THE CORNELL HOST
"That's the way to do it!"
"Yale always can do it!"
"Bull dog grit!"
"The blue always wins!"
"They came--they saw--but--we conquered!"
It was the close of the Yale-Amherst baseball game, and the sons of
Eli had gloriously triumphed. They had trailed the banners of their
opponents in the dust, they had raced around the bases, they had batted
the ball into the far corners of the field, and they had raced home with
the runs.
"I told you so!" chirped Jimmie Lee.
"Hold on!" cried Slim Jones. "Didn't you start to be a calamity howler,
and say Yale wouldn't win?"
"Never!" asserted Jimmie.
"Yes, you did!"
"Well, I was only bluffing. I knew we could put it all over them."
"And we did," said Spike in a low voice to Joe. "Only----"
"Only I didn't have much share in it," interrupted the aspirant for
pitching honors.
There had indeed been a "shake-up" on the nine the day of the game.
Until the last moment it was not definitely settled who would pitch, and
there were many rumors current. It lay between Joe, Weston, and McAnish,
the left-handed one, and on the morning of the game--the first important
one of the season for Yale--the newspapers had various guesses as to who
would be the twirler.
Joe had hoped to go in at the start, but when the game was called, and
Captain Hatfield submitted his list, it was seen that Weston had the
coveted place.
"Well, old man, you're back where you belong," said Avondale to him, as
the name was called. "I suppose now, that little matter, which you were
speaking to me about, can drop?"
"It can--if I remain pitcher," answered Weston. "But I've got it all
cocked and primed to explode if I have to. I'm not going to sit tight
and let some country whipper-snapper put it all over me."
"I don't know as I blame you--and yet he seems a pretty decent sort."
"Oh, he's not in our class!"
"Well, maybe not. Do your best!"
And Weston did. Never had he pitched a better game--even his enemies,
and he had not a few, admitted that. It was a "walkover" soon after the
first few innings had demonstrated the superiority of Yale. Amherst was
game, and fought to the last ditch, but neither in batting, fielding nor
pitching was she the equal of the wearers of the blue.
Joe, sitting on the bench, with the other substitutes, fretted his heart
out, hoping for a chance to play, but he was not called on until the
eighth inning. Then, after a conference of the coaches, during which the
head one could be seen to gesticulate vigorously, Joe was called on to
bat in place of another, which gave him the call to pitch the next
inning.
"What's the matter?" was asked on all sides. "Is Weston going stale?"
"Glass arm," suggested some of his enemies.
"No, they're saving him for the Harvard game," was the opinion of many.
"They don't want to work him too hard."
"And we have this game anyhow."
"But what's the matter with McAnish?"
"Oh, he's out of form."
And so Joe had gone in at the eleventh hour, before that sitting on the
bench, eating his heart out.
"Show what you can do!" exclaimed the head coach to him as he took the
mound. "And don't worry."
"Don't worry?" repeated Joe.
"That's what I said. Remember what I told you, and don't try to win the
game by merely pitching."
Joe recalled his instructions about backing up first base in an
emergency, of taking care of the bunts, of watching the catcher, who
might try to deceive the man on third.
And it was well for Joe that he did. For, though he did well from the
pitching end, there came several opportunities to distinguish himself in
making infield plays. Once he made a fine stop of a bunt that, had it
been a safety, would have done much to lower Yale's lead. Again he
managed, by a quick play, on getting the ball from the catcher, to throw
out the man at second, who was trying to steal third. There was applause
for Joe Matson that day, though he did not pitch the team to victory.
"Well?" asked Mr. Hasbrook of his colleagues, after the contest. "What
did I tell you? Isn't he an all-around good player?"
"He seems so," admitted Mr. Benson. "But I think Weston did most
excellently."
"Yes, he did," said the head coach, "but mark my words, he's overtrained
or he hasn't the grit to stick it out. Here we are at the beginning of
the season, and he has failed us several times. I don't want to force my
judgment on you gentlemen, but I think we ought to give Matson a better
trial."
"All right, we'll send him in earlier in the Cornell game next week,"
suggested Mr. Whitfield, and to that the head coach agreed.
There were all sorts of baseball politics discussed in the dormitories,
on the campus, and at Glory's and other resorts that night.
"It begins to look as if the coaches didn't quite know where they were
at," declared Ricky Hanover. "They make a shift at the last minute."
"A good shift--according to the way the game went," declared Hen
Johnson, who held down second base.
"That's yet to be seen," asserted Jimmie Lee. "Amherst was fruit for us
to-day."
The opinions went back and forth--_pro_ and _con_--and it was, after
all, a matter of judgment. Yet back of it all was the indomitable Yale
spirit that has often turned defeat into victory. This was to hearten up
those who picked flaws in the playing of the blue, and who predicted a
slump in the following week, when the strong Cornell team would be met.
"Oh, Cornell may row us but she can't play ball us," declared Jimmie
Lee. "We'll dump 'em."
"We may--if Joe Matson pitches," spoke Spike, in a low voice.
"Here! Cut that out," advised Joe, in a sharp whisper.
Meanwhile no more had been heard about the red paint matter, and it
looked to be but a flash in the pan--what the _News_ had printed. The
Senior committee of investigation was not in evidence--at least as far
as could be learned.
Baseball practice went on, sometimes Joe pitching for the 'varsity, and
again one of his rivals being called on. There was a tightening up on
the part of the coaches--they were less tolerant--the errors were less
excused. Bitter words were the portion of those who made mistakes, and
Joe did not escape.
"You must do a little better," the head coach urged him. "We're
not playing school teams, remember, but teams that are but little
removed from the professional class, as regards ability. Play
harder--sharper--more accurately--don't get rattled."
And Joe tried to tell himself that he would do or not do these things,
but it was hard work. He had begun to realize what a career he had
marked out for himself.
"Well, are you going to spring it?" asked Avondale of Weston, a day or
so before the Cornell game. "What about the red paint?"
"Oh, I guess it will keep--if I pitch the game," was the answer.
"Did you send the anonymous letter?"
"Don't ask me," snapped Weston.
The day of the next game came--one of the great battles of the diamond,
on the winning or losing of which depended, in a measure, the gaining of
the championship.
The Cornell host, many strong, descended on New Haven, and made the air
vibrant with their yells. They cheered Yale, and were cheered in turn.
Out on the diamond they trotted--a likely looking lot of lads.
"Husky bunch," commented Jimmie Lee.
"They sure are," agreed Shorty Kendall.
"Who'll pitch for you?"
"Don't know. They're just going to announce it."
The umpire, the captains, managers, and coaches were holding a
conference. Joe, in spite of his seeming indifference, watched them
narrowly. Over in their section the Cornell hosts were singing their
songs and giving their cheers.
The wearers of the blue had given their great cry--they had sung the
Boola song--some had even done the serpentine dance. All was in
readiness for the game.
"If he doesn't pitch me," murmured Weston, "I'll be----"
Mr. Hasbrook motioned to the umpire, who raised his megaphone to make
the announcement.