ON DIAMOND AND RIVER
The track meet was over, and Hopevale had scored three points toward
the cup. Another victory, either in the ball game or the boat race,
and the competition would be ended. And this victory they were bent on
winning, while the other two schools were equally determined to wipe
out defeat, and to overcome their rival's lead, in the three contests
which remained.
On the Saturday after the track games came the first round in the
base-ball league. Luck was with Fenton; they had the good fortune to
draw the bye, and the small party of boys who went to see the game
between Clinton and Hopevale was composed largely of experts, anxious
to "get a line" on the opposing teams, and to note the strong and weak
points in their play.
Until the last two innings it was a close and interesting contest.
Prescott, the Clinton pitcher, proved a puzzle to his opponents,
but his support was none of the best; and thus, while the Clinton
team hit the Hopevale pitcher freely, the home nine, on the other
hand, put up a splendid fielding game, and for seven innings the score
was a tie, five to five. And then, in the eighth, there came, for
Hopevale, one of those unhappy times, when things go from bad to worse
with the rapidity of lightning. A base hit, a base on balls, and a
sacrifice put men on second and third, with only one out; and then a
clean two-bagger between center and right scored them both. After
which the Hopevale team, in the slang of the game, "went up into the
air."
On the next play their short-stop, in an endeavor to catch the runner
coming from second base, threw wild to third; another base on balls
followed; and then, just at the psychological moment, Ferguson, the
heavy hitter of the Clinton team, sent a screaming three-bagger far
over the center-fielder's head. Altogether, by the time Hopevale had
steadied again, and the inning had ended, they found the score eleven
to five against them; and although they made one run in the eighth,
and another in the ninth, that was all, and it was Clinton's game,
eleven to seven. Supporters of both Fenton and Clinton breathed again.
One of them would win, and the other lose, but Hopevale, their common
enemy, had not yet secured the cup.
The succeeding Saturday was the banner day of the sports. Ten o'clock
in the morning was the time set for the final ball game; and the boat
race was scheduled for three in the afternoon. The ball game was
played on the Clinton grounds, yet four carloads of spectators went
down from Fenton to cheer for their nine, and filled a good-sized
section of the grandstand with their crimson flags. Jim Putnam, with
the rest of the crew, stayed at home, to store up the last final ounce
of energy for the afternoon. Dick, Allen, Brewster and Lindsay sat
together, watching the tall and ungainly Prescott going through his
gyrations as he warmed up for the game. He appeared, as Allen
remarked, to be a "tough proposition." His delivery was so deceptively
easy that one scarcely realized the speed and power behind it, until
the ball struck, with a vicious "thut," in the catcher's glove. And
his curves looked as formidable as his speed. Brewster sighed as he
watched him. "Now how are they going to hit a fellow like that?" he
asked.
Allen, the optimistic, made haste to answer, "Oh, you can't tell," he
said, "he may get tired before he gets through. And we've got a better
fielding team than they have, I know. Besides, when you're talking
about pitchers, Ed Nichols is no slouch. You can bet they won't knock
him out of the box. Our show is as good as theirs."
As he spoke, the umpire consulted for a moment with Jarvis, the Fenton
captain, and Crawford, the leader of the Clinton team. Then the coin
spun upward into the air, and immediately the Clinton players
scattered to their positions in the field, and the Fenton nine took
their places on the visitors' bench. "There," said Brewster, "bad luck
to start with. We've lost the toss."
There followed the tense hush which always precedes the beginning of a
championship game. The umpire tossed out a new ball, which the
elongated Prescott at once proceeded to deface by rubbing it around,
with great thoroughness, in the dirt. Abbot, the Fenton short-stop,
stepped to the plate, and the umpire gave the time-honored command,
"Play ball!"
The redoubtable Prescott eyed the batsman for an instant with what
seemed to the Fenton crowd a glare of hate, held the ball extended
before him, then, in Allen's phrase, "tied himself up into a number of
double bow-knots," and let fly. Abbot made no attempt to strike at
the ball; it appeared to be traveling too high; yet just before it
reached the plate it shot quickly downward, and the umpire called,
"Strike--one."
At the second ball Abbot made a terrific lunge, but met only the air,
and a moment later, as Stevens, the Clinton catcher, moved up behind
the bat, a fast inshoot neatly cut the corner of the plate, and with
the words, "Strike--three--striker out," Abbot walked dejectedly back
to the bench.
