THE CHENANGO CLUB
The club had already played several games by that time, but, as all
the members were either attending high school or employed at work,
one day’s line-up was seldom like another’s. Captain Taylor never
knew until the last moment which of his team members would be able to
play and in consequence he tried to have two good players for every
position. Practice was held in a field on the edge of town leased by
the Association. It wasn’t either very level or very spacious, but
it sufficed. It had a board fence around it, contained a small grand
stand, a shed which answered the purpose of dressing-room, a cinder
track, one-eighth mile in circumference, and jumping pits. The practice
hour was five o’clock, or as soon after as the fellows could reach the
field, and they kept at it as long as daylight lasted or hunger would
go unappeased.
Wayne found some twenty-odd fellows in attendance the afternoon of his
first appearance. All of them wore a uniform of some description or
a portion of one. All, that is, save Wayne, who had given no thought
to the matter of attire. Still, he was no worse off than Hoffman,
whose regalia consisted of a pair of football trousers and stockings
in combination with his usual street clothes. Hoffman was a catcher,
and when he donned mask and protector he made a laughable appearance.
His first name was Augustus, but he had been known as Gus until he had
become a clerk in the office of the gas company. Now he was called
“Gas” Hoffman. He was a fairly good catcher and a slugging batsman, as
catchers so often are.
Practice with the Chenangos was work very largely diluted with play.
As a captain, Joe Taylor was anything but a martinet. Wayne, recalling
his own strict discipline when he had captained his school team the
year before, decided that Taylor erred on the side of laxity. Perhaps,
however, the Chenango captain knew his business, for there was a very
evident disinclination on the part of most of the candidates to take
their occupation seriously. They were there for fun and meant to have
it. Wayne had wondered that Arthur Pattern had not tried for the team
until Arthur had explained that his playing on a semi-professional team
in New Hampshire one summer had taken him out of the amateur class
and that since the Chenango was a purely amateur club he would have no
right there.
The fellows at the field that afternoon averaged nineteen years of age.
One or two were older, among them “Gas” Hoffman and Captain Taylor.
Gas was twenty-three and Taylor twenty-one. To even the average, young
Despaigne, who played shortstop very cleverly, was only seventeen,
and Collins, a fielder, was scarcely older. Wayne suffered for lack
of baseball shoes that day and made up his mind to buy a pair at the
first opportunity. There was about twenty minutes of fielding and
batting practice and then two teams were chosen and six innings were
played. Wayne was put at third base on the second-string nine and
made a good impression in spite of his lack of practice. At bat he
failed ignominiously to hit safely even once, but, having waited out
the pitcher in one inning, he got to first and gave a very pretty
exhibition of base-stealing a moment later, reaching the coveted bag
simultaneously with the ball but eluding it by a dexterous hook-slide
that kept him far out of reach of the baseman’s sweep.
It was all over at half-past six and the fellows walked back toward the
centre of town together, still very full of spirits, disappearing one
by one down side streets until at last only Hal Collins, a tall youth
named Wheelock, and Wayne remained. Wheelock played first base and was
thin and angular and wore glasses over a pair of pale, peering eyes.
He was about nineteen, Wayne judged, and had a slow, drawling manner
of speech and a dry humour. Collins was a quick, nervous youngster,
inclined to be sarcastic. Wayne liked Jim Wheelock best, although
for a while he was never sure whether Jim’s remarks were serious or
otherwise. It was Jim who praised Wayne’s throws to first base as they
tramped along Whitney Street.
“You peg the ball across like you were looking where you were sending
it,” drawled Jim. “Playing first would be a cinch if they all did that,
Sloan.”
“Jim’s idea of playing first,” said Hal Collins, “is to stand on the
bag and pick ’em off his chest. He hates to reach for anything.”
“My arms are four inches longer than they were before I started playing
ball with this gang,” responded Jim, “and I’ve got joints in my legs
that aren’t human!”
“Don’t any of them look human to me,” said Hal. “Say, where was Harry
Brewster today? Someone said he was sick or something.”
“Yes, he’s got the sleeping disease,” answered Jim gravely. “Had it
ever since he got his berth in the State National. That’s why they call
it a berth when you get a job in a bank. They give you a column of
figures to add up in the morning and if you’re not asleep by half-past
ten they fire you. About four they go around with a pole and jab it
through the cages. If you don’t wake up then they put a blanket over
you and lock you in. They say Harry’s the best little sleeper they’ve
got. Wouldn’t wonder if they made him president pretty soon.”
