THE GAME WITH NORRISVILLE
This afternoon’s contest was the first one of the season with an
outside team. Norrisville Academy, since it was a boarding school, had
the advantage of being able to get into condition rather earlier in the
year than Clearfield High School. To-day’s opponents had, in fact, been
practicing regularly since the latter part of February, since they were
so fortunate as to possess a fine gymnasium with a big and practical
baseball cage. Aside from this advantage, however, Norrisville had
nothing Clearfield hadn’t, and if the latter had enjoyed another
fortnight of practice Dick Lovering would have had no doubt as to
the outcome of the game. But as things were he told himself that he
would be quite satisfied if his charges came through with something
approaching a close score.
It was a splendid April day, warm and still. There were a good many
clouds about, though, and the morning paper had predicted showers.
With this in mind, Dick resolved to get a good start in the first
few innings, if that were possible, and so presented a line-up that
surprised the large audience of High School rooters that had turned
out for the game. As set down in Manager Wayland’s score-book, the
order of batting was as follows: Bryan, 2b; Farrar, cf; Merrick, 1b;
Jones, ss; Scott, 3b; McCoy, lf; Breen, rf; White, c; Nostrand, p.
This arrangement in Dick’s present judgment presented the team’s best
batting strength. Tom Nostrand was put in the box instead of Tom Haley,
since so far this spring he had out-hit the first-choice pitcher almost
two to one. It takes runs to win a game and runs were what Dick was
after.
Fudge, occupying one and a third seats behind the home plate, flanked
by Perry on one side and Arthur Beaton, the Track Team Manager, on the
other, viewed the selection of talent dubiously. More than that, he
didn’t hesitate to criticize. Fudge never did. He was a good, willing
critic. No one, though, took him seriously, unless, perhaps, it was the
devoted Perry, who, knowing little of baseball, was ready to concede
much knowledge of the subject to his chum. Arthur Beaton, however,
frankly disagreed with Fudge’s statements.
“Forget it, Fudge,” he said. “Dick Lovering knew baseball when you
were waving a rattle. Talk about things you understand.”
“Of course he knows baseball. I’m not saying he doesn’t, am I? What
I’m telling you is that Joe Browne’s a heap better fielder than Howard
Breen.”
“Maybe, but he isn’t worth two cents as a hitter.”
“That’s all right. If a fellow fields well enough he doesn’t have to be
any Ty Cobb to make good. It’s all right to go after runs, but if you
let the other fellow get runs, too, what good are you doing? If they
whack a ball into right field it’ll be good for three bases, I tell
you. Breen’s as slow as cold molasses and can’t throw half-way to the
plate!”
“You’d better slip down there before it’s too late and tell that to
Dick,” said Arthur sarcastically. “He’d be mighty glad to know it.”
“That’s all right, old scout. You wait and see if I’m not right. I just
hope the first fellow up lams one into right!”
He didn’t though; he popped a foul to Lanny and retired to the bench.
The succeeding “Norris-villains,” as Fudge called them, were quickly
disposed of at first, and Harry Bryan went to bat for the home team.
Bryan was a heady batsman and had a reputation for getting his base. He
wasn’t particular how he did it. He was a good waiter, had a positive
genius for getting struck with the ball and could, when required, lay
down a well-calculated bunt. Once on the base, he was hard to stop. On
this occasion, he followed Dick’s instructions and was walked after
six pitched balls. Pete Farrar waited until Clayton, the Norrisville
pitcher, had sent a ball and a strike over and then trundled one
down the first base path that started well but unfortunately rolled
out, to the immense relief of the hovering Norrisville pitcher and
first-baseman. With two strikes against him, it was up to Pete to hit
out of the infield, but Captain Jones, coaching at first, sent Bryan
off to second and Pete’s swipe at the ball missed. Bryan, though,
was safe by three feet, and the stands applauded wildly and saw in
imagination the beginning of Clearfield’s scoring. But Bryan never got
beyond second in that inning. Gordon Merrick flied out to shortstop and
Captain Warner Jones, trying his best to hit between second and short,
lined one squarely into second-baseman’s glove.
Nostrand held the enemy safe once more, although the second man up got
to first on Scott’s error and slid safely to second when the third
batsman was thrown out, Scott to Merrick. A fly to McCoy in left field
ended the suspense.
It was Will Scott who started things going for the Purple. He was
first up and caught the second offering on the end of his bat and
landed it in short right for a single. McCoy sacrificed nicely and
Scott took second. Breen there and then vindicated Dick’s judgment.
After Clayton had put himself in a hole by trying to give Breen what he
didn’t want, and after the onlookers had gone through a violent attack
of heart-failure when Will Scott was very nearly caught off second,
Breen found something he liked the look of and crashed his bat against
it with the result that Scott sped home and Breen rested on second.
Dick summoned Lanny and whispered to him and Lanny nodded and strode
to the plate swinging the black bat that was his especial pride and
affection. Norrisville played in and Lanny did what they expected he
would try to do, but did it so well that their defense was unequal to
the task. His bunt toward third was slow and short. Breen landed on the
next bag and Lanny streaked for first. Both third-baseman and catcher
went after the bunt and there was an instant of indecision. Then
third-baseman scooped up the ball and pegged to first. But Lanny, whose
record for sixty yards was six and four-fifths seconds, beat out the
throw.
