UNCLE ISRAEL SITS UP
It was nearly six o’clock when the team and its still enthusiastic
supporters reached Amesville, and Tom, declining Sidney’s invitation
to dinner, went on downtown and alighted at a corner near the hardware
store. His train to Derry would not leave until a few minutes before
eight and he had two hours to get rid of. He might have returned to the
boarding-house, but he was in no mood to meet the tableful of people
and have to recite the fortunes of the day. He would, he decided,
go into a lunch room later and get a bite to eat. He wasn’t hungry,
anyway. His head still felt heavy, although the splitting ache had
gone. As he passed the store he glanced in. It was Saturday and so it
would not close until nine o’clock. The front of the store was empty,
but Joe Gillig was busy with a customer farther on. Tom turned back and
went in. As well stay there as anywhere for an hour or so. He hoped,
though, that Mr. Cummings had left.
Joe nodded to him as he entered, and Tom passed around to the back of
his counter amongst the sporting goods department were handed over his
attention, for all letters or orders concerning the sporting-goods
department were handed over to Tom, who, with the occasional assistance
of Miss Miller’s typewriter, managed replies to such as required them.
To-night the mail contained several orders, one from a small baseball
club which wanted nine uniforms, three bats and a catcher’s mask,
and several circulars and catalogues. Tom pinned together the letter
from the baseball club and the accompanying measurements and laid it
aside for attention on Monday. Then he glanced idly through a summer
catalogue of a dealer in athletic goods and, while he was still turning
its pages, the lone customer went out and Joe Gillig sauntered down
the aisle. Joe had grown considerably older since the day when he had
shown Tom around the store, less because of the lapse of time than of
a sense of responsibility, for Joe was engaged to be married and the
happy event was due to take place in the autumn. Joe’s red moustache
was now wonderfully luxuriant, and Tom, who liked to twit Joe about
it, pretended to believe that the latter touched it up with the red ink
every day.
“How did the game come out, Tom?” asked Joe, seating himself on the
edge of the counter.
“We won, ten to nine.”
“Fine! Anyone would think to look at you, though, that you’d been
whipped to a froth. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. I’m tired. I missed the special car and the next one was late
and I had to walk about a mile. And then----”
“Joe, did I leave my umbrella in the office? Just have a look, will
you?” And Mr. Cummings who had hurried in, glanced suspiciously at the
clouds piling up behind the steeple of the church farther down the
street. Then his eyes fell on Tom, and, “Hello!” he said. “I didn’t
know you were here, Tom. I just heard about the game.” Mr. Cummings
paused and eyed Tom doubtfully. “Glad we won,” he added.
“Yes, sir.”
“Must have been a fine game. Wish I might have seen it. Hm!”
Joe came back with the umbrella, and Mr. Cummings walked to the window
and looked out.
“Guess we’ll have some rain,” he said. “Must have been pretty hot over
at Petersburg.”
“Yes, sir, it was hot, real hot.”
Mr. Cummings walked to the door, paused irresolutely, and turned back
again. “I dare say you’ve had your supper, Tom,” he observed.
“No, sir, not yet. I’m not very hungry.”
“Oh, well, you have to eat, you know. I’m eating downtown to-night;
wife’s away. Better come along with me and we’ll have something
together.”
“Thanks, but I ain’t--I’m not hungry, sir, and----”
“Well, come and watch me then,” replied the other gaily. “Besides, I
want to hear about the game. I’ll be back about seven-thirty, Joe. Did
Mr. Wright say whether he was coming back to-night?”
“No, sir, he didn’t say. He left his light coat in the office, though.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Mr. Cummings laughed. “He probably
doesn’t know where it is and is looking all over town for it! Come on,
Tom.”
So Tom, wanting to refuse but not liking to, put his cap on and joined
the senior partner. “I’m in baseball togs, sir,” he said. “I guess
it’ll look sort of funny, won’t it?”
“What of it? You ought to be proud to be seen in that uniform, Tom.
Mustn’t forget you’re a hero, you know.”
Tom smiled crookedly. “I guess you haven’t heard much about the game,
Mr. Cummings.”
“Oh, yes, I have; a little, anyway. I ran across Mr. Talbot at the
barber’s.”
“Then you know I’m not much of a hero, sir.”
“Eh?” asked Mr. Cummings with elaborate carelessness. “Oh, you mean
because you had an off-day in the box? Pshaw! that happens to all of
them, Tom. The best pitchers in the Big Leagues get theirs just about
so often.” They turned into a restaurant and found seats at a small
table. It was a much more fashionable place than Tom was accustomed
to and he felt rather ill at ease until he had seated himself and so
hidden most of his attire behind the tablecloth. “Yes,” continued his
companion, taking up a menu, “I’ve seen more than one top-notcher get
slammed around the lot for keeps, Tom. What do you say to a chop and
some shoe-string potatoes and a salad? Sort of hot to eat much, isn’t
it?”
Tom murmuringly assented, and Mr. Cummings gave the order.
“You had an off-day, Tom, that’s all. Next time you’ll go in and hold
’em tight. You see if I’m not right.”
“There won’t be any next time, Mr. Cummings. I’ve quit.”
