INDOOR PRACTICE
Indoor practice was not new to Jeff Thatcher. He had had a great deal
of it for two successive seasons with the New City Y. M. C. A. team and
he knew all about its limitations and its fun as well. The Pennington
Institute gym. was not a large one as gymnasiums go and Jeff felt that
Mr. Rice had picked a rather large squad for indoor work. There were
sixteen husky youngsters capering about the gym. floor, all in baseball
togs, save of course the cleated shoes which were tabooed. Instead they
all wore rubber-soled basketball shoes to the immediate benefit of both
themselves and the gym. floor.
Coach Rice and his assistant let them amuse themselves as they chose
for ten minutes while they opened dusty lockers and brought out a
variety of gloves and balls and several bats. When these made their
appearance there was a wild yell from the squad and they all stampeded
in the coach’s direction and made a wild scramble for gloves and
balls. Fortunately there were enough to go around or else those who
were slow in a scrimmage or the least bit diffident about crowding
themselves forward would surely have been left out of the distribution.
Jeff scrambled with the rest and emerged from the mêlée with a seasoned
fielder’s mitt that had seen enough service to be as flexible and as
well broken in as the most fastidious ball player could desire. Indeed,
as he slipped it on, he exclaimed:
“Oh, boy! Look what I drew. That’s a regular one. Just my size, too,
and――”
“Hi, Freshman, that’s my glove,” cut in an unpleasant voice, and Jeff
looked up to find Gould bearing down on him, his hand stretched out to
seize the glove that Jeff was examining.
Thatcher looked him over coldly.
“Oh, is it?” he said evenly. “How do you get that way?”
“Don’t get lippy to me, freshie. That’s my glove. I used it all last
year. I was looking for it in the pile,” said Gould, with a show of
authority.
“Oh, were you? So was I, and I found it first,” said Thatcher.
“What d’you mean?” snapped Gould, crowding close to Thatcher, with an
ugly look in his dark eyes.
“What do I mean? Why, I mean to keep it. And if you don’t like it let
me see you get it, you――”
“Here, cut that, Gould,” said some one, and Buck Hart crowded his big
body in between the two of them.
“Cut what?” stormed Gould.
“Oh, hush. Don’t try to get away with anything with me. You want that
glove Thatcher got because you got an old rag. Cut it or I’ll put the
argument up to Mr. Rice. You know where you’ll come off then. The glove
belongs to the man who gets it first, if he wants it. If you don’t want
the hunk of leather you’ve got, go over and pick another one from the
pile. Don’t try to take anything away from some one else; especially
Thatcher,” he added with a grin, “because Thatcher can just about smear
your nose all over your face if he wants to, and you know it. You’re
just trying to make it uncomfortable for him because you know he isn’t
anxious to fight again. His first fight with you cost him too much.”
Gould glowered at Hart and Thatcher alternately and grumbled something
about people who butted into other people’s business, but he did not
have the courage to continue the argument after that.
“He’s a nasty kid,” said Buck to Thatcher as he fell in beside Jeff and
walked across the gym. to where Coach Rice was talking to a group of
candidates.
“――and remember,” he was saying, “don’t any of you be foolish and try
to use speed or curves or anything else. This is just to limber up the
throwing muscles that have been dormant all winter and are probably
stiff and clumsy. I don’t want any tendons pulled or any cases of
Charley horse or glass arms to start the season with. If you’ll take my
advice you just toss ’em about a little. All ready, fellows. Come on.
Line up eight men at the south end and eight men at the north end. Snap
to it. That’s right. Now go to it.”
The fellows lined up along the north end and spread out across the
gym. and presently a hearty game of catch was in progress in which
eight men from one end of the floor tossed to eight men at the other
end of the floor. But to the slight embarrassment of Thatcher and the
evident displeasure of Gould, both discovered that the formation of
the two lines of candidates brought them facing each other. They were
on the receiving end of each other’s throws. Jeff had the ball and
for a moment as he saw who his partner was he paused and smiled. He
appreciated the irony of the thing.
Gould, on the other hand, scowled unpleasantly and growled.
“Come on. Throw it, you.”
“All right. Here you are, old sour face,” said Thatcher, in no way awed
by his glowering looks, and he threw the ball smoothly and evenly down
to Gould.
It was returned with a snap, for Gould must needs find some vent for
the spleen that was in him. But this did not bother Thatcher. The ball
thumped pleasantly into his glove and the mere feeling of the sphere
and the sound of it as it smacked against the leather sent a thrill of
joy tingling up and down his spine. It was great once more to have on a
glove and feel the weight of the thumping ball. He enjoyed the game of
catch immensely, despite the fact that he did not like his partner, and
he returned throw for throw with enthusiasm.
