THIRD BASE THATCHER
THE BASEBALL BOOKS
PITCHER POLLOCK
CATCHER CRAIG
FIRST BASE FAULKNER
SECOND BASE SLOAN
THIRD BASE THATCHER
[Illustration: He leaned on the very first ball pitched]
THIRD BASE
THATCHER
BY
EVERETT (Deacon) SCOTT
SHORT STOP OF THE YANKEE BASEBALL TEAM
1922 CHAMPIONS OF THE AMERICAN LEAGUE
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
LESLIE CRUMP
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
1923
Copyright, 1923,
By DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, Inc.
PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. BY
The Quinn & Boden Company
BOOK MANUFACTURERS
RAHWAY NEW JERSEY
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I FOUL! 1
II THE FIGHT IN THE DARK 9
III FORCED OUT 18
IV ON HIS OWN 25
V THE CUB REPORTER 35
VI WITH THE WRECKERS 45
VII THE WRECK 49
VIII THE VICTIM 58
IX TO THE RESCUE 64
X ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS 70
XI BACK TO PENNINGTON 79
XII “ALL OUT FOR BASEBALL” 85
XIII “YOU, TOO, THATCHER” 94
XIV INDOOR PRACTICE 100
XV ALL OUT FOR BASEBALL 120
XVI THE SCRUB TEAM 131
XVII A STIFF SCHEDULE 148
XVIII ON THE BENCH 157
XIX GOULD IS SET DOWN 167
XX FIRE! 177
XXI THIRD BASE THATCHER 198
XXII TREACHERY? 210
XXIII VOICES 229
XXIV THE BIG GAME 250
ILLUSTRATIONS
He leaned on the very first ball pitched _Frontispiece_
FACING
PAGE
He rushed into another furious attack 16
“I――I――think he’s still alive,” Jeff answered 116
With a terrific jump Jeff shot up in the air 282
THIRD BASE THATCHER
CHAPTER I
FOUL!
It was the last minute of play. The score stood 14 to 14. The teams of
’25 and ’26, the Freshman and Sophomore classes of Pennington Institute,
were in a mad scramble on the gym. floor. It was the last game of the
interclass basketball tournament and on the victory hung the school
championship. Both teams had severely trounced the older teams of the
Junior and Senior classes in a series of three games each, and likewise
they had humbled each other, each class being credited with a game. This
one told the tale, and it had been madly fought from the first whistle,
as the score, chalked on the blackboard above the heads of the madly
cheering crowd of students who lined the gallery running track,
attested.
Suddenly, out of the mêlée of flying arms and legs, panting and
perspiring bodies and tense, almost grim, fighting faces on the gym.
floor, shot Thatcher, a Freshman forward, a clean-limbed, black-haired
boy of rather more than average height. As if by signal from somewhere
in the crowd of milling players the ball shot upward and forward and
thumped into his hands. Just a step behind him was Gould, the Sophomore
guard, slightly shorter, but stockier and as fast as an antelope. His
face was set with an unpleasant expression of anger; there was that
about him that suggested a determination to win whether by fair means
or foul.
Thatcher dribbled the ball once, then poised momentarily and lifted
it for an overhead shot at the basket for the winning two points.
Gould, in desperation, hurled himself forward, tried to stop the shot,
and, failing, fell to the floor with a crash. The ball was describing
a graceful arc toward the back board from which it caromed into the
basket.
“Foul! He tripped me!” cried Gould as he rolled over on the floor.
The referee’s whistle shrilled just as the ball slipped through the
basket, the cords playing a crisp tattoo on its bulging leather sides.
“Foul!” announced the referee. “Basket void. Free shot for the Sophs.”
Thatcher, astonished at the sudden turn of the incident, stood still
under the basket for a moment while Hoffman, the Sophomore captain,
swept down and gathered in the ball to take it to the other end of the
court for the free shot to which the foul entitled him. Suddenly the
Freshman forward snapped into angry action.
“Here! Wait! It’s a fake, Mr. Thomas. I didn’t trip him. He fell
purposely to make it look like a foul. It was a trick, I tell you. I
didn’t touch him.”
“He did. He lies. He tripped me!” yelled Gould, getting to his feet.
Thatcher looked at him coldly, and with the utmost self possession
spoke to him.
“You have the effrontery to stand there and say that, Gould, when you
know it isn’t true! I’m surprised at your sportsmanship.”
Gould’s face grew livid under the sting of the reproach.
“You lie,” he snorted, “you know you tripped me. Didn’t he, Mr.
Thomas?”
The referee, surprised himself at the turn of events, confessed:
“He fell, Thatcher, and it looked to me like an ugly foul. That’s my
decision.”
