THE SLUMP
Contrary to expectation, Monday’s baseball practice was easy and short.
Payson was affable, smiling, unhurried. Apparently he hadn’t a care
in the world to-day. There was a brief session at the batting net,
followed by fielding practice for infielders and outfielders. And then,
when the fellows looked for a game with the Second team, Payson waved
his hand in dismissal.
The players were distinctly disappointed. They had nerved themselves
up for a hard afternoon, determined to work as they had never worked
before, and they hadn’t been given a chance to distinguish themselves!
They felt cheated and cast somber looks at the coach as they trotted
off. They had been fully prepared, even anxious, to suffer martyrdom,
and instead had been treated like so many little kids. It wasn’t
fair! They wanted to be raged at, scolded, driven; and here they
were trotting up the hill to the gymnasium after the easiest sort
of practice, as fresh and untired as you please! What sort of a way
was this to prepare for the Broadwood game? Didn’t Payson realize
that there remained only three days for practice? They talked it over
amongst themselves disgustedly and the consensus of opinion was that
Payson believed them to be stale and was afraid to work them.
“Stale!” exclaimed Alf. “Poppycock! Why, if I felt any better I’d go to
work!”
“Well, he will take it out of us to-morrow,” said Danforth hopefully,
and every one brightened up. But Danforth was mistaken, for Tuesday’s
practice was much like Monday’s. They were kept out a quarter of an
hour longer, but Payson still wore the same look of untroubled ease he
had worn the day before, and not once did he find fault. Corrections
were suggested pleasantly now and then, but no harsh, compelling
demands to “Ginger up, now!” or “Get into it! Get into it!” passed the
coach’s lips. When he wasn’t batting up, Payson stood, for the most
part, in tranquil conversation with Andy Ryan, the trainer.
The result was that Captain Millener and the players themselves took
affairs into their own hands, and as soon as it became evident that
Payson didn’t care whether they worked hard or not, they began to
make things hum. While it lasted it was the snappiest practice of the
year. When, all too soon, Payson called a halt, the fellows went off
secretly exultant; they had done their work well in spite of Payson!
“I guess we showed him!” whispered little Durfee to Reid, casting a
triumphant glance at Payson. “We’ll win that game Saturday whether he
wants us to or not!”
After the fellows had left the field, Payson and Ryan fell into step
and followed them up the path to the gymnasium. There was admiration in
the trainer’s tone as he turned to the coach with:
“Well, sir, it worked like you said it would! I’d never have believed
it!” Payson nodded.
“Yes,” he replied, “they think they’re getting the best of me, and
they’re tickled to death.” He smiled. “I’ll have to give them a little
stiffer practice to-morrow, or they’ll mob me!”
But there was one player who, even though he was only a substitute,
wasn’t fooled. That was Dan. He and Alf talked it over in the latter’s
room that evening, while Tom and Gerald played chess.
“Don’t you fool yourself,” said Dan. “Payson knows what he’s doing,
Alf. This afternoon when Millener was ragging Smith for not running in
with the ball after catching a fly, I saw Payson grinning away like
anything. He thought no one was looking. But I was. He just made up
his mind that if he let you fellows alone for a few days you’d get mad
and play the game just to spite him! And you’re doing it, too!”
“‘Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings,’” murmured Alf. “Well,
maybe you’re right, O Solomon the Great. I believe you are. For it
isn’t like Payson to get cold feet; he isn’t a quitter, not by a long
shot! Anyhow, it worked. We had the worst case of slump I ever did
see last Saturday, and now every fellow’s on his toes again, and just
aching for work. If we keep it up we’ll give Broadwood the biggest
surprise of their lives on Saturday. I wouldn’t be surprised if that
licking that Pell School gave us turned out to be a very fortunate
thing. We’re all hot under the collar about it. We want to get
back at some one, and Broadwood’s the only victim in sight. Yes, I
believe there’ll be a whole lot doing Saturday! Say, that was a dandy
two-bagger of yours to-day. Just a nice, clean hit that came when it
was needed. Why don’t you do that sort of thing oftener? You’d make the
team in a minute, if you did.”
“Oh, I guess it was an accident,” replied Dan. “I’ve about concluded
that it’s always an accident when I connect with the ball. I can’t
judge ’em for a cent.”
“Well, keep at it. We’ll have you on second next year, all right. How
did you get along with exams to-day?”
“Fair, I guess. How about you?” Alf made a face.
“Bad. I couldn’t remember a thing they’d ever taught me in math this
morning. Still, I answered five out of nine, and that’s something. Oh,
I’ll pass all right, I guess.”
“I did better than that,” laughed Dan, “but I don’t know how many
answers were correct. By the way, Gerald, I sat next to your friend
Thompson at exams this morning. I think he wanted to ask after your
health, only Old Tige kept too close a watch on us.”
