A SORE ARM
Yale won the toss and chose to go to the bat last--always an advantage
it seems--so Joe had to go on the mound as soon as practice was
concluded. The usual practice of the home team batting last did not
prevail on this occasion.
The stands were filled with a mass of spectators, in which pretty girls
seemed to predominate. At least Joe assumed that they were pretty for
they had escorts who looked on them with eyes that seemed to bear
witness to this designation. Many of them were "stunning," to quote De
Vere, who took a position in the outfield during practice.
"Just so he could be nearer some of the girls," declared Jimmie Lee, who
had the reputation of being a "woman hater."
"Some crowd," remarked Joe to Spike.
"Yes, and a good one, too," declared Joe's room-mate. "It isn't all
howling for Yale blood. There are a lot of old grads. here to-day, as
well as a lot of army men, and we've got our friends with us. You've
got to play for all you're worth."
"I intend to," declared Joe, "but----"
"Now there you go!" interrupted his chum. "Getting doubtful of yourself.
Stop it, I tell you! Just make up your mind that you're going to make
good and you will. These fellows are only human, and, though they've got
the game down to a fine point, and play together like machinery, on
account of their drill practice, yet baseball is always uncertain. Yale
luck is bound to turn up sooner or later."
"It had better be sooner then," remarked Joe, with a grim smile. "Two
defeats, hand running, would about put me out of business. I'd resign."
"Nonsense!" declared Spike. "You can make good all right. Remember that
Weston is just hankering for a chance to displace you, so don't give it
to him. Hold on to the mound."
"I intend to. And yet I heard something that set me thinking," and Joe
related what he had inadvertently listened to, adding:
"I may be taken out after two innings."
"Not much!" declared Spike emphatically. "I see what's going on. Weston
is trying to work his society pull and get the trainers to pitch him.
The cad!"
"Well, I can't find the heart to blame him," said Joe, softly.
"I can," snapped Spike. "He's putting himself above the team."
"Well, maybe it will all come out right," said Joe, but his tone did not
support his words, for he ended with a doleful sigh.
"Oh, you get out!" cried Spike cheerfully. "You've got the losing
bugaboo in a bad form. Cheer up--the worst is yet to come."
"Yes, a defeat," murmured Joe, and then Spike hit him such a thump in
the back that the pitcher had to gasp to recover his breath, and in
doing so he forgot some of his gloomy thoughts.
The practice went on over the field, until the umpire called the
captains together for the final conference, and an agreement on the
ground rules. These were adjusted satisfactorily, and once more the
inspiring cry rang out:
"Play ball!"
"Get 'em over, Joe," advised Shorty Kendall, as the young pitcher walked
out to his place. "Shoot 'em in good and hard, but keep 'em over the
plate. I know this umpire. He's fair, but he's careful. You'll have to
work for all the strikes you get."
"And I'm willing to," declared Joe.
Somehow his confidence was coming back, and as he caught the new ball
which the umpire tossed to him, he felt that he could pitch as he never
had before. He was aware of the scowling glance of Weston, who sat on
the bench, and, as Joe stooped over to rub some dirt on the ball, to
render it less slippery, he wondered if the deposed pitcher had so
managed to "pull strings" as to gain his end.
"Anyhow, I'll pitch as long as I can," thought Joe with grim
determination.
The game started. There was nothing remarkable about it, at least at
first, so I shall not weary you with details of the strikes, balls, the
sliding for bases, the decisions, and the runs. Sufficient to say that
at first neither side could score. Joe and the rival pitcher were in
good form, and, aside from scattering hits, which were usually only good
for a single bag, little was done.
For four innings neither side scored a run, though on one decision of
the umpire, when Joe came sliding home on a sacrifice by Jimmie Lee, and
was called out, there was a howl of protest.
"Robber!"
"Blind man!"
"He was safe by a yard!"
"Don't give it!" were some of the mildest epithets and expressions of
opinion hurled at the umpire.
"Hold on! That isn't Yale's way," said the captain quietly. "It's all
right," and the decision stood, though had it been otherwise it would
have meant a run for Yale.
And so the game went on until the eighth inning, which put West Point
one run ahead. There was excitement on the part of the army and its
supporters, for in the last half of it Yale had been unable to score,
and it looked as if she might lose.
"We've got to get 'em!" declared Captain Hatfield grimly, as he and his
men took the field for the beginning of the ninth. "Don't let one get
past you, Joe, and then we'll bat out two runs."
The young pitcher nodded, but he did not smile. He was a little in doubt
of himself, for there was a strange numb feeling in his right arm, and
he knew that the muscles were weakening. He had worked himself to the
limit, not only in this game, but the one with Harvard, and now he began
to pay the penalty.
Once or twice as he wound up to deliver he felt a sharp twinge that
alarmed him. He had not asked to have one of the professional rubbers
with the team massage him, for fear the rumor would get out that Yale's
pitcher was weakening. So he bore it as best he could. But his arm was
sore.
Joe had struck out one man, and then he was found for a two-bagger. This
man was a notorious base stealer and managed to get to third, while the
player following him, who was the heaviest hitter on the team, had been
passed by Joe on a signal from the captain, who did not want to take
chances.
"He's afraid!" came the taunt, and Joe was beginning to get nervous,
especially as his pain increased.
With two on bases, and only one out, Joe saw come to the bat a man who
was an expert bunter. He could lay the ball almost anywhere he wanted
to, and our hero realized that he was in for a bad few minutes. It would
not do to walk another. He must get this man.
What he had feared came to pass. The player bunted and the ball came
lazily rolling toward the pitcher. Joe and Kendall started for it, and
then Joe yelled:
"I'll get it--go back!"
He felt himself slipping on a pebble, but recovered with a wrench that
strained his sore arm. With an effort he managed to get the ball. He
knew that if he threw it from the unnatural and disadvantageous position
he had assumed in recovering it, he would make his sore arm worse. But
there was no help for it.
The man on third had started for home. Joe, with a mighty effort, threw
to Kendall, who caught it and tagged his quarry.
"Out!" called the umpire. One run was saved.
Then, like a flash the catcher threw to third, for the man who had been
on first, having reached second, rather imprudently tried for another
bag. He was tagged there by as neat a double play as could be desired,
and the West Pointers had finished, with but the one run to their
advantage.
"We need one to tie and two to win," exclaimed Shorty to Joe, as he
tossed his big mitt into the air. "Why," he added, "what's the matter
with your arm?" for he saw it hanging down limp.
"A strain," replied Joe shortly. "I'm all right."
"You are not! McLeary must look at you. We'll play somebody else this
inning. You go get rubbed." And Joe was glad enough to do so.