Crosby, the second man up, had slightly better fortune, for, as Allen
remarked, in an endeavor to keep up the courage of the others, "he had
a nice little run for his money," hitting an easy grounder to second
base, and being thrown out at first. Sam Eliot, the third man to face
Prescott, followed Abbot's example, and struck out. The Fenton half of
the inning ended in gloom.
Now came Clinton's turn at the bat. Bates, the first man up, had two
strikes called on him, and then hit a clean, swift ball over second
base, and reached first in safety. Crawford, the Clinton captain,
bunted, advancing Bates to second. Then Nichols settled down to work,
and Davenport, the third batsman, was retired on strikes. Two out, a
man on second, and Ferguson, the much-dreaded heavy hitter, at the
bat, Nichols and Jarvis held consultation, and as a result Ferguson
was given his base on balls. It seemed good generalship, yet in the
sequel, it proved unfortunate, for Gilbert, the next man up, made a
tremendous drive far out into center field and never stopped running
until he had reached third, while Bates and Ferguson crossed the
plate. The Clinton section of the grandstand became delirious with
enthusiasm, in the midst of which Manning, the sixth man at bat for
the home team, hit weakly to Nichols, and was thrown out at first. Two
to nothing. It looked like Clinton's day.
Nor did Fenton's chances seem brighter in the second. Again three men
came to bat, and again they were retired, without one of them reaching
first. Yet there was comfort in the latter half of the inning, for
Nichols steadied down, and proved as much of a puzzle as Prescott
himself. The Clinton men, in their turn, went out in one, two, three
order, and the hopes of the Fenton supporters faintly revived.
Four more innings passed without another run being scored. It was a
genuine pitchers' battle, man after man, on either side, striking out,
hitting easy grounders to the infield, or popping up abortive flies.
The beginning of the seventh, however, brought a change. Jarvis was
the first man at bat for Fenton, and he started things auspiciously by
making a pretty single, close along the third base foul line. It
seemed like the time for taking chances, and on the next ball pitched,
he started for second, and aided by a poor throw by Stevens, the
Clinton catcher, made it in safety. Taylor, the next man at bat,
struck a sharp, bounding grounder toward second base, and the Hopevale
second-baseman ingloriously let it go through his legs. The Fenton
crowd in the grandstand, long deprived of a chance to cheer, shouted
themselves hoarse. A man on third, and one on first, and no one out.
The chances for tying the score looked bright.
At this point, however, Prescott exerted all his skill. Warren,
coached to hit the ball at any cost, tried his best, but in vain. One
strike--one ball--two strikes--two balls--three strikes, and out. It
was Clinton's turn to exult. Nichols, the weakest batsman on the
Fenton team, was next in order, and to the surprise of friends and
foes alike, he made as pretty a single over short-stop's head as one
could have wished to see, scoring Jarvis and advancing Taylor to
second. Then came Abbot's turn, and this time he had his revenge for
two successive strike-outs by making a long drive between left and
center, good for two bases, and bringing Taylor and Nichols home.
Fenton was in the lead, and the grandstand became a mass of blazing
crimson. Such a batting streak, however, was too good to last. Crosby
hit a pop fly to Prescott, and Eliot struck out. Yet Fenton was well
content. Three to two; and only two innings and a half to play.
Clinton's half of the seventh resulted in no score; and in the eighth
both sides retired in order, Prescott and Nichols again on their
mettle, and pitching as if their very lives depended on the outcome of
the game. In the ninth Fenton made a splendid effort to increase their
lead. With two out, and with men on second and third, Crosby hit a
liner that looked good enough to score both men, and then Bates, the
Clinton short-stop, pulled off the star play of the game, leaping high
into the air, and getting his right hand on the ball just at the one
possible moment--a clean, sensational catch that set the followers of
both schools cheering, and stopped the Fenton scoring where it stood.
Then came the last of the ninth. The inning opened well for Fenton.
Prescott hit a long fly to center field, which Irwin captured without
difficulty. Bates bunted, and aided by his fleetness of foot, beat the
ball to first. Crawford struck out. The game was almost won, and then
came one of those sudden plays, that in a flash changes a defeat into
a victory. Davenport swung on the first ball pitched, met it fair and
square, with a crack that sounded like a rifle shot, and lifted it, as
if on wings, clear over the left field fence. Red and black had its
turn; flags waved; throats grew hoarse with cheering; Bates jogged
home, and Davenport made the circuit of the bases at sprinting speed,
while the crowd poured out on the field and bore him away on their
shoulders in triumph. The game was ended--four to three--and Clinton
was even with Hopevale for the cup. It was a silent procession of
Fenton followers who walked down from the field, to take the train for
home.
