FIRST PRACTICE
There was a large attendance at half-past three that afternoon in the
baseball cage. Some forty-odd candidates, most of them last year’s
first and second team members, had assembled for work, while fully as
many others were on hand to watch proceedings. Not that anything very
exciting promised, but it was a raw, uncomfortable sort of day outside
and fellows were glad of any event that offered a half hour’s mild
amusement. The cage was not a very ambitious affair, for it had been
an after-thought and had been built after the building was erected and
at a sacrifice of one of the two bowling alleys, which, thrown into
the space formerly occupied by a storeroom, supplied area for a modest
cage. It was large enough to throw at base distance in and to hold
batting practice in if the batter didn’t attempt anything more than a
tap. Also, of course, it made an excellent place for the pitchers to
limber up.
Dud and Jimmy went over to the gymnasium together, for the latter had
finally decided to try his luck with the first nine. When, having got
into his gymnasium suit, Dud looked around for Jimmy, he was rather
disconcerted to find himself confronting Starling Meyer across the
bench. Dud didn’t feel so brave today, and would have been just as
satisfied if he hadn’t run across the hockey star. But the latter
only glared in a haughtily disgusted manner and turned his back, and
Dud heaved a sigh of relief, not loud but fervent, and made his way
unobtrusively out of the locker-room. He was careful to nod or speak to
such fellows as he knew, although lots of times it took a good deal of
courage. He was obeying Jimmy’s directions, however.
“Don’t wait for fellows to speak to you,” Jimmy had ordered. “Speak
first. Don’t act as if you were afraid they wouldn’t know you, either.
Just say, ‘Hello, Smith,’ sort of careless-like, or, if you don’t know
them fairly well, just nod and smile. Don’t grin, smile. Like this.”
And Jimmy turned the corners of his mouth up slightly and nodded his
head very briefly. “Get the idea! ‘I know who you are, but I don’t
recall the name.’ But don’t try that on the big fellows like――well,
like Murtha and Trafford and those chaps. You want to be polite to
them, sort of cordial, too. Only don’t let them think you’re trying to
swipe.”
“Which I am,” Dud had interpolated a trifle bitterly.
“Not at all! You’re merely being――er――tactful. There’s a difference.
Tact and diplomacy are great things, Dud. You want to practice ’em.”
“Toadying, I call it!”
“Tut, tut! Nothing like it. Call it――call it a studied effort to
please!”
“Call it what you like,” Dud had replied somberly. “It’s poor business.”
“Some of our greatest citizens have been diplomats, Dud. Look at me!”
Dud’s gaze picked out a number of baseball celebrities whom, under
Jimmy’s tutelage, he had come to know well enough to speak to. In every
case, if he found himself near enough to speak he spoke, or, failing
that, he nodded, trying to look quite at his ease and not succeeding
very well. Guy Murtha was there, of course, for Guy was this year’s
captain. He was eighteen, a tall, decidedly plain youth with so many
likable qualities that one soon forgot about his features. And Bert
Winslow and Nick Blake were talking together further on, and near by
were Ben Myatt and Pete Gordon and Nate Leddy. And Hugh Ordway was one
of a group the rest of whom Dud knew only by sight. Jimmy appeared from
somewhere and about that moment Mr. Sargent, the physical director and
baseball coach, came in with Tris Barnes, the manager. Mr. Sargent,
or “Pete,” as he was called, was short and square, with a beard and
mustache and a pair of restless brown eyes behind the big round lenses
of his spectacles. He had a nervous, impatient manner of speaking and
was quite likely, to the secret amusement and delight of the fellows,
to get his words twisted when the least bit excited.
“All out of the cage, please, but team candidates,” was his order.
“Close that door, somebody. Better bolt it, Churchill. Now, fellows,
if you’ll kindly top stalking――ah――stop talking, we’ll get started.
Captain Murtha, want to say anything?”
“I guess not, sir. There’ll be plenty of time to talk later on,
won’t there? I’d like to say, though, that we’re going to need more
candidates than are here today and I wish you fellows would try and
get others to come out. There’s no use waiting until we get outdoors,
for this work in the cage is very important and fellows who miss it
won’t stand much show. Our season begins pretty early this spring, a
week earlier than last year, and we haven’t any too much time to get
in shape. I’d like mighty well to see fully twenty more fellows here
tomorrow.”
“Yes, yes; this is a very poor showing,” agreed Mr. Sargent. “Well,
we’ll make a start, fellows. We’re going to have setting-up work this
afternoon and for a few days. How’s that, Barnes? No, no dumb-bells
today, thanks. Just get in line, fellows, will you? About four rows
will do. That’s it. Now then, follow me, please. And keep your mind on
what you’re doing. One, two, three, four! Stretch the arms out as far
as they’ll go. All right. Now the wrists; twist! One, two, three, four,
five, six, seven, eight――keep it up! All right!”
It soon became tiresome to Dud, for he hadn’t been in training and
the gymnasium work twice weekly had not been strenuous. It was, he
reflected, rather remarkable to find so many muscles that creaked
in unsuspected places! Almost in front of him, in the second row,
Star Meyer was going through the evolutions easily and gracefully
and untiringly, and with something of his usual haughty disdain for
anything not of his own devising. In gymnasium shirt and trunks Star
showed strong and muscular, and Dud felt a warm satisfaction over
the fact that he and Star had not come to blows that morning in the
bathroom! Star’s legs were things to admire as the muscles played over
them like whip-cords and Dud wished that he had paid a little more
attention to his physical condition during the past year or two. He
imagined that his own thin, elongated body must look strangely out of
place there with all those other well-conditioned ones. Further along,
where he could just be seen out of the corners of Dud’s eyes, stood
Jimmy, sturdy and stocky, loafing a bit when Mr. Sargent’s gaze was
not on him. Dud wanted to loaf, too, but didn’t dare.
