HOCKEY AND JUST TALK
That was the beginning of a friendship that lasted――well, so
far as I know, it’s still lasting and seems likely to continue
lasting indefinitely. In the course of time the inseparable chums
were facetiously referred to as the “two Jays” or the “Joejacks.”
Months later each acknowledged, a trifle shamefacedly, since the
acknowledgment bordered on sentiment, that he had taken to the other at
the moment of their first meeting. That was as near an expression of
affection as they came to, but within a week of that day at Proctor’s
Pond Joe would have jumped off the top of the Adams Building if by so
doing he could have benefited his friend, and Jack would have just as
readily plunged into the river from the railroad bridge had a similar
result impended. And since Jack at that time couldn’t swim a stroke,
his deed would have compared favourably with Joe’s as a token of esteem!
Neither, however, was required to undertake such feats of self-sacrifice.
Perhaps the nearest approach to them occurred when Joe stood about on
the ice, with the thermometer hovering around zero, his feet numb and
his fingers aching, while he admiringly watched Jack struggle for a
position on the First Team, or when Jack, as became his custom when
duties allowed, tramped by Joe’s side through slush or sleet or rain
over Route 6! They were together whenever it was possible, and when it
wasn’t they were either signalling across schoolrooms or using up Mr.
Strobe’s and Aunt Sarah’s monthly allowance of telephone calls.
January passed into history very happily for Joe. He was earning enough
to pay Aunt Sarah all but fifty cents a week for his accommodations, he
was doing well at his studies, he was getting cheerful letters every
few days from his mother, and he was enjoying the jolliest, finest
sort of friendship. When the hockey team journeyed to Preston Mills to
play the academy fellows and Jack went along as a possible necessary
substitute forward, Joe went along also and huddled in his coat on a
settee and held Jack’s ulster and saw the Brown-and-Blue go down in
defeat to the tune of four to three in an overtime contest, and mourned
with the others on the way back, and with them vowed dire vengeance
when Preston paid a return visit. That day a substitute delivered Joe’s
papers and he was short fifty cents the following Monday and went
without pocket-money for a whole week. But he didn’t mind――much. It was
worth more than that, much more, to accompany Jack to Preston Mills.
The hockey team didn’t meet with defeat on all occasions, however,
although it can’t be denied that, in spite of the best endeavours of
coach, captain, and players, they ended the season with fewer victories
than beatings. But they did overwhelm Preston Academy nicely the first
week in February and found the revenge sweet. The ice was in miserable
shape that afternoon, for there had been a thaw, and the visitors
suffered more in consequence than did the home team, for the latter had
cannily spent the forenoon practising under the adverse conditions.
The game was played on the river and inside a regular barrier and with
net goals. Jack had at last proven his right to a place amongst the
First Team substitutes, and in the second period that afternoon he went
further and showed that he was as good a right-wing as high school
could put on the ice. And Joe, excitedly and noisily admiring, was
filled with triumph.
The score was two to one in Amesville’s favour when the whistle started
the second half and Sid Morris faced off with the opposing centre.
Each seven had shown a good defence and Amesville’s second goal had
been rather in the nature of an accident, the puck slipping around
the corner of the net when four or five sticks had been poking and
hooking at it in a half-inch of water and the goal-tender’s skate had
for an instant slipped aside. It was still anybody’s battle from all
indications and both teams started in in whirlwind fashion. Preston’s
gray-legged warriors kept the Brown-and-Blue busy for the first five
minutes and hammered shot after shot at Sam Craig’s anatomy. Amesville
forgot team-play in the effort to keep the enemy away from the goal,
with the result that Preston fooled her time and again and forced
the playing until Sid’s shrill appeals to “Take it away from them,
High School!” rose high above the rattling of sticks, the grinding of
skates, and the inarticulate cries of the players. Only an off-side
play prevented a score for Preston four minutes after the whistle, for
a hard, low shot got safely past Sam’s shins and into the net. But on
the face-off it was Jack Strobe who stole the disc from between the
feet of the two opponents and who, passing once across the rink to
Captain Morris and drawing the coverpoint from position, took the puck
on the return, upset the point and slashed past the goal-tender for
Amesville’s third tally.
