WITH THE SCRUBS
Dud speedily forgot all about Star Meyer, social aspirations and
everything else except baseball, for they had their first practice game
that afternoon and, although Dud wasn’t called on to work during the
first three innings, he became vastly absorbed in the proceedings. Mr.
Sargent made up one team of seasoned veterans of previous campaigns,
with Gus Weston pitching and Gordon catching, and formed the opposing
team of the newer candidates, giving the twirling job to Nate Leddy
and letting Ed Brooks catch him. Since it was the first contest of the
year both teams were on their toes and went into it hard. From the
practice diamond Mr. Crowley’s second nine looked on enviously when the
opportunity allowed.
Weston pitched nice ball for the regulars for two innings, mowing down
the opposing batsmen impartially and even monotonously. But in the
third, Ben Myatt, playing left field for the scrubs, landed on one of
Gus’s offerings and drove it far into right center, where neither Star
Meyer nor Gordon Parker could reach it in time to prevent him from
reaching third. That put the following batsmen on their mettle, and
before the inning was over Gus Weston had yielded four hits for a total
of seven bases and three runs had crossed the plate. As, however, the
regulars had by that time scored thrice owing to two singles and as
many errors of the scrub’s infield, the contest was far from decided.
Weston managed to survive the fourth inning, although decidedly wobbly.
He allowed two hits and passed Barnes, and the scrubs were yelling for
a tally when Hugh Ordway fanned and made the last out, leaving an irate
runner on third.
Brunswick went on the mound for the regulars in the fifth and Dud took
Leddy’s place for the scrub. After that, as might have been expected,
the fielders were much busier and runs began to trickle across quite
frequently. Dud pitched three innings that afternoon and performed
fairly creditably. Ed Brooks, fast rounding into form as a catcher,
knew Dud’s failings and jockeyed him along with a lot of skill and
wisdom. More than once Dud found himself in a hole, and if he escaped,
as he generally did that day, it was more due to Brooks than to him.
The catcher never hesitated to demand the third strike when it was due,
leaving it to Dud to put on enough steam or to fool the batter with
an unexpected slow ball, and it must be said to Dud’s credit that he
frequently delivered the goods. But at that he was hammered hard by
the head of the opposing batting list, and could only find consolation
in the fact that Brunswick fared but little better at the hands of the
scrubs.
Brunswick gave way to Joe Kelly in the eighth, and in that half-inning
the scrubs almost snatched the game away from their haughty opponents.
Kelly was wild and ineffective and filled the bases with the first
three men up. Jimmy Logan, who had never set the world on fire with
his batting, bunted cannily down the first-base line, managed to get
in the way of Kelly’s throw to the plate and not only saw two runners
score but reached first in safety himself. Prentiss fouled out on the
second delivery and Jimmy was caught going down to second. Dud, whose
turn it was at bat, had but slight hope of turning in a hit. But Kelly
had another ascension――or perhaps merely continued his first!――and
got himself in the hole to the tune of one strike and three balls.
Dud let another strike go by and then hit at the next delivery. Luck
favored him, for Nick Blake, at short, made a miserable stop of a weak
grounder and threw to first the fraction of a second too late, and
the runner from third was safe. That run brought the scrubs’ score to
11 to the regulars’ 13 and, even with two down, the scrubs dreamed of
tying it up. But Boynton dispelled the illusion by popping a weak fly
to Neil Ayer at first, and, since the practice period was up, Mr.
Sargent called the game. For the succeeding half-hour the scrubs busied
themselves to a man telling just how they would have won the game had
it gone nine innings!
Doubtless pitching four innings to the tune of nine hits and two passes
isn’t anything remarkable, but Dud left the field that afternoon
treading on air. If, he confided to himself, he had mixed a few
hooks in with those straight ones and, perhaps, succeeded in getting
a “floater” over nicely a few times, he would have cut those nine
bingles down to three or four! And, anyway, Pete hadn’t taken him out,
as he had Brunswick, which showed that at least the coach was fairly
satisfied with him. And when, while he was pulling off his togs, Guy
Murtha stopped an instant to say “Good work, Baker: I like your style,”
the air under Dud’s feet became roseate clouds! He didn’t even recall
Star Meyer’s existence until, on the way to the showers, he literally
ran into that youth. And then, instead of falling back, abashed, he
pushed past the other with a fine indifference and rattled the curtain
along the rod in Star’s face!