“I can’t blame you, Mr. Thomas, for he did make it look real. He’s a
good fakir. If I――”
Gould, enraged now, stepped in front of the Freshman forward, and
shaking his clenched fist under Thatcher’s nose, roared:
“I’ll smash your face if――”
“Stop! Enough of that. Get off the floor, both of you. You’re ruled out
of the game. Hoffman, shoot the basket,” snapped the referee, realizing
suddenly that he had already permitted matters to go too far.
Hoffman toed the foul line, coolly lifted the ball, took careful and
accurate aim and shot it upward and forward. The sphere went whirling
prettily through the air, thumped against the back board and dropped
neatly through the basket. The referee’s whistle sounded. He reached
for the ball to carry it to the center again when the timekeeper
sounded his whistle and the game was over. The score was 15 to 14 and
the Sophomores had won. Pandemonium reigned in the running track
gallery where crowds of second year men cheered and stamped and
whistled to the consternation of a big group of chagrined Freshmen.
Thatcher, who had lingered on the side line of the court long enough
to see Hoffman shoot the basket and win the game, was joined by the
four other freshman players and two substitutes and together they
made their way to the spiral stairway that led to the locker room in
the basement. No one spoke a word for some time until Buck Hart, the
captain and center, a second year man but taking some Freshman work in
class and thus eligible for the “fresh” team, crossed over to the bench
on which Thatcher was sitting and slipping an arm across his shoulder
affectionately, said:
“It’s a doggone shame, Jeff, but don’t you take it too hard. You were
playing to win, that’s all.”
“Yes, I was playing to win, but I wasn’t playing dirty, Buck. And the
worst of it is I believe Mr. Thomas still thinks I tripped him, the
dirty fakir that he is.”
“Well――er――ah――he sure fell hard, Jeff. Didn’t you have something to do
with it?” asked Buck.
“What! Why, Buck, you wouldn’t think that of me, would you?” exclaimed
Thatcher, a look of pained surprise on his face.
“Well――ah――it looked sort of rough to me. I saw him go down and he was
right in front of you. Looked bad to me and I was surprised to think
_you_ of any of us should foul so deliberately.”
“But, hang it, Buck, I didn’t. Oh, please believe me, I had nothing to
do with it. I never have played dirty in my life and believe me I’m
not beginning now. It was he who played dirty. It was a rotten trick.
When he saw he couldn’t stop the shot he threw himself down on the
floor――fell purposely and then howled that I had tripped him. It was
quick thinking on his part all right, but dirty work. He saw that if
he could get away with it he would spoil my basket and give his side a
chance for a free shot to win the game. And, thanks to his cleverness,
it worked out just the way he doped it.”
“Gee whizz, the dirty skate,” exclaimed Cas Gorham, a sub, who had
gathered around Jeff, with the rest of the members of the team.
“Gould is a hard loser, I’ve found out. They tell me last year
in baseball he pulled some shady trick and――say――gee whizz――I
forgot――this isn’t the last you’ll have to do with Gould. He played
third base on the scrub team last year and he’s got it doped out that
he is naturally going to inherit that position on the big team this
year since Squires graduated. And, by jingoes, that’s the job you
are going to try for.” It was Brownie Davis who was speaking, one of
the fellows who had been instrumental in getting Thatcher to come to
Pennington.
“That’s my regular job. The position I played best on the Y. M. C. A.
team last year, you know,” said Thatcher with a smile.
“Sure, we know. Don’t we all remember that was one of the best amateur
teams in the state?” said Rabbit Warren, slapping Thatcher on the back.
“Well, that will be your chance to square accounts with him if you
don’t get a chance before that,” said Buck Hart. Then he added, “But
look out for him, Jeff. If he pulls that sort of stuff he’s as crooked
as a cruller. Keep your eye on him. Coach Rice told me to-day he was
going to post notices for baseball candidates to report in the gym. for
cage practice in two or three weeks. We’ll be rooting for you, Jeff.”
“Well, maybe I can keep him on the bench or on the scrub team this
year. I’ll try mighty hard you bet. But even if I do win the job away
from him that won’t take the sting out of this defeat. Honestly,
fellows, I’m as sorry as the dickens that I should be the cause of
losing the game and the school championship, even though I didn’t play
dirty myself.”
“Tut-tut, little one, don’t take it so hard,” said Buck Hart sliding
into his trousers. But it was evident to Jeff that he was not the only
one of the team who took the defeat bitterly. All of the fellows had
played hard and clean to win and for Thatcher to know that he had had
the foul called on him, even though it was not his fault, made him
feel deeply chagrined. Indeed, it made him bitter toward Gould, who
had played so unsportsmanlike, and it made him so disconsolate and
discouraged that he had very little more to say in the locker room,
hurrying through the ceremony of a cold shower, and dressing as swiftly
as he could and seeking his own room in Carter Hall, where he flung
himself into a chair and gave over to bitter reflection.