How Joe cheered and shouted! And how all the others did, too; all
save the handful of faithful Prestonians who had journeyed down with
their team! There was still nearly fifteen minutes of actual time left
and Amesville, encouraged, recovered from her confusion and took the
whip-hand. Time and again Jack and Sidney Morris, working together as
though they had played side by side for years, swept the enemy off
its feet and rushed down the ice with the puck, eluding the defence
more often than not, and making shot after shot at goal. That Preston
Academy was only tallied on five times in that second half was only
because neither Sidney nor Jack nor the other forwards, Hale and
Simpson, who infrequently found an opportunity to bombard the net, were
especially clever shots. But Amesville was well satisfied with the
final result of the game. Seven to one was decisive enough to more than
atone for the defeat at Preston Mills. Joe walked back with his hero
and was as proud as Punch.
It was that evening that Joe voiced a regret that had been troubling
him for some time. The two boys were in Joe’s room, and Jack, a bit
lame and more or less bruised, was stretched on the bed, something that
Aunt Sarah would not have approved of. Aunt Sarah, however, was getting
used to having boys around and was making the discovery that laws made
for grown-up folks cannot always be applied to youths. At first Jack’s
almost daily appearance at the door, followed by his polite inquiry,
“Is Joe in, Miss Teele?” was greeted by doubtful, sharp glances. Then
Jack’s smiles melted the ice, and Aunt Sarah confided to Joe one
day that that Strobe boy seemed real nice. A day or two later, Joe,
returning from his newspaper delivering, found that a strip of gray
linen had been laid over the stair carpet and continued along the upper
hallway to his door. Aunt Sarah, while reconciled to visitors, was not
going to have her carpet worn out.
“I wish,” said Joe this evening, “that I could do something.”
“What do you mean, do something?” asked Jack lazily, turning slightly
to take his weight off a lame hip.
“Something like other fellows,” explained Joe frowningly. “I can’t
play hockey or basketball or tennis or――or even skate! I can’t play
football, either. Most fellows can do two or three things well. I’m no
good at anything.”
“Piffle!” said Jack. “You play baseball, don’t you? And you can skate
pretty well.”
“Yes, like a ton of bricks! As for baseball, well, yes, I can catch a
ball if it’s thrown at me and I can bat a little and I’m fairly fast
on bases. But I’m no wonder at it. I want to play something decently,
Jack.”
“I suppose you’re making things out worse than they really are. Any
fellow can do those stunts if he tries hard enough. Funny you don’t
play tennis, though. Why?”
“I never cared for it. I guess the reason I don’t do things is because
I never wanted to much before. Beside, at home――in Akron――I was always
pretty busy with other things. I――I studied pretty hard――――”
“There you are, then!” said Jack triumphantly. “Don’t you know that
a fellow can’t be a grind and a great athlete, too? Look at me. You
don’t find me being pointed out as an example of conduct, do you? You
didn’t see my bookcase stuffed with prize volumes, did you? Ever hear
of me getting an A, or even a B-plus, in anything? Answer, _No_, with
a capital N! A chap simply has to choose, Joey, whether he is to make
his mark one way or the other. I chose the other. It’s more fun.”
“You’re talking a lot of rot. I happen to know that you were pretty
near the head in your class last year. And you never have any trouble
with your studies. Besides, I was reading not long ago that the
principal athletes at one of the colleges in the East――either Yale or
Harvard, I think――were ’way up in their studies; honour men and things
like that.”
“Oh, if you believe the newspapers――――”
“Newspapers are a heap more truthful than folks,” interrupted Joe.
“I’ve heard my father say that lots of times. Anyway, it’s silly to say
a fellow can’t study and go in for athletics, too. Look at Sam Craig.