Afterwards, going across the Green in the early twilight, he overtook
a group of fellows and, contrary to his usual custom of passing them
with a muttered and doubtful greeting, he fell into step with Bert
Winslow, much to that youth’s surprise, and carelessly offered an
observation to the effect that it had been a dandy game. Bert agreed
unenthusiastically, shot a curious side-glance at the other, felt
some of his antipathy toward him vanish and remarked quite cordially:
“You’re more of a pitcher than I thought, Baker. Where’d you learn it?”
“I haven’t learned it yet,” answered Dud, conquering his shyness with
an effort that left him almost breathless. “Anyway, _you_ didn’t have
much trouble hitting me, Winslow.”
Bert accepted the compliment as merited, which it was, and thought
better of the other’s discernment and modesty, and while he was
beginning a reply Nick Blake, walking a few steps ahead, turned and
regarded Dud gravely and remarked sadly: “I’ll give you a quarter next
time, Baker, if you’ll tip me off when you’re going to pitch one of
those slow ones. I don’t mind hitting the air, but I hate to break my
back. Besides, I’m extremely sensitive to ridicule, Baker.”
The others laughed and Dud was spared the necessity of a reply by Bert
Winslow. “If you were really sensitive to ridicule, Nick, you wouldn’t
try to play,” he observed crushingly. Nick resented the insult promptly
and battle ensued. Dud left the adversaries rolling on the turf,
applauded by several spectators, and made his way on to Trow, feeling
much embarrassed and extremely happy.
The happiness was reflected in the letter which he wrote home the next
afternoon, for that was Sunday, and Dud, while he sometimes dashed
off a hurried note on a weekday, made it a practice to always fill
four pages with his somewhat scrawly writing on Sundays. His epistles
invariably commenced the same way:
DEAR MOTHER, FATHER AND SISTERS [there were two of the latter]:
I am well and getting on nicely. I hope you are all well when
this reaches you.
After that he might change the rest of the contents from week to week,
but Mrs. Baker, who read the letters aloud to a more or less attentive
audience, could get through the first two sentences while she was still
fixing her reading glasses on her nose. Today Dud’s letter was far more
cheerful than usual. In fact, it started right out being cheerful, and
the weather, generally dwelt on at length, was utterly neglected.
A good deal has happened since I wrote last and things are
getting pretty busy here. Something doing every minute in the
big tent, like Jimmy says. Yesterday I pitched four whole
innings in the first practice game we have had and did pretty
well take everything in consideration. Dad will say I’m
boasting but I’m not because if I hadn’t done pretty well Mr.
Sargent would have canned me quick, I guess. They only got
nine hits off me and Guy Murtha who is captain and a peach
of a whanger only got one real hit off me and one that was
mighty scratchy. I guess I did as well as Brunswick and I know
I did better than Joe Kelly because Joe had an ascension and
handed out passes to beat the band. Well, we’re getting down
to business here now all right, everybody’s doing something,
the Track Team has been out about a fortnight and so have we,
nearly, and the tennis cracks are out on the courts and some
of the fellows who play golf go over to the Mt. Grafton links.
They let the school fellows play there for nothing, but I guess
Charley pays them something for the privilege by the year. I’d
like to try my hand at golf, but I guess it wouldn’t be good
for my pitching. I’m still sticking to straight balls, like I
told you last week, but if I can get my control back pretty
soon I’m going to try hooking them again. I guess you’ll begin
to think I don’t do anything here at School but play baseball,
but that isn’t so because ever since mid-year exams most of us
have been digging like anything. I’m all square again with Mr.
Gring, but I told you that last week. He says if I could write
English as well as I talk it I’d be all right but just the same
I got Good on my last comp and would have got Excellent only
for punctuation. Jimmy says I’m a punk punctuater. I guess I
am, all right, too.
We play our first game the 25th with the second team and then
we play Portsmouth Grammar the 28th. I’ll send a card with the
schedule on it so you will know when we play and whom. We have
sixteen dates this spring but some of them aren’t filled yet.