The gymnasium presented an interesting spectacle then to the fellows
watching from the running track. The air seemed full of baseballs.
Eight snowy white spheres were weaving back and forth and plunking into
gloves with a rhythm that was blood stirring to the dyed-in-the-wool
baseball enthusiasts who were looking on and they waxed enthusiastic
despite the fact that they were not working with the candidates.
Despite the admonitions of Coach Rice the fusillade of baseballs became
hotter as muscles were limbered up and the candidates began to feel
their blood mounting. Again and again he had to shout at the top of his
voice:
“Ease up there. None of that speed stuff. Cut it down. Cut it down.
You, Hart, cut down on the steam. Daily, ease up there――EASE UP――don’t
you understand English? Gould, that’s enough. Any more of that burning
them in and off the floor you go. Don’t be so enthusiastic. You’ve got
the whole spring and summer to burn up the air.”
Thatcher smiled as the coach called Gould down. He knew that it was
not through enthusiasm alone that he was “burning up the air.” There
was the sting of malice about each snappy throw that Gould put over
and Thatcher realized that his partner would be perfectly glad if he
should by chance let one of the throws slip through his glove. Indeed,
Gould made catching the throws as difficult as possible, and Jeff had
to be on the alert all the time to get them as they came speeding in.
But he found a certain degree of pleasure in that, too, for despite
some of the awkward positions that he was forced to get into to receive
the ball, he got them all and he was glad of the opportunity to show
Gould that he did know how to handle a glove, even on the first day of
practice.
For twenty minutes that game of catch kept up. Then suddenly Coach Rice
blew a whistle and stopped it.
“All right. That’s enough, fellows. No more baseball to-day. Form two
circles now. That’s it. Spread out. Mr. Clarkson, you take one group
and I’ll take the other. Get the medicine balls.”
Those big cumbersome pieces of gym. paraphernalia were rolled out onto
the floor, one for each group, and presently the fellows were engaged
in a lively game of passing the ball from one to another. There was no
restraint in this game and the passing became fast and furious, the
heavy ball going around the circles with lightning swiftness and the
fellows grunting each time they caught or passed the ball. So it kept
up, the pace of passing growing faster and faster and faster, until all
of the baseball candidates were perspiring freely. Indeed, the sweat
was running down Jeff Thatcher’s face in trickles and he was panting
with the exertion of the work-out.
Suddenly the coach’s whistle blew and the passing stopped.
“All right, fellows. Bully work-out. Great pep. Now for the showers and
the tank.”
“Let’s go,” yelled the panting Buck Hart as he started for the stairs
to the basement, taking off his shirt as he ran.
A wild yell followed and the rest of the sixteen candidates streamed
along in his wake, undressing as they ran. Indeed by the time most of
them reached the locker room they had but to peel off their trousers,
unlace and kick off shoes and stockings, and they were ready for the
showers.
Like a lot of porpoises they streamed inside the tiled shower room and
dashed under the hissing sprays, crowding, pushing and shoving for a
place under the cold streams of water so that they could close up their
perspiring pores and be ready for a plunge into the warmer water of the
tank.
With that horde of husky youngsters under the showers the tiled room
rang with the shouts, gulps, snorts, and screams of pure delight as
they splashed under the cold sprays of almost icy water. There were
spills on the slippery tile floor, but that did not count for much.
There were squabbles over the proprietorship of the remarkably few
pieces of soap that were in use; there were water fights and wrestling
matches, but none of them proved serious.
It was Buck Hart as usual who led the crowd.
“Last one into the tank is IT. Wow,” and he made a dash for the
swinging door that cut off the shower room from the long tiled room in
which was the swimming tank with its inviting blue-green water.
Like so many otters they went overboard and the splashes and yells
would have made a stranger believe that an army was taking a plunge
instead of less than a score of boys.
Jeff Thatcher was overboard with the first of the group. Diving and
fetching up half way across the tank he came up with a snort and a
shake of his head to clear the water out of his eyes; then, turning, he
watched to see who would be the last one in. But as he turned, a head
bobbed up out of the water just in front of him, and to his surprise he
saw that the swimmer was Birdie Pell.
“Hello, Thatcher,” said Pell, surprised and somewhat embarrassed to
discover his chum’s sworn enemy facing him.
“Hello, yourself,” said Thatcher, “how’d you get in?”
“Shush-s-h, I sneaked it. Only baseball candidates supposed to be in
this afternoon, but I felt like a swim, so I sneaked down.”
“Look out Rice doesn’t catch you,” said Jeff.
