MORE BASEBALL TALK.
“Poor old Yale!” said Ben Halliday, mournfully.
“Poor old Yale!” echoed Dismal Jones, with something like a sob.
“Oh, what’s the use of squealing before we know whether we are hurt or
not?” cried Puss Parker. “Old Eli has a way of coming out on top at the
last moment.”
“It’s a mighty slim show she has now,” said Pink Pooler, and it almost
seemed that there was something like satisfaction in his voice. “If she
can’t do better than beat little Williams by one score, what can she
do against Princeton? Nat Finch is one of the finest amateur pitchers
in this country, and he will make monkeys of Yale’s ordinary batters,
while our best men will stand a poor show against him.”
“How did Princeton get hold of such a fellow?” asked Halliday.
“I don’t know, but I am willing to bet something that his tuition does
not cost him anything.”
“If we could prove that we could end his career as a pitcher in the
college league,” said Halliday.
“But it can’t be proved,” said Pooler, quickly, “and so Princeton has
us by the neck.”
“I wouldn’t bet that way if I could get odds,” grunted Bruce Browning,
as he came loafing up to the fence on the Yale campus, where the little
knot of lads were holding the earnest discussion. “Princeton is not so
many, and Finch is not the only shirt in the laundry. He can be done
up.”
“He’ll never be done up by Yale,” declared Pooler, lighting a cigarette.
“Look here, man!” cried Ben Halliday, turning sharply on Pink, “what is
the matter with you? You talk as if anxious for Princeton to beat Yale.”
“That’s so,” nodded Jones, giving Pooler a sour look.
“You ought to know better than that,” said Pink, protestingly; “but I
have got eyes, and I do know something about baseball. When Yale has a
struggle to beat little Williams in a practice game, she is not going
to stand much of a show in the college league.”
Browning grunted.
“Huah! Yale has a way of starting out weak at the beginning of the
season and making a rattling finish. You forget that, Pooler.”
“No, but that does not happen every time.”
“Pretty near it.”
“There was a time, not so many moons agone,” began Dismal Jones, in his
queer way, “when it was thought that Yale’s one weak point was behind
the bat.”
“That’s been settled,” said Browning.
“Oh, I don’t know,” grinned Pooler.
“What’s the matter with Hodge?” quickly asked Halliday.
“It was his pretty work that saved the game with Williams,” declared
Parker.
“That’s once,” said Pooler, meaningly.
“Merriwell says he can do it right along.”
“Merriwell says many things.”
“And you can bet your life that what he says goes!” came with unusual
warmth from Browning. “I’ve seen Hodge work before, and he’s all right.”
“They say he has a nasty temper,” said Pink. “Sometimes he gets mad and
sulks.”
“Merriwell can handle him any time.”
“It’s always Merriwell, Merriwell, Merriwell!” sneered Pooler. “He is a
good man, but most of the fellows seem to think he’s a phenom. It makes
me tired!”
“He has done some phenomenal work,” said Parker. “Take the football
game with----”
“Oh, that’s ancient history! You fellows don’t seem to get over that
football game.”
“He did some fine twirling last season.”
“And spoiled his arm in the last hard game he pitched.”
“It didn’t look that way when he pitched for the ‘scrub’ against the
regulars, and made a draw game of it. It struck me that he was in fine
trim.”
“He worked for all there was in him that day,” declared Pooler, “and I
have it straight that he has been tending his arm since then as if it
were a sick baby. He does it up in arnica and witch hazel, and keeps
it bandaged all the time. He wasn’t in condition to go in and save the
Williams game.”
“He didn’t have to,” grunted Browning.
“He was needed badly enough. It was Hodge’s three-bagger in the ninth
that brought in two scores when two men were out, and saved the game. I
claim that hit was an accident. That being the case, it was an accident
that beat Williams. If Merriwell could have gone in and saved the game,
why didn’t they put him in?”
“I’ll tell you why,” said Parker. “They were saving him and they wanted
to test the stuff in Haggerty and Walbert.”
“You know Haggerty said he knew the weak points of almost all the
Williams men,” said Halliday. “That was why he was kept in so long.”
“Well, Williams didn’t do a thing to Mr. Haggerty!” grinned Pink. “He
was hammered beautifully, and they used Walbert fully as bad. Anyone
with sense will say those two men are no good, and surely it isn’t
sense to think Merriwell can pitch every game for Yale and give us a
winning team.”
“It doesn’t strike me you know much about pitchers and pitching,”
yawned Browning. “If you did, you would not be in such a hurry to
judge Haggerty and Walbert by their first game. The best pitchers have
streaks when anybody can hit them, and those streaks come when they
are least expected. There is nothing so unreliable as a first-class
baseball pitcher. He may win a dozen hard games, and then, for no
apparent reason, lose one that everybody considers dead easy.”
