WHAT PELL SCHOOL DID
Dan learned of Mr. Pennimore’s arrival after school.
“I told him you couldn’t come over this afternoon,” said Gerald, “on
account of practice. So he said I must bring you to dinner at seven.”
“Gee! I’d like to go,” answered Dan wistfully, “but there wouldn’t be
anything I could eat, I guess. It isn’t exactly a training table you
folks set, Gerald. Besides, even if you had cold roast beef or poached
eggs and such things, I’d want to eat the whole menu. I wish I wasn’t
in training.”
“You don’t either,” said Gerald indignantly. “You’re mighty proud of
it, and you know it! My! I wish I was in your place! Harry Merrow says
you’re certain to get into the Broadwood game, Dan.”
Dan shook his head sadly.
“Merrow is a good little chap,” he said, “but I’ll never get into the
Broadwood game unless they let me in for a minute at the end to give
me my Y. And as I’ve got two more years that isn’t likely. Of course I
don’t want anything to happen to Condit, but--” Followed an eloquent
silence.
“You can play just as well as he can,” said Gerald stoutly.
“No, I can’t. That is, I know the game as well, maybe, but he’s been on
the team a year already and he knows what to do and how to do it. He’s
had more experience. Oh, I don’t care--much. Maybe I’ll make it next
year. The trouble is, though, that Condit will be here then, too.”
“Danforth won’t, though,” replied Gerald. “He’s a First Class man. You
might make second next year, Dan.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Dan more cheerfully. “I’d rather make
second, too. Why don’t you bring your father up to-morrow to see the
game, Gerald? Wouldn’t he care for it?”
“I will. It’s Pell School, isn’t it?”
“Yes, and the last game before Broadwood. We’re going to get licked,
they say. Now, about this evening, Gerald. I can’t come to dinner but I
want to see your father awfully. Suppose I come over afterwards?”
“Of course! And we’ll come home together. Father can’t understand why
I don’t want to go over there to live. But he says I can stay on here
until school closes if I’ll take luncheon and dinner with him. I must
see Mr. Collins about it.”
“And I must dig out for practice. I guess, though, there won’t be much
work this afternoon. Hello, did someone knock?”
It was Harry Merrow. He wanted Gerald to go canoeing with him, but
Gerald explained that his father had returned and that he was going
over there for the afternoon. So Harry decided to go down to the field
with Dan and watch practice. They parted in front of Oxford, Gerald
running in to the Office to get permission from Mr. Collins to spend
all the time he wanted at Sound View and the other two continuing
around to the gymnasium. Dan found himself on third base when practice
began, for, although the regulars were to have an easy time of it in
view of the hard contest set for the morrow, the substitutes were put
through a strenuous afternoon.
Supper over, Dan set out for Sound View and found a hearty welcome
awaiting him. Mr. Pennimore had to have a full account from Dan of
everything that had transpired since his departure abroad. Dan tried
to hurry over that part of his narrative which concerned Gerald’s
unannounced departure from school, but Mr. Pennimore wanted full
details. He shook his head when Dan had finished.
“I didn’t think you were of the run-away kind, Gerald,” he said
regretfully. Gerald looked rather ashamed.
“Well, sir, it was a silly thing to do,” said Dan, “but Gerald had a
lot of troubles about that time, Mr. Pennimore.”
“Running away doesn’t help,” replied Gerald’s father dryly. “The
troubles can always run faster than you can. Next time, son, you hold
your ground and fight it out.”
“Yes, sir, I will next time,” answered Gerald. “I--I know better now.”
“Well, that’s something. I don’t see but what you’ve been learning a
good many things--beside algebra.”
“Yes, sir,” said Gerald meekly. Dan smiled as he caught the twinkle in
Mr. Pennimore’s eye.
“I suppose you’re doing pretty good work in algebra now, son?”
“I expect to get C plus, sir,” said Gerald eagerly.
“C; hm; that’s the highest mark, is it?”
