A STRANGE PROPHECY COMES TRUE
“Oh!” someone exclaimed. “There is Burt Standish! He’s going to pitch
against us!”
Johnny knew that voice. It was Meggy Strawn. Johnny could not quite
remember when he first played with Meggy. Many summers he had visited at
Grandfather Thompson’s old-fashioned house, and Meg was always there. She
lived only three doors away. He remembered her in rompers, short dresses
and knickers. Now she was sixteen. Her bright orange sweater and skirt of
brilliant blue somehow matched her sharply turned-up nose and freckled
cheeks. Meg was real. Johnny thought her the realest girl he had ever
known. “Not soft,” was the way he had expressed it, “Just gloriously
old-fashioned, no painted lips, nor cheeks either, and no
cigarets—nothing like that; just all girl! And pep! Say, there’s not a
girl with half her get-up-and-go, not in the whole big city of Chicago,
or anywhere else!”
Yes, Johnny liked Meg. And now as he smiled at her he said, “Burt
Standish will pitch, and we’ll lose the game.”
“Lose! Johnny—” Meg grabbed his arm. “Why do you say that? I just heard
we were to have a marvelous pitcher, a real star.”
“Yes,” Johnny agreed slowly. “Guess I know as much about that as—well, as
anyone, except Colonel Chamberlain. All the same, we’ll lose. You’ll
see!”
“Crepe hanger!” Meg gave him a shake. “Just you watch our smoke!” Seizing
a megaphone, she sprang out upon the turf to shout:
“Yea! Yea! Yea! Team! Team! Team!” Then, as her lithe young body swayed
in rhythmic motion there came back from a hundred throats:
“Yea! Yea! Yea! Team! Team! Team!”
All the same, as Meg dropped to a place beside him on the grass, Johnny
repeated solemnly, “We lose. Tao Sing knows.”
“What?” Meggy gave him a sharp look. “Who is Tao Sing?”
Johnny did not reply.
A moment later, at a motion from Colonel Chamberlain, who had just come
onto the field, Johnny walked away.
“I’m sorry, Johnny.” The Colonel’s face was sober as Johnny reached his
side. “It’s a tough break for the team, but J. can’t be with us today.”
“Jay?” Johnny stared.
“Suppose you are thinking J-a-y.” The Colonel smiled. “Just leave the
last two letters off. That’s what our star pitcher prefers to be known
by—just the plain letter ‘J.’ And, as I was saying, I couldn’t get him
out—not today. He—he told me he didn’t want to chance it.”
“Chance what?” Johnny was keenly disappointed. “’Fraid his arm wouldn’t
hold out?”
“Not that. Something else. I can’t explain further.” The Colonel’s voice
dropped. “Just tell the boys we’re sorry. Hope he can be with you next
game.”
It was a very sober Johnny who walked toward the spot where the Hillcrest
team was gathered, waiting, expectant, hoping at any moment to see their
new pitcher. This quiet, old-fashioned city had somehow gotten into
Johnny’s blood. It was the home of his ancestors. He loved it for that
and for other reasons. The people who lived here stood for certain
things—that is, most of them did. They were honest, or at least as honest
as they knew how to be. They were kind to the unfortunate. They believed
in both work and rest. Saturday afternoon was their time for recreation.
They loved their ball games. And there were very special reasons why,
this year, these games _must_ be a grand success. Johnny knew this. That
was one reason for his sober face.
“Sorry!” he said quietly, a moment later, to Doug Danby, the captain.
“The Colonel just told me our surprise pitcher won’t be here today.”
“Won’t be here?” Doug’s jaw dropped.
“Oh well!” he sighed a moment later. “Just have to make the best of it.
And—” his lips closed tight. “We’ll win anyway.”
“Oh no, you won’t.” These words were on Johnny’s lips. They remained
unsaid.
“See?” Johnny grinned at Meg as he returned to his place. “Our star
pitcher will not be here! What does that mean? What did I tell you?”
“Yes, you and your mysterious Chinaman!” Meg scoffed. “We’ll win, you’ll
see!”
Johnny did not truly hear this outburst. He was wondering, in a strange
and sudden sort of way, whether there could be any connection between the
mysterious little Chinaman and the failure of their star pitcher to
appear. “Of course not,” he whispered to himself. All the same, he did
not feel quite sure.