The calisthenics lasted less than a half-hour, by which time Dud was
not the only one breathing hard and perspiring freely, and then Barnes
set the candidates’ names down. When it was Dud’s turn to register
Star Meyer was nearly at his elbow, a fact which added to Dud’s
embarrassment.
“Name?” asked the manager.
“Dudley Baker, Upper Middle.”
“Age, Baker?”
“Fifteen.”
“Experience?”
“I was on the second nine last year.”
“Position?”
“P-pitcher, please.”
Someone sniggered. It wasn’t Star, for Star never sniggered. It was too
low and common. Star only looked insultingly amused. Barnes looked a
little amused, too, although he tried not to.
“All right, Baker. Get on the scales and let me know your weight
tomorrow. Don’t forget, please.”
Dud, aware of more than one amused countenance, moved away and sought
the locker-room, conscious that his cheeks were very red. Jimmy,
already out of his gymnasium togs, noticed and frowned disapprovingly.
“Why the blushes, Dud?” he asked severely.
Dud muttered something evasive and passed on to his locker. But later
Jimmy wormed it out of him. Jimmy always could. And Jimmy frowned once
more. “We’ll have to do something with Star,” he said thoughtfully,
“something to make him have a little more respect for his betters. I
wonder――――”
Dud laughed. “I thought wondering was my stunt, Jimmy.”
“So it is. I don’t wonder, then. I――I merely speculate. Look here, Dud,
know what I think?” Dud shook his head hopelessly. “Well, then,” Jimmy
went on, “I think you’d better have a show-down with Star.”
“What sort of a――a show-down?” faltered Dud.
“I mean pick a quarrel with him and fight him. You see, Star has a good
deal of influence, and I’m afraid he’s been talking. One or two things
have reached me, you know. What we’d better do is make an impression on
him.”
“Thanks!”
“You’re not much of a slugger, are you?” Dud shook his head. “No, I
suppose not,” continued Jimmy thoughtfully. “Well, neither am I, but I
guess there are a few tricks I could teach you. Besides, I have a hunch
that Star isn’t any fonder of scrapping than you are. I wouldn’t be a
bit surprised if you could bluff him, Dud. Of course, I may be wrong,
but that’s my idea of him.”
“It’s a fine idea,” said Dud sarcastically, “but suppose you’re wrong?
Then what?”
“Why, then you’ll have to mix it up a bit,” replied the other quite
cheerfully. “But we won’t try it until we’ve got in shape some. We’d
ought to have a couple of pairs of light gloves. Know any fellow who
has any, Dud?”
“No, I don’t,” answered the other emphatically. “And if you think I’m
going to stand up to Star Meyer and have him knock me around just
to――just to please you, you’re horribly mistaken. Nothing doing!”
“To please me! I like that! It isn’t to please me, you silly chump;
it’s for your own good. Star is distinctly――distinctly inimical to your
interests, and――――”
“Yes, and he’d be distinctly inimical to my nose,” interrupted Dud
warmly. “And I like my nose the way it is. You may not, but I do. I’m
not going to fight him, and that’s all there is to it!”
Jimmy was plainly disappointed. “It seems the only way, though, Dud,”
he said pleadingly. “If you know any better way―――― And besides you’ve
got a reputation for slugging to keep up. What will fellows think if
you let Star sneer at you and don’t call him down?”
“You had no business telling fellows I was a fighter,” said Dud. “You
didn’t consult me about that and I’m not responsible now for what they
think. I’m not a fighter and never was and never could be. I don’t know
anything about it. And――and I don’t want to.”
Jimmy sighed and shrugged. “You’re extremely _difficile_, Dud,” he said
in a discouraged tone. “I plan things for you――――”
“Plan things! I should say you did! You’re a bully little planner,
Jimmy, but I don’t like your plans. Think up something that won’t get
me killed, please!”
“Piffle! What if Star did give you a black eye? You’d have the credit
of putting up a game fight and fellows would like you better. I tell
you, Dud, a fellow’s got to risk something now and then!”
“You do the risking then,” replied the other a trifle sullenly. “I
don’t want any black eyes, thanks.”
“Oh, all right then. Still, we’ve got to take Star down a peg or two,
Dud. But don’t you worry. I’ll fix my giant intellect on the problem.
Leave it all to me, old chap.”
“Yes,” answered Dud bitterly, “and find myself all beaten up some fine
day! Look here, Jimmy, I guess this thing’s gone about far enough.
Let’s drop it now. I――I guess I don’t care so much about being a
‘regular feller’ as I did. It――it’s too plaguey strenuous!”
“Give it up just when we’re beginning to show results?” cried Jimmy in
amazement. “Never! When I start a thing, Dud, I see it through. That’s
me, old chap. Having once set my hand to the plow――――”
Dud groaned in despair. “Well, then,” he muttered, “I wish you’d go off
and plow somewhere else!”
“Cheer up, Dud, the dawn is breaking!” Jimmy slapped him encouragingly
on the back. “We’ll make a regular feller of you yet!”
“That’s all well enough, Jimmy, but what I want to know is this. What’s
Star Meyer going to do when he hears that I’m telling it around school
that he’s afraid of me? It’s a wonder to me that he hasn’t heard it
already!”
Jimmy winked. “I sort of think he has, Dud,” he said softly.