Dink, under the influence of the new emotion, made a fairly full
confession, merely overlooking the shoes that Flash did not carry over
the Princeton goal line, and suppressing that detail of the Foundation
House's supposed contribution, which had lent such a peculiar value to
the souvenir crockery set. By four o'clock Butsey White had
sufficiently recovered to remember the afternoon baseball match.
Ten minutes later Dink, lost in a lapping baseball suit lent by
Cheyenne Baxter, re-enforced with safety pins, stationed himself in
the outfield behind a catcher's mitt, for preliminary practice with
little Susie Satterly and Beekstein Hall, who was shortsighted and
wore glasses.
The result of five minutes' frantic chasing was that Dink, who
surprised every one by catching a fly that somehow stuck in his glove,
was promoted to centerfield; Susie Satterly, who had stopped two
grounders, took left; while Beekstein was ignominiously escorted to a
far position in rightfield and firmly requested to stop whatever he
could with his chest.
The Cleve cohorts arrived, thirty strong, like banditti marching to
sack a city, openly voicing their derision for the nine occupants of
the Green House. The contest, which at first sight seemed unequal, was
not in reality so, Tough McCarty and Cheyenne Baxter being an
unusually strong battery, while the infield, with Butsey White at
first, the White Mountain Canary at second, Stuffy Brown short-stop
and the Coffee-colored Angel at third, quite outclassed the invaders.
The trouble was in the outfield--where the trouble in such contests
are sure to congregate.
Stover had never been so thoroughly frightened in his life. His
imagination, boylike, was aghast at the unknown. A great question was
to be decided in a few minutes, when his turn would come to step up to
the box and expose himself to the terrific cannonade of Nick Carter,
the lengthy pitcher of the Cleve. The curious thing was that on this
point Stover himself was quite undecided. Was he a coward, or was he
not? Would his legs go back on him, or would he stand his ground,
knowing that the stinging ball might strike anywhere--on the tender
wrist bones, shattering the point of the elbow, or landing with a
deadly thud right over his temple, which he remembered was an
absolutely fatal spot?
His first two innings in the field were a complete success--not a
ball came his way. With his fielding average quite intact he came in
to face the crisis.
"Brown to the bat, Stover on deck, Satterly in the hole," came the
shrill voice of Fate in the person of Shrimp Davis, the official
scorer.
Stover nervously tried one bat after another; each seemed to weigh a
ton. Then Cheyenne Baxter joined him, crouching beside him for a word
of advice.
"Now, Dink," he said in a whisper, keeping his eye on Stuffy Brown,
who, being unable to hit the straightest ball, was pawing the plate
and making terrific preparatory swings with his bat. "Now, Dink,
listen here. (Pick out an easy one, Stuffy, and bang it on the nose.
Hi-yi, good waiting, Stuffy) Nick Carter's wild as a wet hen. All he's
got is a fast outcurve. Now, what you want to do is to edge up close
to the plate and let him hit you. (Oh, robber! That wasn't a strike!
Say, Mr. Umpire, give us a square deal, will you?) Walk right into it,
Dink, and if it happens to hit you on the wrist rub above the elbow
like the mischief."
"Above the elbow?" said Dink in a hollow voice.
"That's it. You've got a chance to square yourself with the House.
Step right into it. What? Three strikes? Say, Mr. Umpire, you're not
taking Nick Carter's word for it, are you?"
Amid a storm of execrations Stuffy Brown retired, appealing
frantically to the four quarters of the globe for justice and a judge.
Impelled by a resounding whack, Dink approached the plate as a balky
horse tries his hoofs in a pool of water. He spread his feet and
shouldered his bat, imitating the slightly-crouching position of
Cheyenne Baxter. Then he looked out for a favorable opening. The field
was thronged with representatives of the Cleve House. He turned to
first base--it was miles away. He looked at Nick Carter, savagely
preparing to mow him down, and he seemed to loom over him, infringing
on the batter's box.
"Why the devil don't they stick the pitcher back and give a fellow a
chance?" he thought, eying uneasily the quick, jerky preparations.
