A DEFEAT FOR YALE.
The brief sensation that had been caused the night before by the dean’s
announcement as to the history examination and the suspension of Taylor
and Gray, was not allowed to last long in the morning. It was announced
that Professor Canfield himself was thoroughly satisfied that everything
was all right, and the dean immediately revoked the suspensions.
New Haven presented a lovely sight. The June day was perfect as to
weather, warm and bright, with just enough wind to make it cool and
comfortable. From all over the country the friends and families of the
seniors, who occupied the principal place in the day’s program, had
gathered to see the impressive ceremonies of the graduation.
The seniors themselves, looking highly dignified and important in their
new caps and gowns, were to be seen on all sides, showing pretty girls
the sights of the college and the town; pointing out to proud parents
and sisters the various landmarks of which they had all heard so much
and so often; and, generally, making the most of their great day.
Sometimes in a group there would be some man with white hair and beard
who had little need of his son’s guidance, and he would go to some old
classroom, and point out to his boy the desk where he had carved his own
name years before.
For the great baseball game with Harvard, also, a mighty crowd had come
to town. The trains from Boston had poured out hundreds of enthusiastic
youngsters from Cambridge, their confidence not shaken a bit by the fact
that Yale had already won one victory, sure that this was Harvard’s day.
And all over town, too, were old Yale men, back to celebrate the
anniversaries of their own departure from New Haven years before. Every
year scores of classes celebrate their reunions. Men, three, five, ten,
fifteen, twenty, twenty-five years from Yale, had hired houses and
floors of hotels, and there all sorts of meetings took place. Men who
had not seen each other for years, during which business cares had kept
them apart, rushed into each others arms and reminded one another of the
old days when they had been boys in Yale, where their own boys were now
students. And, after the formal commencement exercises, when the
diplomas had been given out with due solemnity, it was time to get ready
for the game.
The classes back in New Haven for their reunions vied with one another
in improvising strange costumes for the occasion. One class was arrayed
in the garb of clowns, with painted white faces, baggy white trousers,
and all the paraphernalia of the circus. Another was dressed in
roughrider costume—that was the class of ’98, so many of whose members
had not stayed to graduate, but had rushed to enlist at the first sign
of the coming war with Spain.
Then there were monks, and ballet dancers, and cooks, and men dressed
like little boys, in knee breeches and blouses, and all sorts of
fantastic costumes. All the classes assembled by the campus, near Dwight
Hall, and then, swinging into procession behind a band that blared out
Yale tunes all the way, marched gayly out to the field, singing and
shouting all the way, swinging back and forth across the street in the
famous old Yale march, so that girls who had never been there before
squealed with delight, and even the proud and pompous fathers of the
graduates had to laugh, to see men as old as themselves behaving like
boys again just because they were back at Yale, and wanted to show that
they still had the old Yale spirit.
It was a great sight, and even Dick Merriwell, who had seen it many
times, and would that day, except for his more important duties as
universal coach, have been dancing along with his own class, dressed
like a Russian peasant, laughed as if he was seeing it for the first
time.
Every one got to the field early, and the graduates took possession of
the diamond, with the band in the middle, and danced around, so that
every one could see them. And they didn’t seem to care how ridiculous
they looked. They were having a good time, and they were back at Yale,
to see a Yale team beat one from Harvard, so that was all they cared
about. Up in the stands, the pretty girls cheered them madly, and the
men from Harvard, who were perfectly willing for Yale to have all the
fun beforehand, so long as their team won and gave them a chance to have
a procession of their own afterward, cheered them, too.
“Don’t you wish you were going to pitch, Jim?” asked Harry Maxwell, of
Jim Phillips, as they sat on the bench, waiting for it to be time for
the game to begin.
“Not a bit,” said Jim heartily. “This is old Gray’s big day—it’s his
last chance, you know, and I want him to have all the glory there is
coming to him. Where is he, I wonder?”
Others were asking that question, too, in sudden wonder. Taylor, the big
senior catcher, was there, but he had not seen Gray since the diplomas
had been handed out. Dick Merriwell, too, was absent, and Tom Sherman,
already nervous as he thought of his responsibilities as captain of the
Yale team that all these graduates had turned out to cheer so heartily,
grew more and more worried as time for the game approached.
Jim himself was anxious. He was not by any means ready to pitch. He had,
under strict orders from Dick Merriwell, been resting his arm in
anticipation of the possible need of playing in New York on Saturday,
and he was stiff and unprepared for action. Entirely aside, therefore,
from his desire to see Gray pitch and establish his reputation, Jim was
unwilling to face the idea of filling in, for he was afraid that he
would be an easy victim for the Harvard batters, and would be quite
unable to rally in time for the game on Saturday, should he lose.
But five minutes before it was time for the game to begin, Dick
Merriwell, hot and flushed, suddenly appeared. He called Sherman, Jim
Phillips, and Bill Brady, and Winston, the substitute pitcher, to talk
to him.
“Gray has been forbidden to play by the faculty,” he said abruptly. “It
seems that he turned in a blank examination paper in the history course
yesterday morning. Canfield is furious, and won’t listen to Gray’s
statement that he did nothing of the sort. The dean is inclined to think
that there is something that Gray doesn’t know about, but he says that,
if it is true, he will be required to return his diploma. And, anyway,
he can’t play to-day. I haven’t time to explain more now. Winston must
pitch, and do his best. You’re in no condition, Jim, and we’ll have to
take a chance to-day. Run the team, Sherman. I’ll be back as soon as I
can.”
