HIS FIRST CHANCE
Joe Matson's hope of a quick recognition from the man he had helped that
day, and who had turned out to be Yale's head coach, was doomed to
disappointment, for Mr. Hasbrook--or, to give him the title lovingly
bestowed on him by the players, "Horsehide"--had something else to do
just then besides recognizing casual acquaintances. He wanted to watch
the playing.
After a brief conference between himself and the other two coaches, in
which the 'varsity captain had a part, Horsehide motioned for the
playing to be resumed. He said little at first, and then when Weston,
who was pitching, made a partial motion to throw the ball to first base,
to catch a man there, but did not complete his evident intention, Mr.
Hasbrook called out:
"Hold on there! Wait a minute, Weston. That was as near a balk as I've
ever seen, and if this was a professional game you might lose it for us,
just as one of the world series was, by a pitcher who did the same
thing."
"What do you mean?" asked Weston, slightly surprised.
"I mean that pretending to throw a ball to first, and not completing the
action, is a balk, and your opponents could claim it if they had been
sharp enough. Where were your eyes?" he asked, of the scrub captain.
"I--er--I didn't think----"
"That's what your brains are for," snapped the head coach. "You can't
play ball without brains, any more than you can without bases or a bat.
Watch every move. It's the best general who wins battles--baseball or
war. Now go on, and don't do that again, Weston, and, if he does, you
call a balk on him and advance each man a base," ordered Horsehide.
The 'varsity pitcher and the scrub captain looked crestfallen, but it
was a lesson they needed to learn.
"He's sharp, isn't he?" said Joe.
"That's what makes him the coach he is," spoke Spike. "What's the use of
soft-soap? That never made a ball nine."
"No, I suppose not." Joe was wondering whether he ought to mention to
his chum the chance meeting with Mr. Hasbrook, but he concluded that a
wrong impression might get out and so he kept quiet, as he had done in
the matter of the red paint on the porch. Nothing more had been heard
about that act of vandalism, though the professor who had fallen and
spoiled the valuable manuscripts was reported to be doing some quiet
investigating.
"I believe Weston had a hand in it," thought Joe, "but I'm not going to
say anything. He had red paint on him, anyhow. I wonder what he has
against me, and if he can do anything to keep me from getting a chance?
If I thought so I'd--no, I can't do anything. I've just got to take it
as it comes. If I do get a chance, though, I think I can make good."
The practice game went on, developing weak spots in both nines, and
several shifts were made. But the 'varsity pitcher remained the same,
and Joe watched Weston narrowly, trying to find out his good points.
For Weston had them. He was not a brilliant twirler, but he was a steady
one, in the main, and he had considerable speed, but not much of a
curve. Still he did manage to strike out a number of his opponents.
The game was almost over, and the 'varsity had it safely in hand. They
had not obtained it without hard work, however, and they had made many
glaring errors, but in this they were not alone.
"Though, for that matter," declared Joe, "I think the scrub pitcher did
better, and had better support, than the 'varsity. I don't see why the
scrubs didn't win."
"It's just because they know they're playing against the 'varsity,"
declared Spike. "There's a sort of nervousness that makes 'em forget to
do the things they could do if it was some other nine. Sort of over-awed
I guess."
"Maybe," assented Joe. "Well, here's the end," and the game came to a
close.
"Now for the post-mortem," remarked his room-mate. "The coaches and
captain will get together and talk it over."
"Then we might as well vamoose," said Joe. "They won't need us."
"I guess not. Come on."
The boys strolled from the diamond. As they passed a group of the
'varsity players surrounding the coaches, Joe saw Mr. Hasbrook step
forward. He had a bat and seemed to be illustrating some of the weak
points of the plays just made, or to be about to demonstrate how
properly to swing at a ball. As Joe came opposite him the head coach
stepped out a little and saw our hero.
For a moment he stared unrecognizingly at him, and then a smile came
over his rugged face. His eyes lighted up, and, stepping forward, he
held out his hand.
"Why, how do you do!" he exclaimed. "I know you--I'm sure I've seen you
somewhere before, and under queer circumstances, too, but I can't just
recall--hold on, wait a moment!" he exclaimed, as he saw Joe about to
speak. "I like to make my brain work.
"Ah! I have it! You're the young fellow who drove me to the station, in
time to catch the New York train, the day my carriage wheel broke. Well,
but I'm glad to see you again! That was a great service you did me, and
I haven't forgotten it. Are you attending here?"
"Yes," said Joe, glad that he had not been forgotten.
"Good! Are you playing ball?"