Pooler knew this was true, but he felt the sting of the big fellow’s
slowly drawled words, and he snapped:
“I’ll guarantee that I know as much about baseball as you do. You did
play on the ‘scrub’ with Merriwell, but you didn’t have any work. If
you had--well, you are not the most wide-awake man in college.”
Pooler felt that he was safe in making this talk, for Browning would
not exert himself sufficiently to resent it by personal violence.
Beyond a grunt, Bruce did not seem to resent it at all.
Parker hastened to say something.
“I don’t think there is any reason why we should be frightened because
Princeton put up a good game against the New Yorks to start off with,
while we made a poor showing against Williams. That doesn’t settle it.”
“Last year New York beat the packing out of us at the Polo Grounds,”
said Halliday, “but we won the college championship just the same.”
“That only goes to show how much stronger Princeton is than we are.”
“It goes to show that you can’t tell what Yale will do by the way she
starts off.”
“I’ll tell you this,” said Bruce; “Hodge works much better with
Merriwell in the box than with anybody else. Everybody says he played
great ball last Saturday. He will play much better next Saturday, for
Merriwell will pitch then.”
“The battery isn’t the whole nine,” said Pooler. “Hodge and Merriwell
can’t do the batting, base-running and fielding for all the others.”
Joe Gamp came hurrying toward the little knot. He was excited and
breathless.
“I say, bub-bub-boys,” he stammered, “have you heard the latest
nun-nun-nun-nun-nun----”
“Whistle, Joe!” cried Halliday and Parker, together.
The excited lad began again:
“I say, bub-bub-boys, have you heard the latest nun-nun-nun-nun--I
say, bub-bub-boys, have you heard the lul-lul-lul-lul----I say,
bub-bub-bub-bub----I sus-sus-sus-sus-sus----”
“Whistle quick, Joe,” cried Halliday. “You are going backward, and you
won’t be able to start at all in a minute.”
Joe began the third time:
“I sus-sus-sus-sus”--whistle--“say boys, have you heard the latest
nun-nun-nun-nun”--whistle--“the latest news?”
“We’re not liable to hear it if we wait for him to tell it,” muttered
Pooler, scornfully.
“What is the latest news?” asked Parker.
“Phil Hardy, cuc-cuc-cuc-captain of the ’vuv-’vuv-’varsity nine----”
“What about him?” asked several.
“Cuc-cuc-cuc-cuc”--whistle--“can’t pup-pup-pup-play any more this
sus-sus-sus-sus”--whistle--“this season!” shouted Gamp.
Cries of astonishment broke from the boys. Browning seemed to awaken
from the trance that was on him, and he grasped Gamp by the arm, taking
hold so strongly that Joe cringed.
“What’s that you say?” demanded the big fellow, fiercely.
“Phil Hardy can’t play any more this season?” questioned Parker.
“Did you say that?” demanded Halliday.
Gamp nodded.
“Dud-dud-dud-doctor said so,” he declared.
“Whew!” whistled Pooler. “That knocks the backbone out of the ’varsity
nine.”
No one paid any attention to him, but Browning growled at Gamp.
“How do you know this? Are you sure it’s straight?”
“Sus-sus-Sile Blossom told me, and he is Hardy’s ch-ch-chum.”
“Then it is straight, for Uncle Blossom never jokes,” said Bruce, in
deep dismay.
There was general consternation among the fellows gathered there at the
fence.
“Poor old Yale!” exclaimed Halliday, for the second time.
“Poor old Yale!” again echoed Dismal Jones.
“Now,” said Pooler, “it is a sure thing that Yale does not stand a show
in baseball this season.”
Bruce Browning turned savagely upon Pink--so savagely that Pooler was
startled.
“You make me sick!” growled the big fellow. “You’re always croaking!
You have been stuck good and hard betting against Yale, and I hope
you’ll be stuck again if you bet against her this year!”
“That’s all right,” said Pooler, sullenly. “I have a right to my
convictions. I’d like to see Yale win as well as anybody, but my good
judgment tells me she can’t win.”
“Your good judgment is not worth a hoot! It has told you she could not
win before, but she has won just the same.”
“Perhaps it’s not so bad,” said Parker. “Why, Hardy is in the pink of
condition. Why should any doctor forbid his playing?”
“He’s been having queer spells lately whenever he’s got excited and
worked hard,” said Halliday. “In the Williams game, you know, he fell
limp as a rag in Jeffers’ arms after making a hot run for two bases. It
didn’t seem that he’d be able to get his breath again. They fanned him
and turned water on him till they came near drowning him.”