“Oh, I’ll keep under water while he’s around and he won’t be able to
find me among this bunch if he should come in.”
“Duck. Here he comes now,” said Jeff, for Mr. Rice shoved his way
through the swinging doors and came to the edge of the tank.
Pell submerged like a beaver and Jeff, not anxious to see him
discovered, began a prodigious splashing and milling about with the
rest of the fellows. Out of the tail of his eye, however, he could see
Pell’s form moving under water toward the spring board float at the far
end, and Jeff knew that the little Sophomore would come up under the
float and stay there until Mr. Rice had gone.
But the coach did not go. Instead he stood on the edge of the tank and
watched the fellows for about five minutes. Then he blew his whistle
for attention and shouted:
“That’s enough, fellows. Just a plunge. Turn out now.”
One by one the boys, with pink, glowing skin, climbed up the brass
ladder at the upper end of the pool and made for the locker room.
Jeff lingered as long as he dared, for he wanted to see if Pell would
reappear from under the spring board float. Indeed, he lingered so long
that he was the last one in the tank and Mr. Rice spoke to him.
“Come on, Thatcher, you water rat. Climb out. You’ll get another swim
to-morrow.”
There was nothing else for Jeff to do but to climb out then and follow
the coach into the locker room, leaving Pell alone in the tank and
hiding under the spring board float, where, Jeff knew, there was just
enough clearance between the bottom of the float and the surface of the
water for a swimmer to float flat on his back and keep his face out of
water.
For some reason it worried Thatcher to leave Pell hiding there. Twice
he looked back to see if he could see the boy, but he realized that if
Mr. Rice saw him glancing backward that he would suspect immediately
that some one was hiding under the float and then Pell would be caught.
This Jeff did not want to have happen, and so he went on into the
locker room and said nothing about the Sophomore, concluding of course
that as soon as Mr. Rice had left the basement Pell would make his
getaway.
In the scramble for towels and the general babble of the locker room,
Jeff forgot Pell for a little while until he saw Mr. Rice disappear up
the stairs toward the gym. floor. Then he went to the door of the tank
room to pass Pell the word.
The diminutive Sophomore was standing on the float poised for a back
dive.
“Hi, Pell, he’s gone,” called Thatcher guardedly, “you’d better come
out now.”
“Nix, not if he’s gone. I’m going to have a real swim.”
Thatcher looked at him in silence for a moment. He recalled the rules
of the school regarding the swimming pool. No student was permitted
under any circumstances to be alone in the pool. There must be some
other person in the pool at the time. This provision had been made
after the body of one boy had been found in the pool. He had gone in
swimming alone and something had happened, and because no one had
visited the tank the rest of that day or that night, his body was not
found until the following morning. After that a strict rule had been
instituted that no boy should enter the tank alone.
By staying there Pell was breaking this rule. Jeff wondered whether it
was his duty to stay in the tank room until Pell had finished.
“It is not,” he finally told himself. “If he wants to break the rule
let him. It’s his business. If he’s caught he can take his medicine.”
And he turned back into the locker room.
He started to dress, slipping into his underclothes. Then by some
strange freak he decided to brush his hair before dressing further. On
his way to the big mirror at the end of the room he had to pass the
tank room door, and out of idle curiosity he pushed it open and glanced
inside. Pell was not to be seen.
Jeff stood there a moment puzzled. There was no disturbance on the
surface of the water. Had Pell left the pool and come in to the locker
room to dress? Jeff did not recall seeing him enter but perhaps he had
come in while he had his back to the door. Perhaps――
Jeff gasped. As he stood there in the doorway he saw a hand break the
surface of the pool. There was something horrible, something ghastly
about that hand. It came up with clutching fingers. It seemed to be
reaching vainly for something. The fingers worked convulsively, closed
upon thin air, then disappeared beneath the surface again.
“Great goodness, it’s Pell! Something has happened to him. He is
drowning!” exclaimed Thatcher.
Frightened almost to panic for a moment, Jeff rushed through the door
and across the tiled floor of the tank room to the edge of the pool.
From the marble slabs that lined sides and top of the pool he could see
in the green-blue depths little Pell’s naked body twisting and turning
convulsively under the surface. He could see his arms outflung and
his clawing, grasping hands clutching and slipping at the smooth tile
at the bottom of the pool. He could see his horribly distorted face
upturned; his bulging eyes stared straight toward Jeff.
All signs of panic left Thatcher then. He realized that Pell’s
condition was very serious. And somehow the fact that he alone was
there to help the drowning Sophomore seemed suddenly to give him the
courage and cool-headedness that was necessary in the emergency.