Nostrand played a waiting game and had two strikes and a ball on him
before Lanny found his chance to steal. Then, with a good getaway, he
slid to second unchallenged, Nostrand swinging and missing. With men
on third and second and but one down, the world looked bright to the
Clearfield supporters, but when, a moment later, Nostrand’s attempt
at a sacrifice fly popped high and fell into shortstop’s hands, the
outlook dimmed.
But there was still hope of more runs. With Bryan up, Clearfield might
get a hit. The Norrisville catcher, though, decided that Bryan would
be better on first than at bat and signaled for a pass. Four wide ones
were pitched and Harry trotted to first and the bases were filled.
Theoretically, the Norrisville catcher was right, for with two out
three on bases were no more dangerous than two, and he knew that the
next batsman, Pete Farrar, had earned his location in the line-up
because of his ability to sacrifice rather than to hit out. But for
once theory and practice didn’t agree. Farrar, barred from bunting,
resolved to go to the other extreme and hit as hard and as far as he
could――if he hit at all. For a minute or two it looked as though he was
not to hit at all, for Clayton kept the ball around Farrar’s knees and
registered two strikes against him before Pete realized the fact. Then
came a ball and then a good one that Pete fouled behind first base.
Another ball, and the tally was two and two. Again Pete connected and
sent the ball crashing into the stand. Clayton’s attempt to cut the
corner resulted badly for him, for the umpire judged it a ball. Anxious
coachers danced and shouted jubilantly.
“He’s got to pitch now, Pete!” bawled Captain Jones. “It’s got to be
good! Here we go! On your toes, Breen! Touch all the bases, Harry! Yip!
Yip! Yip! Yi――――”
The last “Yip” was never finished, for just when Warner was in
the middle of it bat and ball met with a _crack_ and a number of
things happened simultaneously. The ball went streaking across the
infield, rising as it went, Breen scuttled to the plate, Lanny flew
to third, Harry Bryan sped to second, Pete legged it desperately to
first. Second-baseman made a wild attempt to reach the ball, but
it passed well above his upstretched glove and kept on. Right- and
center-fielders started in, hesitated, changed their minds and raced
back. The spectators, on their feet to a boy――or girl――yelled madly
as fielders and ball came nearer and nearer together far out beyond
the running track in deep center. A brief moment of suspense during
which the shouting died down to little more than a murmur and then the
outcome was apparent and the yelling suddenly arose to new heights. The
fielders slowed down in the shadow of the distant fence, but not so
the ball. It made a fine, heroic effort to pass out of the field but
couldn’t quite do it. Instead it banged against the boards a few inches
from the top and bounded back. It was right-fielder who recovered it
and who, turning quickly, made a fine throw to second-baseman. And
second-baseman did all he could to cut that hit down to a three-bagger,
but Pete was already scuttling to the plate when the ball left his
hand and the throw, being hurried, took the catcher just far enough to
the right to let Pete in. Pete, catcher and ball became interestingly
mixed together for an instant in a cloud of dust and then the umpire,
stooping and spreading his arms with palms downward, returned his
verdict.
“_He’s safe!_” declared the official.
The breathless Pete was extricated and pulled triumphantly to the bench
while Norrisville, represented by catcher and pitcher and shortstop,
who was also captain, gathered around the home plate to record their
displeasure at the decision. But Mr. Cochran, physical director at the
Y. M. C. A., discouraged argument and waved them aside politely but
firmly and, while the cheering died away, Gordon Merrick went to bat.
Clayton was shaken by that home-run and seemed absolutely unable to
tell where the plate was, although the catcher despairingly invited
him to come up and have a look at it! Gordon smiled serenely and
presently walked to first. Captain Jones sent him to second with a nice
hit past shortstop and Clearfield got ready to acclaim more tallies.
But Scott’s best was a slow grounder to shortstop and he made the third
out.
Five runs, however, was enough to win the game, or so, at least, the
delighted Clearfield supporters declared. And so, too, thought the
players themselves. As for their coach, Dick hoped the game was safe,
but he meant to take no chances and so when in the next inning, after
his own players had failed to add to the total, Norrisville began to
show a liking for Tom Nostrand’s delivery by getting two safeties and
putting a man on third before the side was retired, Dick sent Tom Haley
to warm up.
There was no more scoring by either team until the first of the sixth.
Then Haley had a bad inning. The first Norrisville batter laid down a
bunt toward the pitcher’s box and Tom, fielding it hurriedly, pegged
it far over Merrick’s head. The runner slid to second in safety. That
mishap unsettled Haley and he filled the bases by passing the next two
men. That Clearfield finally got out of the hole with only two runs
against her might well be considered a piece of good fortune. In the
last of the sixth Clearfield added one more tally and the score stood
6 to 2. Neither side scored in the seventh.