“Oh, quit your kidding,” laughed Hal. “What _is_ the matter with him,
Jim?”
“Cold. Went to sleep on a New York draft yesterday.”
“Sure it wasn’t counting coins? You can catch gold that way, you know.”
“Yes, but it’s not so hard to check. Good-night, fellows.” Jim tramped
off down a side street and Collins asked Wayne which way he went.
“I go down the next street,” was the answer.
“Boarding?”
“No, I--we keep house. About two miles out.”
“Oh! Well, see you again. Here’s my turn. Good-night.”
It was nearly dark when Wayne reached “Carhurst” and June had supper
ready and waiting. Sam was ready and waiting, too, but he forgot his
hunger long enough to make a fuss over his master. Wayne narrated his
experiences of the day while they plied busy knives and forks and
then June brought the chronicle of his life down to date. But the most
interesting item of information to Wayne was June’s announcement that
one of the tomato plants had buds on it, and nothing would do but that
Wayne had to jump up from “table” and rush forth in the twilight and
see for himself. The garden was showing promise by that time, although
nothing was more than a few inches high.
Wayne was up early the next morning so as to do a half-hour’s gardening
before he left for town. He had long since made the discovery that
eradicating grass from a meadow is not a simple matter of removing
the turf, for the grass was always threatening to choke his seedlings
utterly, and it was only by watching and working that he was able to
keep it down. When he wasn’t weeding he was poking up the dirt with a
pointed stick in lieu of trowel. June called this “coaxin’ ’em,” and
opined that “if they flowers don’ act pretty, Mas’ Wayne, ’twon’ be
no fault o’ yourn!” But it was the tomato plants that interested June
most, and he was forever estimating the crop to be picked later on from
the six rather spindling plants that they had bought at the grocer’s.
He declared that each one ought to yield fifteen “big, red, ripe, juicy
tomatuses,” and that if they consumed only six a day the supply would
provide for them only two weeks. It was June’s firm and oft reiterated
conviction that they should have planted just three times as many!
Tomatoes were a weakness with June.
But two days later he found something besides the prospective tomato
crop to interest his idle hours. At Wayne’s invitation he met the
latter at the freight house one afternoon and accompanied him out to
the Y. M. C. A. field to watch the doings. But just looking on never
suited June very well and it wasn’t a quarter of an hour before he was
on speaking terms with everyone there. The fellows enjoyed hearing
his soft dialect and did their best to draw him out, punctuating his
remarks with laughter. June was speedily established on the bench,
and from just sitting idly there to presiding over the bats and the
fortunes of the players was but a short step.
“Jus’ you let me choose you a bat, Mister Cap’n. I goin’ put a conjur
on this yere stick o’ wood, sir, an’ you-all’s goin’ to everlastin’ly
lam that yere ball, yes, sir!”
As it happened Joe Taylor did “everlastingly lam the ball,” sending
it over left fielder’s head, and June’s reputation as a prophet, as
well as his status as Keeper of the Bats, was firmly established. He
was back again the next day, good-natured and smiling and anxious
to serve, and was welcomed like a long-lost friend. June was never
“fresh,” no matter how many opportunities were presented, nor would he
accept the footing of equality that was offered him. He picked up the
bat hurled aside by the man streaking to first and dropped it neatly in
its place in front of the bench, soon knew which bat each player liked
best and was ready with it, saw that the water pail was kept filled
and, in brief, filled the office of general factotum so well that the
question arose of how they had ever got along without him!
It was Jim Wheelock who suggested June’s adoption as official club
mascot. “No wonder we don’t win more’n half our games,” drawled Jim.
“We’ve never had a mascot. Here’s our chance, fellows. That darkey
was just created to be a mascot. You can see it written all over him.
Here’s where our luck changes.”
“We’ll stake him to a uniform,” suggested Joe Taylor, “and take him
over to Ludlow Saturday. Guess we’ll have style if nothing else!”
June was complacent, even proud. “Fetch along your uniform, Mister
Cap’n,” he said. “Only don’ you put no stripes on it, please, sir.”
When, however, June learned that he was required to take train with
the fellows at two o’clock he was dubious. “Don’ know about that,
gen’lemen. You see, I got a mighty ’portant position at the hotel an’
I dunno will my boss let me off.”