Gerald paused in his battle and looked across with a smile.
“If he ever does ask after my health,” he responded, “you just tell him
that I’m feeling strong and willing.”
“Good boy!” laughed Alf. “It’s remarkable, though, isn’t it, the way
Gerald’s bloodthirstiness has waned? A couple of months or so ago
he couldn’t wait to engage Thompson in mortal combat. And now that
I’ve taught him how to fight he just sits around and plays chess with
questionable characters.”
“You do love a scrap, Alf, don’t you?” asked Dan with a smile. Alf
nodded.
“Pretty well, thanks. My trouble is that I can’t find any one to scrap
with I can’t lick with both eyes shut.” He looked slyly at Tom. Tom
grunted without raising his eyes from the chess board.
“Both eyes shut before or after the scrap?” asked Gerald innocently.
“That’ll be about all from you, young Mr. Pennimore,” replied Alf. “I’m
disappointed in you. I thought you were going to square yourself with
Thompson as soon as you could use your hands a bit. What’s the trouble?
Have you two kissed and made up?”
“I just don’t take any notice of him any more,” replied Gerald calmly.
“If I quarreled with him now, he’d think it was because he kept me out
of Cambridge.”
“I suppose he did do it?” inquired Tom.
“Of course,” Alf answered. “Who else was there? But you’re right,
Gerald; you can’t quarrel with him for that.”
“It isn’t absolutely necessary for Gerald to quarrel with Thompson
about anything, is it?” asked Dan idly.
“N-no, I suppose not,” Alf laughed. “Only it seems such a waste of--of
ability! Here’s Gerald a perfectly good boxer and nothing doing.”
“I’ve got the punching-bag,” said Gerald. “I’ve been giving that some
awful jolts, Alf.”
“Serves it right. Say, Tom, do you remember the mean trick the fellows
put up on Tubby Jones last year? Did Tubby ever tell you about that,
Dan? I guess he wouldn’t, though; Tubby never relished jokes on himself
much.”
“I don’t remember,” said Tom. “Tubby had so many jokes played on him.
What was this one, Alf?”
“I was thinking of the time Warren and Hadlock and Dyer and two or
three other fellows tied the punching-bag back, and--”
“I remember,” chuckled Tom. “It almost killed Tubby, though.”
“He was more scared than hurt,” said Alf.
“What was it?” Dan asked. “What did they do?”
“Took a piece of stout cord and tied one end to the punching-bag;
hitched the other end of the cord to one of the ladders, and pulled
the bag back until it was leaning over about like that, at an angle of
forty-five degrees. Then Warren told Tubby he’d give him half a dollar
if he’d stand still and watch the minute hand of the clock for five
minutes. You see, Warren told him he couldn’t stay awake that long.”
“That wasn’t it,” interrupted Tom. “Tubby was always leaning against
something when he wasn’t sitting down or lying down, and Warren bet
him he couldn’t stand up straight for five minutes. Tubby thought he
could, and needed the money.”
“Was that it? Well, anyhow, Tubby took the bet, and Warren and Hadlock
and some others went out on the floor and put Tubby in front of the
punching-bag, opposite the clock.”
“Gee!” murmured Gerald.
“So Tubby plants himself with his back to the bag, and Hadlock says
‘Go!’ and Tubby watches the clock. ‘One minute,’ says Hadlock. ‘Two
minutes.’ And then, ‘Three minutes!’ Poor Tubby’s eyes were watering
from watching the minute hand so hard, and he was grinning like
a catfish at the thought of winning the fifty cents. Then, ‘Four
minutes!’ announces Hadlock, and the crowd, which had grown pretty big
by this time, begins to cheer. ‘Four and a half!’ says Hadlock, and
then Dyer comes down on the cord with his knife--_zip!_--and Mister
Bag shoots out--_biff!_--and Tubby does a grand tumble. The bag hit
him square on the back of the head and he went about five feet through
the air before he landed. Luckily they’d spread a couple of mattresses
in front of him. If they hadn’t, he might have broken his nose, for he
came down plumb on his face. It was the biggest surprise Tubby ever
had, I guess, and he was so scared when they picked him up that he
couldn’t speak. After a bit he found his tongue, though, and then the
things he said were a plenty. Hadlock tried to soothe him down; told
him it was a shame he’d lost by half a minute, and if he liked they’d
try it again. But Tubby wasn’t enthusiastic.”
“Was he hurt?” asked Gerald anxiously.
“No, not a bit; except that he had a bad headache the rest of the day,
I believe. That did Tubby good, though, Tom. He was never nearly so
fresh after that.”
“He needed it,” Tom grunted. “He wasn’t so bad when he roomed with you
last Fall, Dan, but the year before he was an awful little fat beast.
Your move, Gerald.”