“That was the first time I ever saw anything out of the way with the
fellow.”
“What is the matter with him, anyway?” asked Pooler. “Why has the
doctor ordered him not to play?”
“Heart tut-tut-trouble,” explained Gamp. “He’s liable to drop dead some
tut-tut-time when he exerts himself too much.”
The boys looked at each other in doleful silence. The news had cast a
deep gloom over them.
“Who’ll be captain now?” said Halliday. “You ought to know, Parker.”
“How should I know?” asked Puss. “I don’t have anything to do with the
management of the team. It’s all I can do to play first base.”
“Well, who do you think stands the best chance?”
“Frank Merriwell.”
Pooler started and scowled.
“I hope they won’t be fools enough to put him in!” he said. “His
head is swelled enough now. He’ll feel so big that he won’t be worth
anything if he is made captain.”
“Oh, how can you say that!” exclaimed Sidney Gooch, who had joined the
crowd. “Mr. Merriwell is such a splendid fellow!”
Sidney was a hypocrite. No one in college hated Frank more than Gooch,
but he pretended to admire Merry greatly. In his sneaking way he lost
no opportunity to injure Frank, but he never came out openly like an
honorable foe.
Of the two fellows, Pink Pooler was far the more manly, but that was
not saying much for him.
Bruce Browning was angry. He grasped Pooler by the collar and shook him
till his teeth rattled together.
“You envious whelp!” roared the big fellow. “You know Frank Merriwell
is not troubled with the swelled head. What you deserve is a punch in
the jaw, but I’d be ashamed if I gave it to you, so you get off without
it.”
Then he gave Pooler a fling that sent the fellow staggering.
All were astounded by this display of energy on Browning’s part, for it
was a rare thing that anything could arouse him.
But Bruce was loyal to Frank Merriwell. He had been Frank’s foe when
Merry first came to Yale, but, when he was dropped a class and found
himself received in a manly manner by Merriwell, he suddenly changed
from a foe to a stanch friend.
No one but Frank seemed able to handle the big, lazy fellow, but
Merriwell could do anything with Bruce. He even succeeded in inducing
him to play first base on the “scrub” ball team, and Browning had not
made a single error.
Pooler ground his teeth together and gave Browning a fierce look, but
he let it go at that, for he knew the big fellow was strong as a giant.
“Merriwell will make a good captain,” said Ben Halliday. “He has a
knack of getting more out of a lot of fellows than anybody I know. If
they put him in Hardy’s place, the nine will not suffer.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me a bit if you were right,” purred Sidney Gooch.
“I am not going to give up that Hardy can’t play at all till I hear it
from his lips,” said Parker.
“You may as well give it up,” declared a voice, and Bart Hodge joined
the group. “It is straight goods, fellows. I’ve just had a talk with
Capt. Hardy.”
They turned eagerly to the dark-faced, proud-looking lad, and plied him
with questions. All he could tell them was substantially the same as
they had learned from Gamp. Capt. Hardy had been examined by competent
physicians, and he had been ordered to drop baseball and refrain from
all kinds of violent exertion.
“It’s a shame!” groaned Jones. “Just at this time Yale can’t afford to
lose a single good man.”
“Don’t you worry a bit,” said Hodge. “If Merriwell is made captain of
the team, Yale will not lose anything. I know Phil Hardy is a dandy,
but Frank Merriwell is another.”
Somebody laughed scornfully and shortly.
Hodge looked round quickly, his face flushing crimson.
“Laugh!” he exclaimed. “I know what I am talking about! I have traveled
with Frank Merriwell, and he is all right.”
“From his head up,” said a voice.
“Oh, it’s you, is it, Pooler. Well, you are the one I’d expect would
make such a remark.”
Pooler strode forward, scowling blackly.
“Why, you miserable fool!” he snarled; “do you dare talk to me like
that? I’ll--I’ll----”
Hodge looked Pink straight in the eyes.
“I am going to tell you now that I do not think but little of you, Mr.
Pooler,” he said. “You are always croaking. Now you are howling about
Yale’s ball team. I’m willing to bet fifty dollars that Yale beats
Princeton next Saturday, and I’ll bet fifty more she wins the college
championship.”
Pooler was digging down into his pockets.
“Money talks!” he cried. “It’s a shame to rob a fool, but I can’t stand
everything. Here is my money. I’ll put it in the hands of Gooch.”
“Put it in Halliday’s hands and I will cover it,” said Hodge, hotly.
“All right. I’m not fussy. Halliday suits me.”
The money was staked and covered.