He plays baseball, football, and hockey, you told me. And he’s ’way up
in his class.”
“Well, if you’re going to prove things I shan’t argue,” sighed Jack.
“It’s no fun arguing when the other fellow insists on proving he’s
right. It――it puts you at a disadvantage. Anyway, all that’s got
nothing to do with what we were talking about. You said you wished you
could do something. I say you can play baseball. That’s something,
isn’t it? I’d rather make the nine than the hockey team any day.”
“You’ve made both,” replied Joe disconsolately. “I don’t believe I’ll
ever make anything.”
“A couple of piffles! In two months you’ll be holding down first or
second base. I wish you’d beat out Frank Foley for first, Joe. If
you’ll do that I’ll present you with anything I own. I’ll give you an
order on dad for a diamond sun-burst or a chest of silver. Mind, I
don’t say you’d get the things; but I’ll give you the order.”
“Who’s Frank Foley?” asked Joe.
“What? You’ve never heard of ‘Handsome Frank’? For the love of lemons,
don’t let him hear you, Joey! Why, Frank is our Adonis, our Beau
Brummel, our――our――――”
“Well, what is he when he isn’t Brummeling?”
“There ain’t no such time. He’s always on that job. Frank is the life
of our little parties on all occasions. He has his nails manicured
every day and sends to Cleveland or Chicago or somewhere for his
neckties――only he calls them scarves. Frank is some swell, believe me!
You surely must have seen him.”
“Tall and sort of bored-looking? Wears a greenish Norfolk suit?”
“Yep, that’s Frank. You can’t always tell him by that green suit,
though, for he has half a dozen if he has one. I don’t see how he does
it, because his father hasn’t much coin, they say. He’s division
superintendent on the railroad. I’ll bet he keeps his father poor.
Anyway, he’s our best little dresser and we’re mighty proud of him.”
“You didn’t sound so a moment ago.”
“Well, I’ll tell you.” Jack changed his position with a suppressed
groan. “As a thing of beauty, so to speak, as a――a picturesque feature
of the local landscape――say, that’s pretty good, isn’t it? Picturesque
feature of the local landscape!――Well, as one of those things he’s fine
and we’re proud as can be of him. If a circus came to town we’d trot
Frank out and simply run away with the honors. But as a――a regular
fellow he won’t do. He’s too――oh, I don’t know what he is. I don’t like
him for so many reasons that I can’t think of the first one. I always
have a fearful temptation to walk on his shoes and take the shine off
or bang a snowball against his hat or tie him down and put a little
natural dirt under his finger-nails. Mind you, Joey, I love clean
finger-nails”――he shoved his hands under him as he spoke――“but I hate
to have a fellow dazzle my eyes every time he moves his hands! Besides,
I object to green Norfolks and green hats with the bows in the wrong
place and fancy vests――waistcoats, I mean! Gee, I’m glad Frank didn’t
hear me call ’em vests! The trouble with Handsome Frank is that he’s a
good-looker and someone’s told him about it. He can’t forget it for a
minute. Now, I’m a handsome brute, Joey, and you’re not as homely as
you might be, but we don’t go around throwing our chests out and trying
to look like――like a work of art, do we? And we don’t dress up like a
horse, do we? And we don’t polish our finger-nails till they shine like
nice little pink pearls, do we? Let’s see yours. No, we don’t!”
“Well, if he’s like that I shouldn’t expect him to play anything as
rough and rude as baseball,” said Joe.
“No, would you? And yet he does. And he plays football, too, which is a
degree and a half rougher and ruder. As a matter of fact, Joe, Handsome
Frank is a corking good first baseman, and no slouch of a tackle. He’s
the fellow you’ll have to fight hardest for first, if you’ve set your
heart on that position.”
“I haven’t. I’d be a silly chump to. I don’t believe I play well enough
to get a show with the Second Team.”