"Why, at this distance a ball could go right through you."
"Come on, Nick, old boy," said a voice issuing from the iron mask at
his elbow. "We've got an umpire that can't be bluffed. This is nothing
but a Statue of Liberty. Chop him right down."
Dink shivered from the ground up, Carter's long arms gyrated
spasmodically, and the ball, like the sweep of a swallow from the
ground, sprang directly at him. Stover, with a yell, flung himself
back, landing all in a heap.
"Ball one," said the umpire.
A chorus of taunts rose from the Green House nine.
"Trying to put him out, are you?"
"Mucker trick!"
"Put him out!"
"Good eye, Dinky!"
"That's the boy."
Stover rose, found his bat and ruthfully forced himself back to his
position.
"I should have let it hit me," he said angrily, perceiving Baxter's
frantic signals. "It might have broken a rib, but I'd have showed my
nerve."
Clenching his bat fiercely he waited, resolved on a martyr's death.
But the next ball coming straight for his head, he ducked horribly.
"Ball two--too high," said the umpire.
Stover tightened his belt, rapped the plate twice with his bat, as
Butsey had done, and resumed his position. But the memory of the sound
the ball had made when it had whistled by his ears had unnerved him.
Before he could summon back his heroic resolves Carter, with a sudden
jerk, delivered the ball. Involuntarily Stover stepped back, the ball
easily and slowly passed him and cut the corner of the plate.
"Ball three," said the umpire hesitatingly.
The Cleve catcher hurled his mask to the ground, Carter cast down his
glove and trod on it, while the second baseman fell on his bag and
wept.
When order was restored Stover dodged the fourth wild ball and went in
a daze to first, where to his amazement he was greeted with jubilant
cheers.
"You're the boy, Dinky."
"You've got an eye like Charlie DeSoto."
"They can't fool Rinky Dink."
"Why, he's a wonder."
"Watch him steal second."
Stover slapped his foot on first base with the joy of unhoped-for
victory. He glowered about his own possessions. The perspective had
suddenly changed; the field was open, all his, the Cleve House
representatives were a lot of dubs, butterfingers and fumblers,
anyhow! Under Cheyenne Baxter's directions he went plunging down to
second, slid, all arms and legs, safely on to the bag, thanks to a
wild pitch, and rose triumphantly, blowing the dust from his mouth.
There he remained, as Susie Satterly and Beekstein methodically struck
out.
But the joy of that double voyage was still on him as he went back to
centerfield, ready to master the hottest liner or retrieve the
sky-scraping fly. It was a great game. He felt a special aptitude for
it and wondered why he had never discovered the talent before. He
began to dream of sizzling two-baggers and long home-runs over the
fence.
"I wish I'd get a chance," he said, prancing about digging vicious
holes in the glove, that looked like a chest protector. "I'd show 'em
what I can do out here."
But no chance came. The battle was between pitchers, and to the
surprise of every one the Green House came up to the last inning with
the score of 2 to 1 in their favor, the solitary run of the Cleve
being due to a fly that Beekstein had failed to notice.
The Green House nine went jubilantly out into the field for the last
half of the ninth inning, determined to shut out the Cleve and end the
season with at least one victory.
Dink ran out on his tiptoes, encased himself in his mitt and turned,
tense and alert. He had gone through his first ordeal triumphantly. No
chances had come to him in the field, but at bat he had accidently
succeeded in being hit, and though he had struck out the next time he
had hit a foul and knew the jubilant feeling that came with the crack
of the bat.
"Give me a week and I'll soak 'em out," he said, moving restlessly,
and he added to himself: "Strike 'em out, Cheyenne, old man! They're
easy."
But the Cleves suddenly woke up and began to fight. One man beat out a
grounder, and one struck out; another error of the temperamental White
Mountain Canary put a man on third and one on second. Then Cheyenne,
pulling himself together, made his second strike-out.
"Two out, play for the batter," came Cheyenne Baxter's warning hallo.
"Two out," said Dink to his fellow-fielders. "One more and we spink
'em. Come on, now!"