If they lost that game it would not be Meggy’s fault. This became evident
from the start. With her bright sweater thrown carelessly upon the
ground, shapely brown arms waving, nimble feet dancing, she led the
cheering as no cheer leader had done before.
And it did seem from the start that old Hillcrest had more than an even
chance. Fred Frame, their regular pitcher, whose arm had a mean way of
going back on him just at the wrong moment, held his place in the box and
pitched remarkably well.
Hillcrest went into the lead in the first inning. They held that lead
doggedly until the fifth. In the sixth they slipped. Three runs came in
for the rival team, and Hillcrest stood one score behind.
“It’s going to be too bad if we lose,” Johnny said soberly as Meg,
seizing his arm to steady herself for a moment, whispered hoarsely,
“Every game counts. The fans want victory. They want the pennant, or—”
She did not finish for at that moment Doug Danby, captain of the
Hillcrest team, got a homer, tying the score.
“Ray! Ray! Ray! Doug! Doug! Doug!” Meggy was away like a flaming rocket.
The first half of the eighth found Hillcrest ahead by two runs.
“Johnny, we’re going to win!” Meggy was jumping up and down.
“No,” said Johnny soberly, “we’re going to lose.”
“Johnny, why do you say that? We’re two runs ahead!”
“Wait and see.” Johnny’s face was solemn.
“Now why _did_ I say that?” he thought to himself a moment later. “Just
because that little Chinaman said it. And how could he know?” He was
quite disgusted with himself. And yet—
“We’ll show them!” Meggy cried. Seizing a megaphone, once again she
sprang to the grass before the grandstand.
Johnny cheered loudest of all and hoped with all his heart that his dire
prophecy might not come true.
“We’ll win!” Meggy screamed. “Of course we will!”
Hillcrest came up to bat. The dark eyes of the opposing pitcher gleamed
as he sent the ball streaking across the plate.
“Strike one!”
“Strike two!”
“Strike three!” The umpire’s voice boomed, and Hillcrest’s star batter
went down. Two others followed in a row.
A hush fell over the grandstand as the home players took their places on
the diamond. It was now or never.
The pitcher seemed nervous. The balls went wild. The short, stocky
catcher waited the next in grim silence.
“Strike—”
“Strike——”
Even Johnny was hopeful. Vain hope! The next two were balls.
“Take your base.”
But now the pitcher got a grip on himself. One man went down swinging.
The next sent a pop-up into the infield.
“Two down. We got ’em!” Meggy screamed. Johnny was silent. Why did he
believe in that little yellow man? He was plagued by the question.
“Yes! Yes! We got ’em! There he goes! Down to second. Francois will get
him!” For a space of seconds he was sure the game was over.
Like the steady swing of a pendulum the catcher’s arm went up. The ball
sped. It came exactly where Roger Kreider’s mit should have been. But
Roger muffed it. The hard-thrown ball rolled far into center field. The
runner went on to third. Four more wild ones and a batter went to first.
The next man up hit one squarely on the nose and boosted it over the
fence for a home run. After that the Centralia rooters went mad.
Had Hillcrest lost? The fans watched in grim silence as their team came
to bat. It took but one score to tie, and two to win. But those scores
never came. They went down swinging bravely, one, two, three. The game
was over. Hillcrest had lost.
“There will be other games,” Johnny consoled the disconsolate Meggy.
“Many more.” And at that instant he resolved that Colonel Chamberlain’s
star pitcher should be in the box for the next game. “Even if I have to
drag him by the heels!” he muttered grimly.
But Meggy, staring at him in a strange way, whispered, “Johnny, how did
you know?”
“I—I didn’t,” Johnny replied hoarsely, “not really.”
Then he ducked. He saw the little Chinaman approaching and did not want
to be seen in his company.
Ten minutes later the diminutive Tao Sing caught up with him.
“You see!” He was all smiles. “I tell you! I have picture of what you
think. I have picture of what Barney Bradford think too. You are good
friend of Wung Lu.” Once again his voice dropped. “Monday I show you
picture of what you think. Four o’clock? Heh? Mebby all right. Heh? You
come to Whong Lee’s place, yes? All right. Monday.”
He was gone. Johnny stared after him. What was it all about? He had to
know. He would be at Whong Lee’s place at four on Monday—he was sure of
that.