_Hope for the Bears_
The Bears were joyous again. They scuffled, joked, laughed and romped
joyously as the team gathered in the railway station to make a hurried
departure for the city of the Pilgrims on the evening after the final
game of the series with the Panthers. Three victories out of four
games played with the Panthers instead of the dreaded three defeats had
lifted the Bears back practically to even terms with their rivals. All
they had hoped for after the injury of Carson was to divide the series
with the Panthers, and it was due to the sudden appearance of Kohinoor
McCarthy that the victories were made possible.
All the notoriety that suddenly was thrust upon McCarthy had failed to
affect him, although Manager Clancy watched his "find" anxiously, and
pleaded with the newspaper men not to spoil him. No trace of the
dreaded affliction known as "swelled head" had revealed itself, and
because McCarthy was able to laugh over the wild stories printed
concerning him, Clancy breathed more easily.
During the celebration McCarthy, who had made it possible, stood apart
from the others, feeling a little lonely. McCarthy stood watching
them, smiling at their antics with a feeling that he was an intruder.
The truth was that the Bears had welcomed him from the start. He had
won their admiration on the field and the undying friendship of Silent
Swanson by his conduct in the club house on the afternoon after the
close of his first game. It was that incident that made for him a chum
and an enemy, who were destined to play a big part in his career.
When the players raced off the field after that victory, striving to
escape being engulfed in the torrent of humanity that poured from the
stands, McCarthy was caught, with a few others, and delayed. When he
reached the club house the substitutes and the reserve pitchers already
were splashing and spluttering under the showers. McCarthy walked to
where Adonis Williams, already stripped to the waist, was preparing to
take his shower, and without a word he kicked the pitcher on the shins,
a mere rap, but administered so as to leave no doubt as to its purpose.
"Here----. What did you do that for?" demanded Williams.
"I told you in the hotel, when you insulted me, that I'd do it. Will
you fight?"
McCarthy's blue eyes had grown narrower, and a colder blue tint came
into them.
"I'll break you in pieces, you ---- ---- ---- you," Williams spluttered
with rage.
"Drop that talk and fight," challenged McCarthy, stepping into a
fighting attitude.
Just then McCarthy received help from an unexpected source. Swanson,
the giant of the team, broke through the circle of players that had
formed in expectation of seeing a fight.
"You're all right, Bo," he roared, throwing his huge arm around the
shoulders of the recruit. "You're perfectly all right, but he won't
fight you."
"I'll smash"----
"Naw, you won't, Adonis," said the giant, contemptuously. "I think he
can lick you, anyhow, but you had it coming. Now kick his other shin,
and after that Adonis will apologize."
The suggestion raised a laugh, and eased the situation. The battle
light in McCarthy's face changed to a smile.
"I'll forego the kick," he said. "I had to make good after what I told
you in the hotel. I'm perfectly willing to let it drop and be friends."
He extended his hand frankly, but Williams, still scowling, did not
take it.
"Never mind the being friends part of it," he said. "But if you don't
want trouble, just lay away from me after this."
"Here, young fellow," said Clancy, who had arrived at the club house in
time to see the finish of the altercation; "I'll do all the fighting
for this club. Understand?"
"Yes," replied McCarthy, slowly, without attempting to explain.
"What do you think of my gamecock, Bill?" asked Swanson,
enthusiastically. "Adonis insulted him in the hotel last night and the
kid promised to kick him on the shins. He was just making good. He
offered to shake hands and call it all off, but Adonis wouldn't do it.
He's my roommate from now on. I'll have to take him to keep him from
fighting every one."
The giant's remark caused another laugh, as his record for fights
during his earlier career as a ball player had given him a reputation
which obviated all necessity of fighting.
The majority of the Bears had accepted McCarthy as one of their own
kind after that, and Swanson adopted him. With Swanson he seemed at
home, but the others found him a trifle shy and retiring. He was
friendly with all excepting Williams and Pardridge, who resented his
occupation of third base while pretending to be pleased. Yet with the
exception of Swanson and Kennedy he made no close friends. The
admiration of the rough, big-hearted Swede shortstop for the recruit
approached adoration and he was loud and insistent in voicing his
praises of McCarthy.
The train which was bearing the Bears away from the city of the
Panthers drew slowly out of the great station, plunged through a series
of tunnel-like arches under the streets, and rattled out into the
suburbs, gathering speed for the long night run. Inside the cars the
players were settling themselves for an evening of recreation. Card
games were starting, the chess players were resuming their
six-month-long contest, and McCarthy sought his berth and sat alone,
striving to read. In the berth just ahead of his seat the quartette
commenced to sing.
The Bears possessed a quartette with some musical merit and musical
knowledge. Kennedy, the quiet, big catcher, had a good baritone voice
and it showed training. Norton, who seldom spoke, but always was ready
to sing, led, and Swanson was the bass, his voice deep and organ-like,
making up in power and richness much that it lost in lack of training.
Madden, the tenor, was weak and uncertain yet, as Swanson remarked, "He
can't sing much, but he is a glutton for punishment."
When the quartette started to sing, McCarthy dropped his book and sat
gazing out into the gathering twilight, listening to the strong,
healthy voices. Lights commenced to flash out from the farm houses and
the haze settled in waving curtains over the ponds and the lowlands.
He was lonely, homesick at thought of other voices and other scenes and
the joyousness of his new comrades seemed to depress rather than to
lift his spirits.
Berths were being prepared for the night. Already in several the weary
and the lame were reclining, reading. Others, worn by the strain of
the day's game, were getting ready to draw their curtains. The trainer
and his assistant were passing quietly from berth to berth, working
upon aching arms and bruised muscles, striving to keep their valuable
live stock in condition to continue the struggle.