Both sides settled for the final play, the man on second leading well
up toward third.
"Steady!" said Cheyenne.
Stover drew in his breath and rose to his toes, as he had done thirty
times already.
Suddenly there was a sharp crack, and the ball meeting the bat,
floated fair and free, out toward centerfield.
Dink did not have to move a step; in fact, the ball rose and fell
straight for the massive mitt as though it had chosen his glove from
all the other gloves in the field. It came slowly, endlessly, the
easiest, gentlest, most perfect fly imaginable, directly for the large
brown mitt that looked like a chest protector.
[Illustration: BEHIND HIM, PELL-MELL, SHRIEKING AND MURDEROUS--CAME
THE VANQUISHED.]
Stover, turned to stone, saw it strike fair in the middle, and then,
irresistibly, slowly, while, horribly fascinated, he stood powerless,
slowly trickle over the side of the mitt and drop to the ground.
Dink did not stop for a look, for a second thought, to hesitate or to
deliberate. He knew! He gave a howl and broke for the House, and
behind him, pell-mell, shrieking and murderous, like a pack of hounds
in full cry, came the vanquished, thirsting body of the Green.
He cleared the fence with one hand, took the road with two bounds,
fled up the walk, burst through the door, jumped the stairs, broke
into his room, slammed the door, locked it, backed the bed against it
and seized a chair.
Then the Green House struck the door like a salvo of grapeshot.
"Open up, you robber!"
"Open the door, you traitor!"
"You Benedict Arnold!"
"Open up, you white-livered pup!"
"You quitter!"
"You chickenheart!"
"You coward!"
Stover, his hair rising, seized the wooden chair convulsively, waiting
for the door to burst in.
All at once the transom swung violently and the wolfish faces of
Tough McCarty, the White Mountain Canary, Cheyenne and the
Coffee-colored Angel crowded the opening.
"Get back or I'll kill you," said Dink in frantic fear, and,
advancing, he swung the chair murderously. In a twinkling the transom
was emptied.
The storm of voices rose again.
"The freshest yet!"
"The nerve of him!"
"Let's break in the door!"
"Come out!"
"Come out, Freshman!"
"He did it on purpose!"
"He chucked the game!"
"Wait till I get my hands on him!"
"I'll skin him!"
All at once the face of Butsey White appeared at the transom.
"Dink, you let me right in, you hear?"
No answer.
"You let me in right off!"
Still no answer.
"It's my room; you let me in to my room, do you hear?"
Stover continued silent.
"Dink," said Butsey in his loudest tones, "I'm coming right over the
transom. Don't you dare to touch me!"
Stover again seized the chair.
Butsey White, supported from behind, carefully drew up one foot, and
then convulsively disappeared as Stover charged with the chair.
There was a whispered consultation and then the battling face of Tough
McCarty appeared with a new threat:
"You lay a hand on me and I'll rip the hide off you!"
"Keep back!" said Stover hoarsely.
"Put down that chair, you little varmint; do you hear me?"
"Don't you come over!"
"Yes, I'm coming over, and you don't dare to touch me. You don't----"
Stover was neither a coward nor a hero; he was simply in a panic and
he was cornered. He rushed wildly to the breach and delivered the
chair with a crash, Tough McCarty barely saving himself.
This open defiance of the champion angered the attacking party.
"He ought to be lynched!"
"The booby!"
"Wait till to-morrow!"
Tough McCarty reappeared for a brief second.
"I'll get you yet," he said, pointing a finger at the embattled
Stover. "You're a muff, a low-down muff, in every sense of the
word!"
Then succeeded the Coffee-colored Angel:
"Wait till I catch you, you Rinky Dink!"
Followed the White Mountain Canary:
"You'll reckon with _me_ for this!"
Down to Beekstein Hall, with his black-rimmed spectacles, each member
of the outraged nine climbed to the transom and expressed his
unflattering opinion.
Stover sat down, his chin in his hands, his eyes on the great,
lumbering mitt that lay dishonored on the floor.
"I'm disgraced," he said slowly, "disgraced. It's all over--all over.
I'm queered--queered forever!"