“N-no, sir, you can get a B--sometimes.”
“How about an A?”
Gerald shook his head decidedly. “Not from Kilts, sir. They say he
never gave anyone an A but once and then it was a mistake.”
“That’s true, sir,” laughed Dan. “B plus is about the best you can
expect from Kilts.”
“Well, if that is so you’re doing pretty well, aren’t you, Gerald?”
“Yes, sir; Kilts says so himself.”
“And how about other studies?”
“Oh, I don’t mind them,” replied Gerald carelessly. “Maybe I will get
an A in English. Say, though, you just ought to have been here and seen
the Class Games! Weren’t they great, Dan?”
And thereupon the conversation switched from the dangerous topic of
studies to the enthralling one of baseball. Dan’s suggestion that
perhaps Mr. Pennimore would like to see the morrow’s game with Pell
School was well received and Mr. Pennimore promised to accompany Gerald
to that event.
“I had already promised myself a vacation until Monday,” he said, “so
I could see something of this good-for-nothing boy of mine. I find,
however, that my appearance on the scene is of much less interest to
him than the next ball game. I’m afraid you’ve pretty effectually
weaned him away from me, Dan?”
“We’re all rather excited about baseball just now, sir,” replied Dan
apologetically.
“And you’ve got to go over to Broadwood, sir, and see the big game!”
exclaimed Gerald eagerly. “You will, won’t you? We could go over in
the car and have a dandy time. You could ride over with us, couldn’t
you, Dan?”
“Afraid I’ll have to go in the barge with the team,” answered Dan. “I
wish you could see that game, though, Mr. Pennimore. It will be a fine
one.”
“Well, we will see. Perhaps I can. Saturday, you say? I’ll think it
over.”
Mr. Pennimore watched the contest the next afternoon from a seat in
the grand stand, Gerald beside him. Mr. Pennimore didn’t know when he
had last seen a baseball game and he had to have a good many things
explained to him. But he had a competent and willing tutor, and long
before the game was at an end he had become imbued with some of
Gerald’s enthusiasm, and, if he didn’t jump out of his seat every two
minutes and yell himself hoarse after the manner of his companion, he
became much interested and shared Gerald’s sorrow and disappointment at
the outcome of the match.
For Yardley went down in ignominious defeat that day. Ignominious is
not too strong a term, either. Yardley played, to quote Payson, the
coach, “like a lot of babies.” Just what the trouble was no one seemed
to know, although one heard all sorts of explanations offered after
the game was over and Pell School had departed, cheering and happy,
with one more victory added to their long list for the season. Yardley
had played mighty poor ball; that was the long and short of it. They
seemed to have forgotten everything they had ever known about batting,
fielding, base-running, and team work. Even the redoubtable Colton,
who had been sent into the box in the sixth inning to save the game,
had failed to pitch his wonted game, and had been unmercifully slammed
around the lot. The final score was 8 to 1, and an unbiased critic, had
there been one on hand, would have told you that the score didn’t begin
to show the relative merits of the two teams as they played that day.
Pell School simply overwhelmed her opponent, taking quick advantage of
every misplay, batting like National Leaguers, and running the bases
like mice.
Payson was discouraged. There had been no slump all season, and now it
had come at the eleventh hour, and he very greatly doubted whether in
the four days of practice which remained before the final game the team
could be brought together again in condition. It was one of the worst
slumps he had ever had to contend with, and the situation looked pretty
desperate to him.
The team and substitutes trotted back to the gymnasium after the game
with no pleasant anticipations. That they would receive a frightful
wigging from Payson was a foregone conclusion; that some of them might
lose their places was not improbable. But Payson, after looking over
the tired, anxious faces before him for a moment, closed his lips
tightly, swung on his heel and left them. He might, he told himself,
have said a great many things, but they were in no condition to hear
them. Fault-finding wasn’t going to help at this crisis. If the
fellows were to be brought back to their game, they must be rested and
encouraged, and encouragement was something Payson couldn’t give them
that afternoon.
