PLOTTING
Joe Matson was trembling when he went to his place, even after some
lively warming-up practice with the catcher. The very thing he most
wanted had come to him very unexpectedly. And yet he was sensible enough
to realize that this was only a trial, and that it did not mean he would
pitch against Amherst. But he had great hopes.
"Come!" he exclaimed to himself, as he got ready for the opening of the
game. "I've got to pull myself together or I'll go all to pieces. Brace
up!"
The sight of Weston glaring at him helped, in a measure, to restore Joe
to himself.
"He's hoping I won't make good," thought Joe. "But I will! I must!"
It may have been because of Joe's natural nervousness, or because the
scrub team was determined to show that they could bat even their own
pitcher, that was the cause of so many runs coming in during the first
inning. No one could rightly say, but the fact remained that the runs
did come in, and it began to look bad for the 'varsity.
"I told you how it would be--putting in a green pitcher," complained Mr.
Benson.
"Perhaps," admitted the head coach. "But wait a bit. Joe isn't as green
as he looks. Wait until next inning."
And he was justified, for Joe got himself well in hand, and the
'varsity, as if driven to desperation by another defeat staring them in
the face so near to the Amherst game, batted as they never had before.
Avondale was all but knocked out of the box, and the scrub captain
substituted another pitcher, who did much better. Joe's former rival
almost wept at his own inability.
Meanwhile our hero was himself again, and though he did give three men
their bases on balls, he allowed very few hits, so that the 'varsity
took the game by a good margin, considering their bad start.
"That's the way to do it!" cried Captain Hatfield, when the contest was
over.
"Do it to Amherst," was the comment of the head coach.
"We will!" cried the members of the first team.
"Good work, Matson," complimented Hatfield. "Can you do it again?"
"Maybe--if I get the chance," laughed Joe, who was on an elevation of
delight.
"Oh, I guess you'll have to get the chance," spoke the captain. He did
not notice that Weston was close behind him, but Joe did, and he saw the
look of anger and almost hate that passed over the face of the pitcher.
"He looks as though he'd like to bite me," murmured Joe. "And yet it's
all a fair game. I may get knocked out myself. But even then I'm not
going to give up. I'm in this to stay! If not at Yale, then somewhere
else."
If Joe imagined that his work that day had been without flaws he was
soon to be disillusioned, for Mr. Hasbrook, coming up to him a little
later, pointed out where he had made several bad errors in judgment,
though they had not resulted in any gain for the scrub.
"Still," said the head coach, "you don't want to make them, for with a
sharp team, and some of the big college nines playing against you, those
same errors would lose the game." And he proceeded to give Joe some good
advice.
When Avondale, the twice-humiliated pitcher, walked off the diamond that
afternoon, he was joined by Weston, who linked his arm in that of the
scrub twirler.
"Well, we're both in the same boat," remarked Avondale. "A better man
has ousted us."
"Not at all--nothing of the sort!" cried Weston, and his voice showed
how much he was nervously wrought up. "I don't admit for a minute that
Matson can pitch better than I can."
"Well, I do, in my own case, and the coaches seem to in yours."
"I'm a little out of form to-day," admitted Weston, quickly. "I'll be
all right to-morrow, and I'll pitch against Amherst."
"It'll be a great game," spoke Avondale.
"Maybe. But say, what do you think of a fellow like him--a regular
country clod-hopper--coming here, anyhow?"
"Who do you mean?"
"Matson. What right has he got to butt in at a college like Yale, and
displace the fellows who have worked hard for the nine?"
"The right of ability, I suppose."
"Ability nothing! He doesn't belong here, and he ought to be made to
quit."
"Well, I confess I don't like to lose the place I worked so hard for,
and I don't see much chance of making the 'varsity now," admitted
Avondale; "but at the same time I must give Matson credit for his work."
"Bah! It's only a flash in the pan. He can't last. I think I could make
him quit if I wanted to."
"How?"
"Would you join me in a little trick if we could?"
"I don't know. What do you mean?" and Avondale looked curiously at his
companion.
"I mean that red paint business and the spoiling of the ancient
manuscripts. If it was known who did it he'd get fired."
"You don't mean to say Matson had a hand in that!" cried Avondale
aghast.
"I'm not saying anything. But if it could be shown that he did it, he'd
not pitch for Yale--that's sure. Shall I say any more? Remember I'm
making no cracks yet. But I know some things about Matson no one else
knows." This was true enough, but Avondale did not take it in the sense
in which it could have been truthfully said, but, rather, as Weston
meant he should--wrongly.
Now Avondale had one fault. He was too easily led. He was brilliant,
full of promise, and a jolly chap--hail-fellow-well-met with everyone,
and that is not the best thing in the world, though it makes for
temporary popularity. Avondale was his own worst enemy, and many a time
he had not the courage to say "no!" when the utterance of it would have
saved him from trouble. So when Weston thus temptingly held out the
bait, Avondale nibbled.
"Shall I say any more?" went on the other. "Remember, you've got to be
as tight as a drum on this."
"Of course. I--er--I--that is----"
"Come over here and I'll tell you something," went on the 'varsity
pitcher, and the two were soon in close conversation.