“Quit!”
“Yes, sir. I almost lost that game to-day for them, sir. I guess I
ain’t cut out for a pitcher, after all.”
“Pshaw! That’s foolishness! You can’t expect to be in top form every
day, son! No one can! Don’t let me hear any more talk from you about
quitting!” And Mr. Cummings, tossing aside the menu, looked quite
fierce. Tom smiled feebly.
“I guess they won’t want me, anyway,” he muttered. “I--I was perfectly
punk!”
“What of it? There’s another game coming, isn’t there? What was the
trouble to-day, Tom?”
Then Tom told about Uncle Israel’s illness and how anxious they had
all been; how he had decided to accompany the team at almost the last
minute and had rushed to the train and, finally, had had to foot it for
a mile when he got to Petersburg.
“Well, Great Scott!” exclaimed Mr. Cummings. “I should think you might
have an off-day after that! Why, walking a mile in the hot sun is
enough to put any pitcher off his game! What the dickens did you do it
for?”
“There wasn’t any other way to get there.”
“Then you should have told Mr. Talbot about it and he would have let
you off or had you rest up for three or four innings, anyway. It was a
piece of foolishness, Tom, and you deserved to get knocked out of the
box.”
“Yes, sir. And I was.”
The supper arrived then and for a moment or two Mr. Cummings was too
busy to continue his remarks. Tom, to his surprise, found himself in
possession of a very healthy appetite and fell to with vigour. Mr.
Cummings added two glasses of iced coffee to his order and when he had
sampled one of them he sighed contentedly and looked across the table
again.
“After you get that chop out of the way, Tom, you’ll feel better, I
guess. What did you have to eat at noon?”
“A couple of sandwiches and a piece of pie, sir.”
“Sandwiches and pie! What do you know about that!” Mr. Cummings raised
a horrified gaze to the ceiling. “What kind of fodder is that, Tom, to
go to work on? What you need is a nurse!”
Tom smiled. Life was beginning to brighten. The chop was excellent, the
potatoes hot and crisp, and the iced coffee reached the right spot.
After all, he reflected, perhaps he had been premature in resolving
to sever his connection with baseball! And he was quite convinced of
it when Mr. Cummings had got through lecturing him and it was time
to hustle to the station for his train to Derry. They parted on the
sidewalk in front of the restaurant, Mr. Cummings sending Tom away with
a heartening slap on the back and the admonition to cheer up and get
his nerve back.
Tom found Uncle Israel’s condition still further improved when he
reached home. “He et a good supper,” announced Aunt Patty in triumph.
“Milk toast and the white of two eggs he had. And he’s been asleep
ever since half-past seven.” She listened and nodded satisfiedly. “And
don’t you make no noise as you go up, Tom,” she added.
The next day Uncle Israel was well enough to be seen, and Tom tiptoed
into the room in the afternoon. Uncle Israel, propped up against the
pillows, his big gnarled hands spread out on the checked comforter,
looked pale and grim. But a slight smile fluttered over his face as Tom
came forward anxiously.
“Well, you didn’t get rid o’ me this time,” said Uncle Israel rather
weakly. “Guess I’m tougher than you thought, eh?”
Tom flushed. “I guess nobody wanted to get rid of you, sir,” he replied
awkwardly. Uncle Israel grunted.
“Ain’t in no hurry to get the farm then?”
“No, sir, I’m not. Besides, I didn’t know--I mean----”
“You mean you wasn’t certain you’d get it, eh? Well, you will when I
get through with it. And there’s a tidy bit goes with it, too. If I
didn’t leave it to you, who would I leave it to?” Uncle Israel glared
quite ferociously.
“I hope you won’t leave it to anyone, sir, for a long time yet. Are you
feeling much better?”
“Humph! I guess I’ll pull through. Will if that woman don’t starve me
to death. What you been doing, Tom?”
“I played baseball for the high school yesterday, sir. I pitched for
them.”
Uncle Israel nodded. “That’s play. What you been doing in the way of
work? Cummings and Wright still satisfied with you?”
“I think so. You remember I told you they’d promised me a raise of
wages in September.”
“Must have money to waste,” Uncle Israel grumbled. But his eyes held
a kindly gleam in spite of his ungracious tone and Tom suspected that
Uncle Israel was secretly a bit proud of his success. “I s’pose your
school’s about over, ain’t it?”
“Yes, sir, it closes Wednesday.”
“Learned anything, have you?”
“Lots, sir.”
“Humph! I guess, if the truth was told, you’ve been too much taken up
with those games o’ baseball to learn much. Sold that pump yet?”
“No, sir, not yet. I guess I won’t be able to right away.”
“How much you askin’ for it?”
“Thirty dollars.”
“Thirty dollars! Want to get rich in a hurry, don’t you?”
“That isn’t too much for it, sir. It’s in perfect condition. It worked
like a breeze when the contractors had it.”
“Humph! Wouldn’t take twenty for it, eh?”
“No, sir, I wouldn’t want to.”
“Nor twenty-five?”
“N-no, I don’t think so. Maybe I might, though, if anyone wanted it and
would haul it away at that price.”
“I’ll take it,” said Uncle Israel.