His unexpected departure left the team dazed, and for a moment no one
made a sound. Then little Durfee, the shortstop, who was only a Third
Class boy and might be forgiven a show of emotion, put one bare arm
over his eyes and began to sob. That broke the tension.
“Well,” said Millener grimly, “what he had to say must have been pretty
bad if he couldn’t say it. Now, look here, you fellows!”
Every one turned toward him, and even the rubber stopped his
administrations.
“Payson couldn’t talk, but I can. And I say we--mind you, I say _we_,
for I was as rotten as any of you--I say, we ought to be whipped, every
one of us, for the fool exhibition we made of ourselves to-day. You
know it, too. There wasn’t a man on the team played his real game. We
were a poor lot. That’s all for that. There’s another week before the
Broadwood game. It’s enough, too. Let’s get down to work on Monday
and put our hearts into it. I don’t say let’s forget to-day’s game; I
say let’s remember it. Let’s remember it a week from to-day, and show
Broadwood that we aren’t the lot of rotters Pell School made us look to
be. Let’s show the School that we can play ball, after all, and that
they aren’t mistaken in putting faith in us. Let’s work--and fight--and
play the game as we _can_ play it! What do you say?”
What they said was a lot. And it was very loud and very earnest, and
after they had said it every fellow felt a whole lot better, even
little Durfee drying his eyes shame-facedly, and summoning a brave
smile to his face.
Dan felt the enthusiasm as well as the rest, and only wished that he
might have the chance that the others would have of proving himself.
He had sat on the bench all the afternoon, watching and waiting and
hoping. But, irony of ironies, where all the team had played poor ball,
there was one who had done a little better than the rest; and that one
was Condit! Dan was disheartened. Even Danforth, the crack second
baseman, had been outplayed by Condit; in fact, Danforth had managed
to make about as poor an exhibition of himself as possible, letting
hit after hit go through his position, and missing more than one throw
to second. But Danforth’s demoralization brought Dan no comfort, for
Danforth, he knew, was a fellow who would make good the next time;
Danforth had proved himself time and again. No, try as he would, Dan
couldn’t see himself in the Broadwood game, and he took his way back
to Clarke, the one silent member of the little throng of players and
substitutes, feeling rather out of it.
But by Monday he had reached a more philosophical frame of mind. Up
until Saturday he had hoped. Now he had stopped hoping and found that
he could be quite cheerful. He might possibly get into the game for
an inning or a half an inning, and, anyway, there was another year
coming. Besides, life was pretty busy nowadays, and there wasn’t much
time for thought, happy or regretful. In a little more than a week
Graduation Day would come, bringing the end of the school year and the
commencement of the Summer holidays. Meanwhile, the First Class fellows
went about with worried countenances and absent-minded glances, being
in the middle of final examinations. All the other fellows were doing
finals, too, but it isn’t so serious when you’re not graduating and
when a diploma doesn’t depend on your ability to present in a few hours
what it has taken you a whole school year to store up.
The Weather Man had evidently determined to do all he could to make
the final week of school memorably pleasant. Monday started in with
a clear sky, and the hottest of June suns. Tuesday the sky was even
bluer and clearer, and the sun hotter. And so it went, day after day,
with the thermometer up in the eighties. What breezes there were, were
tiny, timid, ineffectual little breaths that scarcely stirred the
limp leaves. On Thursday a great bank of white clouds rolled up from
the horizon and at three o’clock a mighty thunder storm was splitting
open the heavens and deluging the earth. It lasted only an hour or
so, however, and then went off muttering and rumbling into the east,
and the sun came out again as jovially ardent as ever. Friday brought
unclouded skies, and Saturday dawned hot and clear, and the School,
final examinations over with for good or bad, and only the Broadwood
baseball game to think about, rejoiced and was glad.
But I am far ahead of my story, for many things happened before
Saturday’s sun came blazing up out of the east.