“Two more orders of piffle, and have them hot! Don’t assume that
attitude, Joey. Don’t tell folks you’re no good. They might believe
you. I’ve noticed folks are more likely to believe you when you tell
them you’re rotten than when you crack yourself up. You keep a still
mouth, old chap, and if anyone says ‘What was your batting average
last year, Mr. Faulkner?’ or ‘What was your fielding average?’ you
dust a speck off your sleeve and look ’em square in the eye and say,
careless-like, ‘I batted for three-twenty-seven and fielded for a
little over four hundred!’ They won’t believe you, but they’ll think
‘If he can lie as well as that he must play a pretty good game of
ball!’”
“Jack, you’re an awful chump tonight,” laughed his chum. “What does
your friend Frank do when he gets some dust on his hands fielding a
ball or soils his trousers sliding to base? Does he stop the game and
telephone for a manicure and a whisk-broom?”
“No. He bears it wonderfully. Oh, I suppose I’ve made him out worse
than he is. I just don’t like him. Still, I’m not the only one, by a
long shot. You’d have trouble finding many fellows who do like him. But
he can play baseball and he’s a peach of a baseman. He’s not much at
hitting, though. Are you, Joe?”
“Fairly rotten, thanks.”
“Well, that won’t do. You dig hard when practice begins. Find your
batting-eye, Joey. Then, if you can hold down first base decently well,
you might oust Mr. Foley. I’d consider it a personal favour if you did.”
“Seems to me it’s a good thing you don’t actually hate Foley. If you
did you’d insist on having him thrown into the river or browned in oil!
When you take a dislike to me, please let me know, Jack, so I can beat
it while the beating’s good.”
“Well,” replied Jack cheerfully, “I’m like that, I guess. If I like a
fellow I like him a lot. If I dislike him I haven’t any use for him. I
suppose it’s my ardent Spanish nature.”
“Your _what_?”
“Yep. You see, Joey, about three or maybe four hundred years ago I had
a Spanish ancestor. Spaniards, you know, are hot-blooded, desperate
rascals. Whenever I do anything real wicked I lay it to that ancestor.
It’s a convenience.”
“You and your old ancestor!” scoffed Joe. “Say, what sort of practice
do we do in the baseball cage?”
“Naturally, we do tatting and plain sewing.”
“Oh, cut it out, Jack! Honest, what can you do indoors? I never saw
anyone practise baseball in a cage.”
“Batteries get the most out of it, Joe. But we all go through a certain
amount of stuff. Bat’s a great believer in setting-up exercises, for
one thing. He keeps us at that for a week or so before we’re allowed
to touch a ball. Then the pitchers and catchers work together and we
have a batting session each day and we slide to base and――and pass, of
course.”
“Bat’s the coach, isn’t he?”
“Yep. Mr. Bennet A. Talbot; B, A, T, Bat. He’s a good sort, too. And
knows a baseball from a rosy-cheeked apple, if anyone should enquire.
He’s all right. I’m strong for Bat.”
“A good name for a baseball coach,” laughed Joe.
“The fact has been suggested before,” replied Jack with a grin.
“Oh, I didn’t suppose I was getting off a new one. But, look here, you
can’t do much hitting in a little old cage, can you?”
“Not if Tom Pollock’s pitching,” chuckled Jack. “Why, you see, my
ignorant friend, the idea is not to knock the ball through the wires,
but to tap it politely. Bat will tell you that if you can get your bat
against the ball in the cage you can do it when you get on the field.
I don’t know that he’s terrifically right about it, though. I don’t
believe it does any harm to roll bunts around in the gym, but I do know
that in my own case as soon as we move outdoors and I take a healthy
swing at the ball it isn’t there! And it takes me a week or so at the
net to find it.”
“They tell me you’re a peach of a batter,” said Joe admiringly and a
trifle enviously.
“Oh, I connect sometimes. When I do they travel. That’s all. I’m no H.
R. Baker.”
“Who’s he?” asked Joe innocently.
“Ball-player. I’m going home. Your ignorance may be catching. See you
in the morning. Who swiped my――Oh, here it is. So long, Joey!”