An hour later Dick entered Putnam's room, to find his classmate
stretched, resting, on the bed. He looked up eagerly. "Well?" he
queried.
Dick shook his head. "They licked us," he answered, "but there's no
kick coming. It was a dandy game. I never want to see a better one. It
looked as if we had it--" and he went over the whole story for
Putnam's benefit, detailing every play, as it had occurred. "And so
they licked us," he concluded, "and now, Jim, it seems to be most
everlastingly up to you."
Putnam rose and began to pace up and down the room. "That's about the
size of it," he answered, "and, thank goodness, we've got no hard luck
stories to tell. We're in good shape--every one of us--and right on
edge, too. If we're licked, it's because they've got better crews.
But, by golly," he added, "they've got to go some, Dick. I don't care
if I row the whole crew out, and we don't come to for a week, but
we'll do our darndest, anyway. It's make or break, now."
Dick nodded. "Yes, it's win or nothing," he said; "but I'm glad of one
thing. I guess Clinton's got a better crew than Hopevale, and if we
_can't_ win, then the cup goes to Clinton. And our old friend, Dave,
can win all the Pentathlons he likes; it won't do him any good then.
But we won't back down till we have to. You may lick 'em, after all."
Putnam squared his shoulders. "Dick," he said solemnly, "you watch us
in the last half-mile, and if you can come to me afterward, and tell
me that I didn't hit things up to the last notch, then you can hold my
head under water till I drown. If I don't do my level best, and then
some, I'm a Dutchman."
Dick laughed. "I'll watch you, all right," he answered, "but not to
criticize; only to yell for all I'm worth, whether you're ahead or
behind. We're with you, Jim, win or lose. The crowd of us have hired a
launch, so if our moral support is going to help you any, on your way
down the river, why you'll know you've got it."
The time before the race dragged away somehow, and shortly before
three, the launch, with Allen, Brewster, Lindsay and Dick on board,
came to a halt, with a dozen other craft, off the starting buoys,
marking the beginning of the two-mile course. It was the perfection of
racing weather, the water calm and smooth as a mirror, yet with the
sky overcast, so as to temper the heat of the sun. One by one the
crews came paddling out from the big boat-house on the shore. First
came Hopevale, their blue-bladed oars dipping prettily together, and
the blue cap on their coxswain's head making them easy to distinguish
from the others. After them came Clinton, the winners of the previous
year, a rangy, speedy-looking crew, their red and black jerseys
looming up more prominently than the quieter colors of their rivals.
And last of all, their own boat left the shore, Blagden at bow,
Selfridge at two, "Big" Smith at three, and Putnam at stroke. Little
"Skeeter" Brown, the eighty-pound coxswain, sat in the stern,
megaphone strapped around his head, his big, long-visored crimson
jockey cap pulled down about his ears.
The referee's launch tooted a warning blast. The three crews increased
their speed a trifle, and one by one took up their positions, Hopevale
on the outside, Clinton in the middle, Fenton nearest the boat-house
shore. The coxswains gripped the starting-lines, the referee talked
briefly to the three captains in turn, and then, backing his launch,
made ready to give the signal for the start. It was a pretty sight:
the rival crews, tense and ready, awaiting the word; the little fleet
of pleasure craft which was to follow in their wake; on shore the
eager enthusiasts who were to pursue them on bicycles or in motors
along the bank. And Dick, as he gazed around him, could not but think
of that other crowd, waiting so eagerly at the finish, two miles away,
and turning the sober old river into a garden of variegated color,
with the flags and ribbons of the different schools.
The referee's right arm was outlined in silhouette against the sky. A
moment's silence and then the pistol cracked, the little wreath of
smoke curled upward, and the twelve oars caught the water like one. A
tooting of whistles, a medley of shouts and cheers; the race was on.