For a fraction of a second he stood poised on the edge of the pool,
then in a beautiful deep dive he plunged under and with strong strokes
swept down to the bottom and seized Pell by the hair. The tank was
seven feet deep where Pell had been diving and so it was impossible
for Jeff to stand on bottom. He did however plant his feet firmly on
the tiles and shoved himself toward the surface, dragging Pell after
him and bringing his head above water, too.
But the half-conscious drowning Pell never knew what was taking place.
Instinct, however, moved his arms, and his grasping hands closed around
Jeff in a death grip, and before Thatcher realized it, he was being
strangled in a deadly grasp. Jeff had expected this, and as they both
went under again, he forced Pell’s head around, pushed his own hands
and arms up between the arms that were entwined about his neck, and
with a superhuman effort, broke the grip. And when they came to the
surface again Pell was so far gone that he made no further resistance.
On his back and holding Pell’s dragging body under the chin, Jeff swam
toward the brass ladder and climbed drippingly out. He dragged Pell up
onto the marble coping and then gathered his limp form into his arms
and hurried toward the locker room.
His appearance at the doorway of the locker room in dripping
underclothes with the white and bloodless form of the little Sophomore
in his arms caused consternation for a moment. The fellows who saw him
rushed toward him, exclaiming.
“I――I――think he’s still alive,” Jeff answered to the hasty questions
that were put to him, “but for Pete’s sake lend a hand here and hurry
up or he will pass out. He’s full of water.”
[Illustration: “I――I――think he’s still alive,” Jeff answered]
“Right,” exclaimed Buck Hart, lifting Pell out of Jeff’s arms and
laying him on a bench. “Here, fellows, a little pep now. Take hold.”
Eager hands grasped Pell and followed Buck’s directions.
First they stood the unconscious boy all but on his head while quarts
of water drained out of his nose and mouth.
This done they laid him flat on the floor and proceeded to administer
artificial respiration. Slowly and carefully, but with the necessary
vigor, they worked his arms while they inflated and deflated his chest
with the pressure of their hands. All of the boys were white and most
of them were very much frightened, and doubtless had it not been for
the cool-headed direction of Buck Hart and Jeff Thatcher, Pell would
not have fared so well as he did. But they had scarcely worked over
him five minutes when color began to come back into his ashen cheeks
and his eyelids began to flutter.
“His heart is getting stronger. Keep it up, fellows,” said Jeff, who
was working his chest up and down.
“Good. He’s breathing feebly. Keep up the good work,” added Buck Hart.
And this gave the fellows encouragement, for they worked with a will,
then, and in a remarkably short time Pell opened his eyes and stared
glassily at the lights overhead.
“Oh, boy, I guess we’ve saved him,” exclaimed Thatcher in a relieved
voice.
“I guess we have. But Birdie dear had a narrow squeak,” said Buck Hart.
“I’ll say he did. Suppose we should send for Mr. Rice?” asked Jeff,
thinking of the coach for the first time.
“That’s what we should have done in the first place instead of
monkeying around ourselves. But I don’t think we need to now. He’s
coming through, and if we get the coach here he’ll raise a pack of
trouble for Pell. Let’s not.”
Pell’s eyes were clearing. He was smiling now and he seemed to
understand what the fellows had been saying, although he did not
attempt to speak. Still they worked over him, and faster and faster
he regained strength and consciousness, until presently he began to
struggle feebly to sit up. They helped him into a rickety locker room
chair and began to rub him dry with towels. The friction of the rubbing
was as good as a stimulant to the boy and before long he raised his
head and said weakly:
“What happened? Last I remember I tried a back dive off the float and
my foot slipped. Must have cracked my head on something.” He felt of
the back of his head and brought his fingers away with a pink stain on
them.
“Guess you did crack your head,” said Buck Hart, examining the wound.
“There’s a lump there as big as a goose egg and a pretty bad bruise,
too. Believe me, you are lucky, Birdie. If Thatcher hadn’t dragged you
out when he did you’d be a dead one now.”
Pell looked at Thatcher gratefully.
“Did you save me, Thatcher? Thanks, old fellow.” And he held out a
trembling hand.
“Don’t think of it,” said Jeff, shaking hands; “here, get some clothes
on. You are shivering.”
Jeff and Buck somehow managed to get him into his clothes and to
get him over beside a sizzling steam radiator, where they made him
comfortable while they dressed themselves. And Jeff noticed with a
feeling of contempt for Gould that during all their efforts to bring
Pell around the older Sophomore had done nothing to be of service to
his supposed chum.
“Fine kind of a friend he is,” thought Jeff, as he was crawling into
a basketball uniform that he intended to use in lieu of the wet
underclothing that he hung over the steam radiator to dry.