THE CLASS GAMES
“Well, it’s certainly a cinch to get out a paper during the baseball
season,” laughed Alf, as he turned the leaves of the _Yardley
Scholiast_, the weekly paper published by the students. The _Scholiast_
was playfully referred to as “the School weakly,” but it was in reality
a very good example of its kind of journalism. “Look here,” continued
Alf, holding up the sheet. “Here’s three pages of baseball; the two
Varsity games and six miscellaneous, every last one of them in full
detail. That’s an easy way to fill a paper,” he declared in disgust.
“And the rest of the paper all advertising, I suppose,” said Tom, who
was stretched out along the window seat, with one foot on the sill.
“Pretty near. Here’s a highly-colored account of the Track Meet, with a
whole lot of slush about you, and an editorial about the circus.”
“An editorial about the circus?” asked Dan in surprise. “What’s that
for?”
“Oh, that’s a regular feature at this time of the year. I think they
keep it set up and run it every Spring. About four years ago, I guess,
anyway, before I got here, the fellows went to the circus over in
Greenburg, and rough-housed the show so that they had to clear the
tent. Faculty didn’t approve and for a couple of years we weren’t
allowed to go to circuses.”
“Is the circus coming here?” asked Gerald.
“Yep, two weeks from Friday. Going?”
“You bet!” replied Gerald. “I love circuses, don’t you?”
“Crazy about them,” answered Alf cheerfully. “We’ll all go and feed
peanuts to the elephant.”
“I’d rather eat them,” murmured Tom.
“The elephants?” asked Dan.
“Oh, no,” said Alf quickly, “that would be cannibalism!”
But Tom paid no heed to the insult. He was smiling broadly at his
thoughts. “Say, Alf,” he asked, “do you remember that write-up of the
Bridgeport football game? Talking about the _Scholiast_ and the games
in detail reminded me of it.”
“Do I!” asked Alf, laughing. “I’ll never forget it.” He turned to Dan
and Gerald. “It was my first year here. There was a chap named Bridges,
a Second Class fellow, who got on the _Scholiast_ as reported. He was
a queer duck, was Bridges. The editor then was Ames Bradley, and Brad
and I had known each other at prep. Well, one day we played Bridgeport,
and Brad thought it would be a good chance for Bridges to show what he
could do. So he told him to go and write up the game, and be sure to
give all the details. Well, I wish you could have seen the report he
handed in! It was the funniest thing you ever--Say, I wonder if I ever
threw that away, Tom. I begged Brad for it, and he gave it to me, and
I had it kicking around my desk for a long time. I’ll look and see if
it’s there.”
Alf rummaged through several drawers and finally found what he was
after, half a dozen pages of foolscap pinned together at the corner.
Alf gave a chuckle and settled himself in his chair again.
“Here it is. Let me read some of it to you. It turned out afterwards,
by the way, that Bridges had never watched a game of football through
in his life and didn’t know anything about it. Now, let’s see.”
“‘Yardley vs. Bridgeport. On Tuesday last our football players played
a game on the School gridiron against the players of Bridgeport and
won. The weather was inclement and threatened to snow as the two
bands of determined players took up their several positions about
the field of play. It was a battle royal from first to last and our
players deserve great credit for the manner in which they outplayed
the Bridgeport players. The audience--’ Hum, never mind that. Here we
are. Now listen to this and bust into tears! ‘The details of the game
follow. At the commencement a Bridgeport player placed the ball in
the middle of the field and retiring for a few yards ran forward and
kicked the ball toward our players. One of the latter nimbly caught
the ball and proceeded to run with it toward the goal. At this point
it was evidenced that the Bridgeport players were determined to stop
at nothing in order to win, for almost half of them threw themselves
against our player and bore him to earth with a shock that could be
plainly heard on the stands. Luckily, however, the plucky Yardley
man was not injured and was soon on his feet again. The Bridgeport
players had by this time clustered so closely about him that he saw
that further running was impossible. So he yielded the ball to another
of his side and the opposing players drew up into what is called a
scrimmage. The ball was placed on the ground and one of our players,
uttering signals designed to confuse the enemy, thrust the ball into
the hands of one of our best players, who, although small, is very
fleet of foot. His name is Worrell, and he is one of our four speedy
quarter-backs. Worrell seemed at first in doubt which way to run and
by the time he had made up his mind the opposing players had seized
him in their arms and borne him to the ground. As the Yardley team had
not gained any advantage they were allowed to try again. This time the
ball was given to another player whose identity was not clear to the
scribe. This player, trusting to force rather than elusiveness, jumped
into the fray with the ball in his arms and the rest of our team,
quickly grasping the situation, pushed him for quite some distance, the
Bridgeport players doing their level best to frustrate the endeavor.
