across the plate
with a sharp, jumping break, that made Dick Merriwell clap his hands
softly.
“He’s a real pitcher,” he said, leaning back in his seat on the bench.
There was no mistake about that. Sherman, Jackson, and Harry Maxwell,
who led the Yale batting order, were retired easily in the first inning,
and not one of them reached first base. But it was not time yet for the
Yale attack to cut loose. Briggs was a pitcher to be studied, and every
man on the Yale team, keyed up to a high pitch of enthusiasm and
excitement, was studying every motion of the Harvard twirler, to get
used to him, and be ready, when the time came, to deliver a crushing
blow.
Jim Phillips, if Bowen expected to find that he was pitching as he had
done in the amateur game at Cambridge, must have disappointed the
Harvard leader mightily. No one could have told that he was the same
pitcher. Every ball was the result of careful planning and coöperation
between Jim and Bill Brady, and each was pitched with a deliberate
purpose. Jim wasted no strength in trying to pitch strikes, but the
effect was the same. The Harvard men, knowing themselves to be opposed
by a really great pitcher, were canny and cautious, but he was too much
for them, and inning after inning saw the crowd working up to new
heights of excitement, as the duel between the two pitchers went on,
with neither able to gain any advantage for his side.
In the fifth inning, there came the first shift in the simple attack
that Harvard had been using. Dick Merriwell had given no specific orders
as yet for an attempt to make a run by strategy. He had a plan, but he
was holding it in reserve. The Harvard batters, too, had fallen easy
victims for Jim. The first two men in each inning had tried to hit the
ball out, picking out the first offering that seemed to them hittable;
the third, when two were out, had tried to outguess Jim and get a base
on balls by waiting.
But, in the fifth inning, there was a change. Bowen batted third for
Harvard, and in the fifth inning he was the first man up. Instead of
letting the first ball, a cross-fire shot that swung sharply across the
plate, go by as a strike, Bowen just chopped it with his bat. The ball
trickled along toward Carter, at third, but, as it seemed sure to roll
foul, Carter let it alone. But Bowen had been practicing for weeks to
make that play, and the ball, instead of rolling over the base line,
spun round and round, and stopped finally, halfway between the plate and
third base, leaving Bowen safe.
Bowen was a fast runner, and a tricky player as well. As Jim faced the
next batter, the Harvard captain darted away from first base. Jim
hesitated a moment, then threw to Sherman. As he did so, Bowen broke for
second base, and by the time Sherman had swung the ball down to Jackson,
Bowen was safe on a pretty delayed steal. Jim was angry at himself, for
he had been caught by a trick that he should have guarded against, but
many a big-league pitcher has been in the same hole, and Jim really had
little to blame himself for.
He had to watch Bowen closely now, and the Harvard captain, quick and
alert as a cat, as he danced about second base, made him waste two balls
on Reid, the crimson shortstop, who was at the bat. This put Jim in the
hole, and when he had to pitch a straight ball to Reid, it was cracked
to Jackson, who, while he threw Reid out at first, was unable to keep
Bowen from getting to third. It was pretty, inside baseball that Harvard
was working, and Jim knew it. But he was not the sort to get rattled or
confused, and, with Bowen at third, he was less worried.
Still, he had to be careful. From third, Bowen could score on a long
fly, or even on an infield out, if he got a good start. Hazlitt, batting
for Harvard, was more or less of an unknown quantity; but Jim thought he
could hit a straight ball. He thought, also, however, that he would hit
such a ball straight before him, on a line, and he took the chance. He
pitched the ball, and then ran backward. Just as he had expected, the
ball came straight for him, and, because he had run back almost to
second base, he was able to make a flying leap and catch the ball. Bowen
had figured on a safe hit, and a quick throw to Steve Carter disposed of
the Harvard leader on a snappy double play, that sent the Yale crowd
into a wild burst of cheering.
But Harvard had proved its mettle. The attack, designed to bring home a
single run, had been well planned and well carried out, and it was not
in accord with preconceived notions of how Harvard would play. Dick
Merriwell had been right when he had said that there was danger that the
crimson would try to spring something new.
At the beginning of the seventh inning, Dick decided that the time had
come for action. Carter was the first batter, and he went to the plate,
for the first time, with definite orders.
“Hit everything he pitches,” Dick told Carter. “If you can’t make it
safe, foul them off. Better to do that than to try for a hit on his
first balls. Never mind getting in the hole. I want to worry him.”