"Well--er--I--that is I haven't----"
"Oh, I see. You're trying for your team. Good! I'm glad to hear it. It's
a great game--the greatest there is. And so you are at Yale--Matson--you
see I haven't forgotten your name. I never expected to meet you here. Do
you know the other coaches?"
"I've met them," murmured Joe, and he half smiled in a grim fashion, for
that was about as far as his acquaintanceship had progressed. He had met
them but they did not know him apart from many others.
"Good!" exclaimed Mr. Hasbrook. "Well, I'll see you again. And so you're
at Yale? Look me up when you get time," and he turned back to his
instruction, murmuring to the other coaches: "He did me quite a service
some time ago. I'm glad to see him again. Seems like a nice lad."
The others murmured an assent, and then gave their whole attention to
the man who had, more than anyone else, perhaps, mastered the science of
baseball as it ought to be played.
"Well, say, you've got a friend at court all right!" exclaimed Spike, as
he and Joe strolled along. "If I had your chance I'd----"
"Chance!" exclaimed Joe. "What better chance have I than I had before?"
"Why, you know Horsehide! Why didn't you say so?"
"I didn't know I did until a little while ago. I had no idea that the
man I picked up and took to the station would turn out to be the Yale
coach. But if you think he's going to put me in ahead of the others just
on that account you're mistaken."
"Oh, I don't say that."
"It wouldn't be square," went on Joe.
"Of course not. But as long as he does know you he might at least
prevail on the other coaches to give you a better chance than you've had
so far."
"Well, maybe," laughed Joe. "But I'm not expecting anything like that."
"Well, just remember me when your chance does come," begged Spike. "And
remember that I told you."
"I will," declared Joe, with a laugh, and then he added more earnestly:
"If ever I do get on the mound, Spike, I'll try to have you catch for
me."
"I wish you would!"
As they went off the field they saw the knot of players still gathered
about the head, and other coaches, receiving instructions, and how Joe
Matson wished he was there none but himself knew.
In their rooms that afternoon and evening the ball players talked of
little save the result of the first real clash between 'varsity and
scrub, and the effect of the return of the head coach. It was agreed
that the 'varsity, after all, had made a very creditable showing, while
the upholders of the class team players gave them much praise.
"But things will begin to hum now!" exclaimed Jimmie Lee, as he sat in
Joe's room, while the beds, sofa and table, to say nothing of the floor,
were encumbered with many lads of the Red Shack, and some visitors from
other places. "Yes, sir! Horsehide won't stand for any nonsense. They'll
all have to toe the line now."
"Jove, weren't the other coaches stiff enough?" asked Clerkinwell De
Vere, who aspired to right field. "They certainly laced into me for
further orders when I muffed a ball."
"And so they should," declared Spike. "That's what they're for."
"Oh, but wait until you do that when Horsehide sees you," went on
Jimmie. "That won't be a marker, will it, Shorty?"
"I should say not. He'll make your hair curl all right. He's a terror."
"Friend of Joe's here," put in Spike.
"No! is he?" demanded Ricky Hanover, who had drifted in. "How's that?"
"Oh, I just met him by accident," declared our hero. "It isn't worth
mentioning." He told the incident after some urging.
"I wish I stood in your shoes," said De Vere. "I'd be sure of my place
then."
"Nothing of the sort!" exclaimed Jimmie Lee. "If Horsehide played
favorites that way, he wouldn't be the coach he is. That's one thing
about him--he makes his friends work harder than anyone else. I know he
did it other seasons--everyone says so."
"Oh, he's square," chimed in another. "There's not a better coach
living, and none you can depend on more. All he wants is to see good,
clean playing, and Yale to win."
Joe could not help thinking of the coincidence of meeting the head coach
but, though he did have slight hopes that it might lead to something, he
resolutely put them out of his mind.
"I don't want to get on even the 'varsity that way!" he said to himself
that night, when the visitors were gone, and he and Spike had turned
in. "I want to win my way."
Nevertheless, he could not help a feeling of slight nervousness the next
day, when he reported for practice.
"Well, same old gag over again I suppose," remarked Spike, as they went
out to toss and catch.
"I suppose so," agreed Joe.
He passed Mr. Hasbrook, who was giving some instructions to the fielders
just before the 'varsity-class game, but the head coach did not even
notice Joe.
After some batting and catching, and some warming-up work on the part of
the pitchers, Mr. Benson called for a cessation of practice.
"Here is the batting order and positions of the nines for to-day," he
announced, producing a paper. He began to read off the names. For the
'varsity they were the same as the day before. Joe, who had permitted
himself a faint hope, felt his heart sinking.
"For the opposition, or scrub," announced the assistant coach, and he
ran down the line, until there was but one place unfilled--that of
pitcher.
"Joe Matson!" he called, sharply.