This maneuver succeeded so well that it was tried many more times, the
different players of our team taking turns at carrying the ball. When
about three-quarters of the field had been so conquered and the goal of
our desire was near, the Umpire’s keen vision detected an infringement
of the rules of play and he took the ball away from our players and
handed it to Bridgeport. Some members of the audience expressed
displeasure at this seemingly high-handed exercise of authority and
hooted. But the consensus of opinion amongst those with whom the
scribe discussed the episode is that the Umpire was quite within his
rights. The Yardley players bore up bravely in the face of this keen
disappointment and stood nobly shoulder to shoulder while Bridgeport
strove to take the ball back the way it had come. Time and again--’ Oh,
pshaw, that’s enough! But isn’t it great?”
“That was surely going some!” laughed Dan. “I suppose it didn’t get
into the paper, did it?”
“Hardly,” answered Alf. “I begged Brad to run it as a joke, but
he wouldn’t. That was Bridge’s first and last assignment on the
_Scholiast_.”
“But the funniest part’s to come,” said Tom, sitting up, and Alf nodded
gleefully. “After that Bridges was out at every game and the next year
he went out for his Class Team and made it as--as ‘one of the four
quarter-backs’; only they called him right half!”
“I’ve often wondered what became of him after he left here,” said Alf.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he was playing good football somewhere.”
“I suppose the fellows teased him a lot about his story,” said Gerald.
But Alf shook his head.
“No, Brad was a mighty decent sort. He never told anyone except me and
I never showed that around much; just to a few fellows who promised to
keep it dark.”
“He wasn’t a bad sort, Bridges,” said Tom lazily. “Someone tell me the
time.” And when Gerald had obeyed, “Gosh!” cried Tom. “I’ve got a
recitation in one minute and a quarter. Where’s my Anabasis? Throw it
over, Dan; it’s under your elbow. Anybody coming my way? So long, then.”
“Hold on, you idiot,” said Alf. “I’m coming. See you at practice,
Dan.” And he and Tom hurried out and clattered down the stairs of
Clarke three steps at a time. Dan seized his water pitcher, leaned out
a window, and sprinkled them as they ran by on their way to Oxford.
There were howls from below, and shaken fists, but Dan and Gerald only
laughed.
“Got Tom in great shape,” said Dan as he returned the pitcher to its
place. “He won’t find his Greek as dry as usual to-day.”
Two days later Yardley played Porter Institute on the diamond and Dan
started the game at third base. He and Condit, a Second Class boy,
were having a hard fight for the position. Most of the other places
on the Varsity were pretty well settled, but third base was a bone
of contention and the whole school was watching with interest Dan’s
struggle to oust Condit. Dan himself was not satisfied with the game
he was putting up. Somehow, he didn’t seem as sure of himself on
third as he did on second, and whenever he found himself there he was
handicapped by the ever constant fear that he would fail at some
critical moment. And in the Porter game his fear was verified.
It was the sixth inning, the score was five to three in favor of
Yardley, and Porter had a man on first and a man on second. Porter
was enjoying a batting rally and using Reid rather rudely. There was
only one out and a hit meant two runs in all probability. The fourth
man up chose a ball to his liking and sliced it down the first-base
line. Millener, playing off base, made a wild scramble for it, but it
sped by him, just inside the white mark, and went bounding into right
field. The runners sped for home. Lawrence, right-fielder, was not
asleep, however, and had raced in as soon as the ball was hit, and now
he managed to smother it some fifteen yards back of first, recovered
quickly, and threw to the plate. Richards, the catcher, got it nicely,
but was too late to put out the first runner. Quick as a flash he threw
to third. Dan was not napping, but in some unaccountable manner the
ball went through him, the man from first raced by and sped home and
the score was tied. And Porter had a man on second and only one out.