“We’ll ask him to, June,” replied Taylor. “He’s a regular baseball fan
himself and never misses a home game, I guess. He won’t kick. You leave
it to us.”
“Yes, sir, jus’ as you says. I surely would love to ’company you-all. I
reckon Mas’ Wayne won’ have no objection.”
“Who? Sloan? What’s he got to say about it, June?” demanded Hal
Collins. “He doesn’t own you, does he?”
“Don’ nobody _own_ me,” replied June, “but Mas’ Wayne he got the
say-so, yes, sir.”
So Wayne was called into consultation and gave his permission, and
on Saturday, when the team, fourteen strong as to players and half a
hundred strong as to “rooters,” left Medfield they took with them one
Junius Brutus Bartow Tasker radiantly attired in a bran-new suit of
light gray flannel, with a pair of blue stockings and a jaunty cap.
The shirt was a great joy to June, for on the left side was a big blue
“C” surrounding an Indian’s head. Jim Wheelock told him the Indian was
Mr. Chenango, after whom the club was named, and that he had been in
his time a celebrated first baseman with the Susquehannock Club of the
Passamaquoddy League. How much of that June believed I can’t say, but
he certainly was proud of those baseball togs.
They played the Ludlow Y. M. C. A. that afternoon and were beaten
ingloriously, 14 to 4. The Chenangos relied on their second-best
pitcher, and his work was nearer third-best on that occasion. Wayne
got a chance in the eighth inning, pinch-hitting for Despaigne, who
was never a strong batter, and subsequently going in at third when
a substitute was wanted. Wayne did well enough in the infield but
failed to hit, which was about the way with the others. Hitting was
the Chenangos’ weak point that day. Pitching was another, however,
scarcely less lamentable. As Jim Wheelock said on the way home, it
would have taken eighteen fellows instead of nine to keep Ludlow from
scoring her runs. Jordan, the substitute pitcher, was hit “fast, far,
and frequent,” and the tiredest members of the visiting team were the
outfielders.
Several good-natured jibes were aimed at June on the return trip, but
June didn’t mind them a bit. “Ain’ no mascot as ever was, gen’lemen,
can change the luck for a team that ain’ hittin’. I done my mascotin’
all right, but you gen’lemen didn’ give me no kind o’ support!”
There was one thing about his companions that Wayne admired, and
that was their good nature in defeat. He remembered that when his
school team had returned from that disastrous contest with Athens High
gloom thick enough to be cut with a knife had enveloped them. After
all, playing ball was sport and not business, and why should they be
downhearted over a defeat? Whether they should or not, they certainly
were not. Even Jordan, who had so ignominiously failed in the box,
seemed no whit upset, nor did the rest hold it against him. They had
quite as merry a time of it returning home as they had had going to
Ludlow.
But it was apparent on Monday that Captain Taylor meant to do better
the next time. Several substitutes were changed over into the first
nine, and Wayne was amongst them. Wayne was bothered because he
couldn’t hit the ball as he was capable of hitting it, but comforted
himself with the assurance that practice would bring back his former
skill. But it didn’t seem to. In the next four practice games he
secured but one clean hit, a two-bagger, and a very doubtful “scratch.”
He confided to June one evening that he was afraid he had forgotten how
to hit. “That fellow Chase isn’t nearly as much of a pitcher as Ned
Calhoun was, and I never had much trouble with Ned, did I?”
“Mas’ Wayne,” said June, “I done been watchin’ you, sir, an’ I goin’
to tell you-all jus’ what the trouble is.”
“I wish you would,” sighed Wayne. “What is it?”
“You-all’s too anxious. Anxiousness jus’ sticks out all over you when
you goes to bat. Now the nex’ time, Mas’ Wayne, jus’ you go up there
an’ tell you’self you don’ care ’tall if you hits or if you don’ hit.
Jus’ you forget how anxious you is an’ watch that ol’ pill an’ hit it
on the nose. If you does that, sir, you’s goin’ to see it travel, yes,
sir!”
Wayne thought it over and decided that perhaps June had really found
the trouble. At all events, the advice sounded good and he determined
to try to profit by it. The result wasn’t very encouraging the next
day, but on Friday he had the satisfaction of getting two hard
singles, and after that his return to form was speedy. Neither Chase,
the Chenangos’ best twirler, nor Jordan, who was capable of pitching
very decent ball when at his best, had any further terror for him. He
lambasted them both impartially, much to June’s delight. “What did I
done tell you, Mas’ Wayne?” he demanded as Wayne returned to the bench
after turning his second hit into a run with the aid of Gas Hoffman’s
single and a stolen base. “Ain’ nobody else got them two hits today
yet, sir. Reckon you’s done come into your own again, Mas’ Wayne!”