And, as a result, Briggs was pained and surprised to see his best curves
being wasted. Ten of them in succession were knocked back of him by the
determined Carter, and, in despair, Briggs began trying to tempt the
Yale man with wide curves that would surely land in a fielder’s glove if
Carter tried to hit them. From the bench Dick saw the change in Briggs’
plan, and changed his own. He signaled Carter to let such balls go by,
and they swept into Bowen’s big mitt, to be called “Ball” by the umpire.
Briggs was furious, and in a moment Carter had his base on balls. All
season, in such a situation, Yale players had at once tried to steal
second. Carter dashed from the bag now but stopped short, ten feet from
the base, and sped back, while the crowd laughed at Bowen’s futile throw
to second. Briggs had thus wasted a ball on Caxton, the Yale center
fielder, who followed Carter at the bat, and a big advantage had been
gained.
Again Carter started from first with the swing of Briggs’ arm, and this
time Bowen snapped the ball to first. But Carter had not stopped, and a
mighty roar of laughter from the Yale crowd showed that the Harvard
captain had been fooled completely, for Carter was safe at second.
Thence, before the startled Harvard men could collect themselves, he
dashed for third, and stole that base also without even a throw to head
him off.
Caxton struck out, but Dick was satisfied. He felt that he could trust
Brady for a long fly, at least, and he was right. The big catcher drove
the ball far out to right field, and Carter, waiting for the catch, then
sprinted home, and was safe at the plate in a cloud of dust, scoring the
first run of the game.
After that, Briggs was invincible again. Dick’s best-laid plans to score
another run in the next two innings were of no avail. The Harvard men
saw through them and defeated them, and the ninth inning for Yale ended
with the score still one to nothing. Harvard had one more chance to win
the game, or to tie the score, at least, and it was up to Jim Phillips
to hold the advantage his side had gained, slender as it was. If Harvard
could not score, that one Yale run was as good as twenty.
Farquar, Harvard’s most dangerous batter, was the first man up. Jim had
handled him well so far, and had struck him out twice, but Farquar was a
scientific and skillful batter and he had studied Jim so that to deceive
him was nearly impossible. He chose his time well, and, shortening his
bat, drove Jim’s third ball straight down the right-field foul line and
past Sherman, for two bases. It was the only clean hit made off Jim in
the whole game, but it was a dangerous one, indeed. Farquar was a fast
runner, and if the men who followed him did anything at all, there was a
good chance for him to score. His fine play won him salvos of applause
from the Harvard crowd, but Jim braced himself, with a smile for Brady,
and settled down to work.
Jim was very willing for Renshaw, who followed Farquar, to hit the ball.
It would mean a chance to throw Farquar out at third. Renshaw tapped the
ball toward short and Morgan ran in to field it. Farquar raced toward
third, and the umpire on the bases, trying to get out of the runner’s
way without interfering with the fielder, did a thing that seemed fatal
to Yale’s chances. By pure accident, he got in the way of the ball, and
it struck his foot, bounding away from Morgan. Under the rules it was a
safe hit, and Farquar was privileged to go to third.
That was hard luck for Jim Phillips. Through no fault of his own, Yale’s
position had become desperate. Renshaw stole second at once, and Brady
dared not throw to cut him off, lest Farquar seize the chance to come
home.
But Jim held his nerve. He struck out the next batter easily, and then,
knowing that Bowen, who followed, was almost sure to hit the ball, even
if not safely, went in to consult Brady.
“We can get them, if you’re game to take a big chance,” said Jim, under
his breath. “Listen!”
Brady heard him out, grinned, and then said: “All right. It’s a big
chance, sure enough, but we’ll try it.”
Jim, before he walked to the box, took off his cap, wiped his forehead,
and then threw his cap to a point a few feet behind Brady.
And, on the next ball, he deliberately pitched wild. The crowd yelled,
for it seemed to make Harvard’s victory certain. But Brady, to the
amazement of every one, had run back as Jim pitched. He dashed to the
place where Jim’s cap lay on the ground, and Jim, rushing to the plate,
took the catcher’s throw. The ball had stopped right by the cap, for it
was a carefully planned wild pitch that Jim had made, and one involving
the most perfect control. Farquar, dashing for the plate, was easily
tagged out, and Renshaw, thinking it easy to reach third, was put out by
Carter. Jim had outguessed the Harvard team by taking a desperate
chance, and Yale had won the first game.
Dick now cautioned the Yale players to keep themselves in the best
condition for the final game or games, for the universal coach felt that
the Harvard men would fight hard to win the second game, thus making
necessary a third game.
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