The expected had happened to Dan and he could guess the delight in
the heart of Condit over there on the bench. But he settled down when
Alf’s voice reached him encouragingly from left-field:
“Hard luck, Dan! Never mind! Keep after ’em!”
Reid, too, settled down and disposed of the next two batters and the
teams changed places. Dan walked back to the bench with a grave face.
But no one, not even Payson, the coach, made any allusion to his
mishap, and, much to his surprise, he was allowed to finish the game
at third. Yardley took the lead again in the eighth, was tied in the
ninth, and lost the game finally in the eleventh inning, 8 to 7.
That game decided the contest for third-base. Condit stepped into first
place again and Dan had to be satisfied with a seat on the bench with
the other substitutes. He was keenly disappointed and rather inclined
to wish that he had been content with a place in the outfield, where,
at least, he would have been a regular instead of a mere sub. But Alf
insisted that there was still a chance.
“Condit isn’t any great shakes,” he declared. “The same thing’s likely
to happen to him any day. Just you keep on edge and make the most of
your opportunities and it’s a safe bet you’ll play as much of the
Broadwood game as he does. And another thing, Dan; do your level best
at the bat. If you can show yourself a little better there than he
is it may decide Payson in your favor. Why, he knows that accidents
are likely to happen to the best fellows. Just you peg away at it, old
chap!”
So Dan pegged away and worked hard at the batting net and made the most
of his chances in the practice games. And all the time he was watching
Condit as a cat watches a mouse, hoping uncharitably enough that that
youth would make a costly fumble or go stale. But Condit kept himself
up to the mark and June wore along and the baseball schedule was
nearing its end.
In the first week of June the Class Championship was decided. There
were three consecutive afternoons when Yardley flamed forth in Class
colors and baseball was the sole subject of conversation. On the first
day the Fourth and Third Classes clashed on the Varsity diamond and
the respective colors, brown and green, waved wildly. The whole school
turned out to watch and cheer, the First Class fellows joining forces
with the Third, and the Second with the Fourth. Even the Faculty
attended, their coats decorated with ribbons of brown and green and
blue and red to prove that they were incapable of favoritism.
I think that perhaps the scorers worked harder that day than any of the
players, for it was a game of runs and errors, and it lasted until
the umpire, Captain Millener of the Varsity, was forced to call it at
the end of the eighth inning. Gerald played shortstop and did well. To
be sure he made two errors, but then almost every other player made as
many or more. And there weren’t many who did as well at the bat as he
did. He got three hits, one a two-bagger, and scored two of the twelve
runs which won the day for his side. Yes, Gerald did bravely, and Dan
and Alf and Tom were proud of him, and told him so, and Gerald’s head
swam with pride and delight. The final score was 12 to 9, and the
Fourth Class marched off the field bearing their warriors on high and
chanting pæans of victory.
The next day the Second Class Nine did what was expected of it and
drubbed the First heartily. That contest didn’t occasion as much
enthusiasm as the preceding one or the one which followed. The third
day’s game was almost certain to go to the Second Class, but the Fourth
Classmen refused to concede it and kept their enthusiasm on tap every
instant. Nor, as it turned out, was the Fourth so greatly mistaken in
their estimate of their team’s chances. For although the Second finally
won by a safe margin, there were moments when a victory for the wearers
of the brown ribbons and the wavers of the brown flags seemed not
unlikely. Gerald again covered himself with glory, taking part in a
double play that retired the opposing side just when it seemed about
to run away with the game. And again he batted well, and if he didn’t
score any runs himself he helped two others to do so. And although
vanquished at last, 10 to 6, the Fourth Class went off the field
cheering and quite well pleased with itself.
One morning a day or two after the final Class game Gerald met Payson,
the coach, on the steps of the gymnasium. Payson nodded, as he always
did when he met one of the fellows, whether he knew him personally or
not, passed, and then turned back.
“Aren’t you Pennimore?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” answered Gerald.
“You played shortstop for Fourth Class, eh? Well, you’ll make a pretty
fair player if you keep on, Pennimore. Next Spring you come and see me
and perhaps we’ll find room for you somewhere on the squad. How old are
you now?”
“Fourteen, sir.”
“Hm; well, get some more flesh and muscle, my boy, and you’ll do. By
the way, I see that your father has been pretty busy.”
“Sir?”
“Oh, you haven’t seen the morning paper, I guess.”