They went up against the Athletics, the team that Arthur Pattern had
referred to as “a silk-stocking lot,” the next afternoon and scored a
victory when, with the bases full in the seventh, Larry Colton banged
a two-bagger down the alley into right. The three resulting runs put
the Chenangos two tallies to the good and there they stayed in spite
of the Athletics’ desperate efforts to score in the eighth and ninth.
It was Wayne who cut off a run in the first of those two innings when
he reached far above his head and brought down what was labelled “two
bases” when it left the bat. A perfect peg to second caught the runner
flat-footed and retired the side.
That play, together with two singles and a base on balls in four times
at bat, settled Wayne’s right to a position on the team. In fact, he
was already spoken of as the best player in the infield, although to
Wayne it seemed that no amateur could handle himself and the ball as
Victor Despaigne did at shortstop. But Despaigne, while he fielded
almost miraculously, was a more uncertain thrower, and only Jim
Wheelock’s reach--and, possibly, those extra joints of which he had
told--saved him from many errors.
The regular second baseman was a chap named Tad Stearns. Tad played
his position steadily if not spectacularly, and Captain Taylor was
perfectly satisfied with him. It was Tad who almost invariably took
Hoffman’s throws to the second bag and who was always a stumbling-block
in the way of second-nine fellows seeking to win renown as
base-stealers. When, some three weeks after Wayne’s connection with
the team, Tad fell down an elevator shaft in the carpet factory where
he was employed as shipping clerk and broke his left arm and otherwise
incapacitated himself for either work or play for some two months
to follow, Taylor was left in a quandary. Tad Stearns’ understudy,
Herrick, was not good enough, and when the news reached the field one
afternoon that Tad was out of the game for the rest of the summer
there was a consultation that included everyone on hand. As frequently
occurred, it was Jim Wheelock who offered the most promising solution.
“Why don’t you let Sloan go to second,” he asked, “and put Whiteback at
third? You want a good man on second.”
“That might do,” answered Joe, “if Sloan can play second. Ever try it,
Sloan?”
“I’ve played second a little,” Wayne answered. “I’ll be glad to try it
again if you like.”
“Sure,” agreed Hoffman, swinging his mask, “that’s the best way out of
it. Beat it down there, Sloan, and I’ll slip you a few throws. You and
Vic ought to work together finely.”
“All right,” said Captain Taylor, “we’ll try it that way. Billy White,
you take third, will you? It’s just like Tad to fall down a shaft right
in the middle of the season,” he ended grumblingly.
“Yes,” said Jim drily, “he never did have any consideration for folks.
Thoughtless, I call him.”
Joe grinned. “Oh, well, I suppose he didn’t mean to do it,” he
answered. “I must drop around this evening and see how he is. All
right, fellows! Let’s get at it!”
So that is how Wayne became a second instead of a third baseman. After
two or three days in the position he decided, and all who watched him
in action decided, that second was where he belonged. He took throws
from the plate nicely and developed an almost uncanny ability to
outguess the base-runner, and the way he blocked him off was good to
see. He had to guard against over-throwing to first for a while, for
the distance was strange, but it didn’t take him long to learn to snap
instead of speeding them to Wheelock. The best thing of all, however,
was the way in which he and Vic Despaigne fitted into each other. As
Gas Hoffman had predicted, they worked together nicely and double plays
began to be so frequent as to scarcely merit remark. At third, White
got along very well, although he was scarcely as dependable as Wayne
had been. He got better as the season progressed, however, and by the
first of July the Chenango infield was about as good as they make them
for amateur teams.
Up to that time the club had played seven games, of which it had won
three, lost three, and tied one. The Fourth of July contest was with
the Toonalta A. A., and, since Toonalta had beaten Joe’s charges
the year before and the year before that, Chenango was very anxious
to score a victory. The game was to be played at Medfield, a fact
calculated to favour the home team, and Joe and most of the others were
quite hopeful. But Joe didn’t allow that to keep him from putting the
nine through some very strenuous practice during the week preceding the
contest.