The quartette sang on and on, regardless of the lack of an audience,
for no one in the car appeared to be listening. They sang tawdry
"popular" songs for the most part, breaking into a ribald ragtime
ditty, followed by a sickly sentimental ballad.
Kennedy's voice, without warning, rose strong and clear almost before
the final chord of the song over which the quartette had been in
travail had died away. Kennedy had a habit, when he wearied of the
songs they sang, of singing alone some song the others did not know;
some quaint old ballad, or oftener a song of higher class. For a
moment the others strove vainly to follow. Then silence fell over them
as Kennedy's voice rose, clearer and stronger, as he sang the old words
of Eileen Aroon.
"Dear were her charms to me."
His voice was pregnant with feeling.
"Dearer her laughter--free."
Kennedy was singing as if to himself, but as he sang a voice, strong
and fresh, like a clear bell striking into the music of chimes, joined
his and sang with him the words:
"Dearer her constancy."
The card players suddenly lost interest in their game, dropped their
hands and turned to see who was singing. Players who had been reading
and those who had been vainly striving to sleep poked their heads
between curtains of the berths, the better to listen.
On and on through the haunting, half-pathetic minors of the old song
the clear, sweet tenor and the strong, well-modulated voice of Kennedy
carried the listeners. McCarthy, leaning toward the window and gazing
out upon the moonlight as if under its spell, sang on in ignorance of
the interest his voice had aroused in the car.
The song ended. For a moment the silence in the car was so complete
that the clicking of the wheels upon the fish plates sounded sharply.
Then Swanson, with a yell, broke the spell. Hurdling the back of the
berth he descended upon the startled McCarthy, who seemed dazed and
bewildered by the outburst and the pattering applause that it started.
"Yeh, Bo," yelled Swanson, giving his diamond war cry. "Yeh, Bo,
you're a bear. Hey, you folks, throw Maddy out of the window and make
room for this red-headed Caruso. Why didn't you tell me you could
sing? The quartette is filled at last!"
Flushed and laughing in his embarrassment, McCarthy was borne up the
aisle and deposited in the place of honor in the quartette.
Suddenly the scuffling and boisterous laughter ceased, and the players
drew aside, apologetically, to make room for an eager, bright-eyed
girl, whose face was flushed with pleasure, but who advanced toward
McCarthy without a trace of embarrassment. McCarthy, glancing at her,
recognized the girl who had directed him to Manager Clancy on the
evening of his first appearance in the Bear camp.
"I was coming to say good-night to father," she said quickly, "and I
heard you sing. I want to thank you."
She extended her hand and smiled. McCarthy stared at her in a
bewilderment. Some memory of long ago stirred within him. He recalled
in a flash where he had seen the face before; the face that had come
into his boyhood at one of its unhappiest hours. He had dreamed of the
face, and the memory of the kind brown eyes, filled with sympathetic
tenderness, never had left him. She was the same girl. He realized
suddenly that he was staring rudely and strove to stammer some reply to
her impulsive thanks.
"Oh, I say," he protested. "It was nothing--I wasn't thinking"----
"You sang it beautifully," she interrupted.
"The song is one of my favorites. I did not know Mr. Kennedy knew it."
"Used to sing it at home," said Kennedy, as if indifferent.
"Thank you," McCarthy stammered, partly recovering his poise. "It is
good of you to like it. I seldom sing at all. The song made me forget
where I was."
"You must sing for us," she said simply. "The boys will make you. I
am certain that after you feel more at home among us you will give us
that pleasure. Good-night--and thank you again."
The girl smiled and McCarthy, stuttering in his effort to reply,
managed to mutter good-night as she passed into the next car.
"It's a pink Kohinoor now," said the relentless Swanson, as he observed
the flushed face of the recruit. "All fussed up, isn't he?"
"Oh, cut it out," retorted McCarthy, striving to cover his
embarrassment by ball field conversational methods. "A fellow might be
expected to be a little bit embarrassed with a lot of big stiffs like
you standing around and never offering to introduce a fellow."
"I forgot it, Kohinoor," said Kennedy quickly. "I forgot you never had
met her. She is Betty Tabor, Sec's daughter, and one of the best
little women in the world. Even Silent is a gentleman when she is with
the team."
"I'm always a gent, Bo," declared Swanson indignantly. "I took a night
school course in etiquette once. Any one that ain't a gent when she is
around I'll teach to be a gent--and this is the perfessor."
He exhibited a huge, red fist and smote the cushions of the berth with
a convincing thud.
"I'll introduce you properly to-morrow," volunteered Kennedy. "Come on
and get into the quartette. We'll try you out."
McCarthy surrendered more to conceal his agitation than because he felt
like singing.
The quartette sang until the bridge players grew weary of the game and
the tired athletes who preferred sleep to the melody howled
imprecations upon the vocalists.
For a long time after McCarthy climbed into his berth he remained
staring into the darkness, striving to recall the outlines of a face
set with a pair of friendly brown eyes that lighted with a look of
eager appreciation. He remembered the little dimples at the corners of
the mouth, and the wealth of soft, brown hair that framed the oval of
her face. He blushed hotly in the darkness at the thought of his own
rather threadbare raiment, and he decided that he would evade an
introduction until he could secure money from Manager Clancy and
recover the clothes he had left in an express office.
He found himself striving to compare her face with that of another.
"She is not as pretty as Helen is," he told himself. "But it's
different somehow. Helen never seemed to feel anything or to
understand a fellow, and I'm sure Betty--Betty? I wonder if that is
her real name--I'll sing for her as often as she will listen."
And, after a long reviewing of the past that was proving such a mystery
and which the baseball reporters were striving in vain to explore,
McCarthy muttered: "I've made a fool of myself," and turned over and
slept.