“No, sir, I don’t read the papers much.”
“Well, you get to-day’s and you’ll find something that ought to
interest you. I’m sure it would me if I were in your place,” laughed
Payson. “Don’t forget to report to me next Spring.”
With a smile and a nod he passed on, leaving Gerald consumed with
curiosity. He hurried over to Oxford and sought the library, but
the morning papers had not yet been placed on file. But there still
remained a quarter of an hour before his next recitation, and so he
went on down to the station and bought a _New York Herald_. A glance
at the first page explained Payson’s meaning. One of the columns was
headed:
BIG MERGER OF
TRANSATLANTIC
STEAMSHIP LINES
LARGE INTERESTS IN BRITISH AND FRENCH
COMPANIES NOW CONTROLLED BY
JOHN T. PENNIMORE
BLUE CRESCENT, GLASGOW, AND FRANCO-AMERICAN
LINES TO BE CONSOLIDATED
WITH STEAMSHIP KING’S
PRESENT HOLDINGS
GERMANY’S SUPREMACY IS SERIOUSLY THREATENED
Then followed a lengthy despatch from London containing an interview
with Mr. Pennimore. But Gerald was disappointed. His father was always
doing something of this sort and Gerald didn’t find anything very
interesting about it. He read the article through, just as he would
have read anything concerning his father, and then thrust the paper
into his pocket. The only feature of the despatch that interested
him was the announcement that Mr. Pennimore would sail that day from
Southampton, a fact which Gerald already knew.
But if the news didn’t excite Gerald, he found that there were others
who were not so indifferent. Mr. Collins stopped him in the Yard after
dinner and discussed it at some length.
“A wonderful man, your father, Gerald. You must be very proud of him.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Gerald.
“Well, you don’t seem very enthusiastic,” said Mr. Collins with a smile.
“No, sir--that is--well, you see, sir, father’s always doing something
of this sort. I guess it’s very clever, sir, but I don’t think I’m
proud of him on that account.”
“Then why?” asked the Assistant Principal to draw him out.
“I don’t quite know,” answered Gerald diffidently. “I--I guess because
he’s kind and good, sir. You see, he’s a pretty nice father, Mr.
Collins.” And Gerald looked up smiling a little and blushing a little.
Mr. Collins returned the smile.
“That’s so, Pennimore. And you’re right. It’s the man himself and not
his success that one should admire. But big things always enthuse me,
and this last achievement of your father’s is a big thing, a great big
thing. We little fellows who sit at home and count our fingers have to
admire the big men who get out in the world and do things.”
Gerald shook his head soberly.
“I don’t think you’re one of the ‘little fellows,’ sir,” he said. Mr.
Collins laughed.
“I’m only a big toad in a little puddle, Pennimore. Your father is a
big toad in a big puddle; that’s the difference. Well, and how are you
getting on nowadays?”
“Pretty well, sir, thank you,” answered Gerald.
“That’s good. Come and see me if you strike a snag at any time.” And
Mr. Collins went on.
The fellows, too, had heard of the Steamship King’s latest exploit
and they let Gerald know it. But, whereas four months ago they might
have said things that would have hurt Gerald’s feelings, to-day their
allusions were all good humored. Millener came across Gerald watching
baseball practice.
“Say, Pennimore,” he said gravely, “I wish you’d ask your father when
you see him if he hasn’t got a steamship he doesn’t need. Just a small
one will do, say eight or ten thousand tons.”
And Gerald laughed and promised.
Mr. Pennimore had written Gerald that he would be home nine days
after the latter’s receipt of the letter; that he had sent orders
for the opening of Sound View for the summer and that Gerald should
move over there from the school dormitory as soon as he liked. Gerald
was delighted at the prospect of seeing his father again, but the
permission, which virtually amounted to a suggestion, to change
his abode from Number 28 Clarke to the big room in the big house
overlooking the Sound didn’t please him at all.
“I don’t want to live at home, Dan,” he exclaimed. “Why, that’s no fun
at all! I--I want to stay here with you; and the other fellows,” he
added as an afterthought.
“Well, you wait until your father comes and tell him about it,”
counselled Dan. “It will only be for a couple of weeks, anyway, and I
guess he won’t mind that.”
“Anyhow,” declared Gerald anxiously, “I just won’t go!”