Winston, confused and nervous at the sudden demand upon him, was still
more flurried by the groan of surprised disappointment that went up from
the crowded stands when he went into the box instead of Gray or Jim
Phillips. Every one had supposed that one of the veteran twirlers would
be sent in to pitch this highly important game, and Winston’s
improvement under Dick Merriwell’s coaching had not become generally
known.
After a little consultation, it had been decided that it would be better
for Brady to do the catching. The big sophomore was famous for his
ability to steady pitchers who were likely to go up in the air, and he
did his best to encourage Winston, who was certainly in need of all that
could be done in that way.
The Harvard captain, Bowen, made a quick shift as soon as he found that
Winston was to pitch for Yale. It had been felt at Cambridge that a
victory in this game was absolutely essential, and, therefore, after
some hesitation, they had decided to send Briggs in to pitch, although
he had had only a short rest after the terrific game in Cambridge, which
Harvard had lost by the closest of scores. But now Wooley was chosen,
for it was felt that he was more than a match for Winston, and Briggs
could thus be saved for the deciding game.
The effect of the sudden change in Yale’s battery was twofold. It
restored the waning confidence of the Harvard men, who were now certain
that they could win, and thus prolong the struggle for the championship;
and it depressed the Yale players, who had no such confidence in the
skill of Winston as both Gray and Jim Phillips had been able to inspire.
Winston made a bad start, too, to help along the work of destroying what
little confidence he had in himself. The first man up for Harvard made a
lucky single, and when the next batter stood up at the plate, Bill Brady
signaled for a swift outcurve, meaning to get a chance for a quick throw
to second in case of an attempted steal. He was ready to catch such a
curve, but Winston misunderstood him, and pitched to the other side of
the plate. The ball got away from Bill, and the Harvard runner, who had
started to steal second, easily reached third. Before the inning was
over, in spite of Bill’s best efforts to steady him, Winston gave two
bases on balls and hit a batsman, and, altogether, three Harvard men
scored.
All through the stands, Harvard men were rejoicing; and the Yale
rooters, just before so enthusiastic and happy, were cast down in
anticipation of a crushing defeat. With such a start, there wasn’t any
limit to the score Harvard might well pile up.
“This is Harvard’s day,” sang thousands of loyal Harvard men all around,
and it certainly looked as if they were right. But Winston had good
stuff in him. He got rid of his stage fright in the first inning, and,
after that, obeying the signals from Brady implicitly, he proved himself
simply unhittable. He had speed, control, and good judgment, and, try as
they would, the Harvard men were unable to get on the bases as the game
went on. Moreover, in the third inning, coming up with two out after
Bill Brady had smashed out a two-bagger, Winston did much to redeem his
poor pitching at the start by driving out a beautiful single that sent
Brady home with Yale’s first run.
There was a tremendous cheer for him when he made that hit, and,
although he had to come in without scoring himself when Sherman drove a
long fly to the left fielder, poor Winston felt much better. There was
still a good chance to win, he told himself, if he could keep Harvard
from further scoring. Surely the team behind him ought to be able to
make up those two runs that formed the Harvard lead. Anyhow, he settled
down, and pitched his very best.
Meanwhile, Jim, after a moment’s talk with Sherman, had gone back under
the stand with Taylor to limber up his arm. He felt that if there was
need for it, he could safely pitch a couple of innings toward the end of
the game, if Winston showed signs of tiring; and that might be enough to
save the game yet, and win the championship for Yale in spite of the
hard luck that had cost her the services of Gray when they were most
needed.
The spirit of the Yale crowd soon turned. It saw that Winston, in spite
of the handicap, was making good, and pitching well, despite his bad
beginning, and it turned in and gave him support and applause just as
hearty as would have fallen to Gray or Phillips. The team, too, took new
courage, and went after the Harvard pitcher. In the sixth inning,
Sherman led off with a hit, and, aided by his own fine base running and
a hit by Carter, scored a run that left Yale only one tally behind. But
to get that one extra run that would tie the score was the problem, and
Wooley, with Briggs always in reserve, seemed able to prevent it.
Harvard was batting first, and in the ninth inning began a determined
effort to increase its narrow lead. Bowen was afraid of the margin, and
called on his men to try hard for at least another run.
Winston was tired. He had to pitch hard to hold the crimson team down,
and Bowen was quick to notice the signs of his distress. In two minutes
the game changed again from one of extraordinary closeness to the
semblance of a Yale rout. Two hits and a base on balls filled the bases,
and not a man was out. Then, suddenly, as Winston, tired out, but game
to the end, prepared to pitch to Bowen himself, who was determined to
clinch his team’s victory, there was a wild roar from the Yale crowd.
Dick Merriwell had suddenly appeared at the bench and waved the battery
to him. Thunders of applause drifted up to the skies from the packed
stands, for Gray and Taylor, eager and ready to do their best, had
appeared, and took their places in the field.
No one asked for an explanation of Gray’s absence or of his sudden
reappearance. It was enough that he was there. Foote and Parker,
seemingly as enthusiastic as any of their fellow students, were the ones
most amazed by the sight of Gray, but they could say nothing without
betraying themselves. And Gray, while Foote, trembling, wondered how his
plan could have miscarried, proceeded to accomplish a baseball feat that
put him almost on a level with Jim Phillips himself. For, without
seeming effort, he struck out the next three Harvard batters, and, amid
a roar of cheering such as Yale Field had never heard before, left the
three runners stranded high and dry on the bases.
But Harvard was still a run ahead, and, try as they would, the Yale
players could not tie the score. Gray’s brilliant feat was all in vain,
and Harvard’s victory left the series tied, with another game needed to
decide the championship.
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