The boys stood well forward, as the bow of their launch cut through
the water, their eyes fixed on the three crews, as they shot away down
stream. Clinton had the lead, that was already evident. They had
gained it in the first half-dozen strokes, and had increased it, first
to a quarter length, then to a half, Hopevale and Fenton fighting, bow
and bow, for second place. For a quarter-mile they kept the same
positions, and then, all at once, Hopevale--the crew the boys had
rated as the least dangerous--took a sudden spurt. Quickening their
stroke perceptibly, they drew away from Fenton, then came even with
Clinton, and finally were a clear length in the lead. "Look at 'em!"
cried Lindsay. "I didn't know they could row like that. Look at 'em
go!"
Allen eyed them critically. Their boat did not move as smoothly as the
others; there was a perceptible roll from side to side; there was some
splashing by bow and two; yet for all that, the crew was made up of
big, strong oarsmen, and despite their evident lack of form, they
drove their shell ahead at a tremendous pace. But Allen shook his
head. "They won't last," he said. "They'll be rowed out at a mile."
Dick hastened to dissent. "I don't believe it, Harry," he replied. "A
two-mile race isn't like a four-mile. I think they can hold that pace,
and if they do, they'll win. Look at 'em 'dig. There! There goes
Clinton after 'em! Why doesn't Jim hit 'er up, too? There! Now he's
quickened. Oh, good boy, Jim! That's the stuff! Soak it to 'em!"
He was shouting as if he fancied Putnam could hear every word he said,
unmindful of the fact that every one else around him was shouting as
well. Hopevale had drawn away still more, and then, as a half-length
of open water showed between them and Clinton, the Clinton crew had at
last begun to quicken in their turn. Slowly they drew up on the
leaders, and then, just as Dick had begun his yells of encouragement,
for the first time Putnam had raised his stroke, and the three boats
passed the mile-post with Hopevale a length ahead, and Clinton a
half-length in front of the Fenton crew.
For another quarter-mile there was practically no change. Brewster
began to worry. "Why doesn't Jim spurt?" he cried. "If Hopevale keeps
it up, they win. It's only a quarter-mile to the turn."
Sure enough, they could see, ahead of them, the bend that marked the
last half-mile of the course. Yet still Putnam did not quicken; in
fact, he dropped back a trifle, and the boys' hearts sank like lead.
Only Dick, remembering what Putnam had said to him that morning, kept
repeating to himself, "The last half-mile; the last half-mile."
And now, into the swarm of boats along the banks, into the noise and
din of the crowds, the three crews steered around the bend, and
squared away for home. The race between Clinton and Hopevale was so
close and pretty to watch that for a moment the boys had taken their
eyes off their own crew; and then, suddenly, Dick began shouting like
a maniac, "Oh, Jim, give it to 'em! That's the boy, Jim! Give it to
'em! That's the boy!"
With one accord the others turned, and the next moment were joining in
Randall's frenzied cries. For the spurt had come at last. Putnam had
cut loose with every ounce of power at his command; Big Smith at three
was backing him gallantly, passing forward the heightened stroke, and
Selfridge and Blagden were quickening like heroes in their turn. Nor
were the boys in the launch the only ones to note the change. All the
shouts of the crowd had been, "Hopevale! Clinton!" Yet now there came
a roar from the banks, "Oh, well rowed! Well rowed, Fenton! Go in! Go
in and win!"
Never did Randall forget that last half-mile. Gallantly the Hopevale
boys stuck to their work, yet the smooth, persistent power of the
Clinton boat was not to be denied, and a quarter-mile from home
Hopevale was a beaten crew. And then, as they fell back, defeated, but
game, all eyes were turned on the boys from Fenton. Never for an
instant did Putnam falter; such a stroke as he was setting had not
been seen on the river for many and many a year. And strive as Clinton
would, they fell back, inch by inch, foot by foot, and the finish but
two hundred yards away. Now the bows of the shells were even, now for
an instant Clinton showed again in the lead, and then, with one final
effort, the Fenton shell leaped forward again and again. A wild burst
of whistles, shrieking horns, shouting hundreds on the shore, and by a
quarter boat length, the Fenton crew had won.
Half an hour later, Putnam was riding home with his friends, tired,
exhausted, but happy as a boy could be. "Well, old man," Dick said to
him, "I'm not going to drown you. You did what you said you'd do. The
last half-mile; that's where you fixed 'em."
Putnam nodded. "Thank goodness," he said, "for once I rowed just the
race I meant to. I couldn't have beaten that time a second for a
million dollars. And, golly, wasn't it close? I don't see how we did
it. But we did. Three points apiece, and only the Pentathlon left.
Dick, old man, the rest of us have done our darndest. And now it's
your turn; it's up to you."