For my part, I’d like to lower the curtain. Clearfield should have
had that game. But it wasn’t to be. Perhaps the home players were
too certain. At all events, errors began to crop out at the most
unfortunate times, and these, coupled with Tom Haley’s erratic
pitching, were the Purple’s undoing. It was Captain Jones himself
who booted an easy hit that might have been a double and instead of
retiring the side in the first of the eighth, let two more runs cross
the plate. Then Haley hit a batsman, donated a third base on balls
and finally allowed a hard-slugging Norrisville man to slap out a
two-bagger. When the worst was over the score was tied, and so it
remained throughout the ninth inning and the tenth and the eleventh and
the twelfth. And when that was over darkness had descended and eighteen
very tired players heard with relief the umpire call the game. And
several hundred spectators, rather stiff and chilly and hungry, went
disappointedly home to supper.
“I knew mighty well,” declared Fudge as he and Perry made their way
through the twilight, “that we could never win with _that_ line-up! You
heard me tell Harry so, too, didn’t you?”
And Perry, being a good chum, assented.
The next day it rained. Not enough, as Fudge bitterly reflected, to
keep a fellow from going to church, but sufficiently to make sojourning
out of doors in the afternoon a very wet and unpleasant business.
It drizzled, but the drizzle was much more of a rain than a mist,
and when, about three o’clock, Fudge went across town to Perry’s
house he arrived in a fairly damp condition. Being damp affected
Fudge’s naturally sunny disposition. It didn’t make him cross, but
it gave him an injured and slightly pathetic expression and tinged
his utterances with gloom and pessimism. He wasn’t a very cheerful
companion to-day, and Perry, who had been having a rather comfortable
and cozy time curled up on the black horse-hair lounge in the Doctor’s
reception-room――also used as a parlor on extraordinary occasions――with
a volume of Du Chaillu’s travels which he had happened on in the
book-case, almost wished that his friend had stayed at home. They went
up to Perry’s room and sat by the open window and watched the drizzle
and talked desultorily of track and field work and yesterday’s game
and of many other things. The affair of the “train-robber” was, it
seemed by mutual agreement, avoided; it was not a day to inspire one
to detecting. The “train-robber’s” window was open across the back
yard, but no one appeared at it. Fudge had drawn the conversation back
to shot-putting and was indulging in a few well-chosen disparaging
remarks with regard to the overbearing manner of Harry Partridge when
sounds came to them. Of course sounds had been coming to them for
half an hour; the patter of rain, the quiet footfalls of Mrs. Hull
below-stairs, the whistle of the three-twenty-two train crossing the
bridge and such ordinary noises; but this was new and different. Perry
drew Fudge’s attention to it and then listened puzzledly. At first it
seemed to come from around the corner of the house, but presently they
located it in the room occupied by the “train-robber.” They crowded
their heads through the window and strained their ears.
“What’s he doing?” demanded Fudge in a hoarse whisper after a minute or
two.
“I think”――Perry hesitated――“I think he’s singing!”
“Singing!”
“Yes; listen!” They listened. Perry was right. The sounds that issued
from the window were undoubtedly those of a man’s voice raised in song.
What the words of the song were they couldn’t make out, but the tune,
if it deserved the name, was peculiarly slow and doleful.
“Jimminy, he must be feeling bad!” muttered Fudge.
“Sounds like a――a dirge, doesn’t it?”
“Awful!” They tried hard to hear what it was all about, but as the
singer was evidently well back from the window and as the window was
some little distance away, they failed. Finally they drew their heads
in, being by that time somewhat wet, and viewed each other inquiringly.
Then, without a word, Fudge lifted his cap from the table, Perry,
equally silent, moved toward the door and the two quietly descended the
staircase. Perry got his cap from the tree in the front hall and they
slipped through the front door, across the porch and into the drizzle.
Two minutes later they were climbing the stairs in the brick building
on G Street, looking very much like the desperate conspirators they
felt themselves to be. A pleasant odor from the bakery on the first
floor pursued them as they noiselessly ascended the staircase and crept
along the first hall. The building was silent and apparently deserted
until, half-way up the second flight, from behind the closed door and
transom of Number 7, came the muffled tones of a deep bass voice in
monotonous, wailing cadence. The boys paused at the head of the stairs
and listened. Words came to them, but only occasionally. They tip-toed
nearer. That was better. They could hear fairly well now.
“I wash in a pool and wipe on a sack,
And carry my wardrobe right on my back.
For want of a stove I cook bread in a pot,
And sleep on the ground for want of a cot.”
As the voices of the Sirens lured Ulysses of old, so the doleful
strains lured Perry and Fudge nearer and nearer.
“My ceiling’s the sky and my carpet’s the grass,
My music’s the lowing of herds as they pass.
My books are the streams and my Bible’s a stone,
My preacher’s a wolf on a pulpit of bones.”
By now the two boys were standing on either side of the door, listening
raptly.
“The preacher he says from his pulpit of bones
That the Lord favors those who look out for their own.
My friends often hint――――”
The wails ceased. A moment’s silence ensued. Then the door was suddenly
opened, and:
“Come right in, pardners,” said a voice. “Everything’s free!”