It’s very hard to get teams around here to play us because we
usually beat them badly and they don’t like it. I had a row
with Starling Meyer in the Field House the other day and he
slapped me and Davy, he’s the trainer, butted in. I was going
to make Star fight but faculty got wise and J. P. came up and
said if I did I’d get in trouble, so I didn’t. But I’ll fix
him some other way. Jimmy is well and as crazy as ever. He
is out for the first too and I guess he will make it, anyway
he has more chance than I have, but I feel very much more
encouraged since Pete let me pitch all through the last of
the game yesterday like I told you. I didn’t get your letter
until Friday last week so I guess dad forgot to post it again.
You ask him if he didn’t. He will say Pooh, Pooh, but I’ll
bet anything he did. I’m getting on fine. I’ve met some more
fellows who are on the nine and everything’s fine and dandy.
Please tell dad that I’d like it if I could have my allowance
a little before the first this month because I have to dig
down for the track team assessment. They voted to tax all of
us fifty cents apiece, which is O.K. only I haven’t got it to
spare. Love to you all,
Your aff. Son,
DUDLEY.
Dud was highly pleased with that letter, for he discovered that he
had bettered his usual four pages by two more. There was besides, he
decided, a literary flavor to it that most of his epistles lacked; and
he was certain that his father would chuckle about forgetting to post
that letter; and maybe he would send the allowance right away!
After it was finished he and Jimmy went down to the Beach and, since
they had no canoe of their own and the punts belonging to the school
were hard to row and likely to prove leaky, borrowed one of the many
that reposed under the trees along the Cove. They were in doubt for
a while as to which particular craft to requisition, since it was
distinctly advisable to select one whose owner was not likely to want
it that day. The difficulty was finally solved by Dud, who recalled
the fact that young Twining was in the infirmary with German measles.
Twining was only a junior, anyway, and juniors had few rights even when
perfectly well, and still fewer when they weren’t! So Dud blithely led
the way to a gorgeous light blue Old Town, and together they bore it to
the muddy water of the Cove and clambered in.
“It’s the best canoe here, too,” observed Jimmy contentedly, as he
dipped his paddle at the bow. (Jimmy took the bow paddle because, or
so he declared, there was more responsibility connected with that
position. Dud, while not deceived in the least, never objected, for he
had a notion that stern paddling would develop his arm muscles.) “They
say that little bounder has heaps of money, millions and millions;
that is, his dad has. Did I ever tell you about the old darkey woman
who used to work for us? She was telling mother about some man who
was terribly rich, you know, and mother said, ‘I suspect he’s a
millionaire, Dorah.’ ‘A millionaire, Mis’ Logan!’ says she. ‘Bless yo’
heart, honey, that man’s got sev’ral millions of airs!’ Guess that’s
the way with Twining’s dad, eh?”
“That’s a peach of a canoe that Ordway’s got,” said Dud, after he had
laughed at Jimmy’s story.
“Too fancy,” replied the other as they left the Cove and headed down
the river. “He has about everything in it except a grand piano!”
“I suppose it cost a lot,” said Dud.
“I’ll bet it did. I told him the other day that it was too pretty to
use, and he said he thought it was, too. Seems he didn’t know much
about canoes and let Bert Winslow order it, and Bert got all the
trimmings the law allows. That’s like Bert. I guess it’s too heavy to
handle well. Here comes Brew Longley and Foster Tray. Don’t forget to
speak now!”
A battered green canoe occupied by two youths passed and salutations
were exchanged. For once Dud managed to get just the proper amount
of mixed hauteur and friendliness in his greeting. Somehow, since
yesterday, it wasn’t so hard to do things like that. Tray, a football
player and track team member, laughed as the canoes passed. “See you
got a canoe now, Jimmy,” he called.
Jimmy waved his paddle nonchalantly. “Yes, it’s a poor thing but mine
own. I’ll let you use it, Tray, any time you like. I believe in lending
to them as hasn’t.”
“You believe in borrowing, too, don’t you?” laughed Longley.
“Anything but trouble,” responded Jimmy, over his shoulder.
They paused near the old wooden bridge beyond the boathouse to watch
an automobile dash by at some forty miles an hour, and Jimmy sighed
as he began to paddle again. “I always think every time that the old
affair will fall into the river, but it never does. I never do have any
luck!” Beyond the bridge, where the river widened as it wound through
the marshes, they met a canoe at about every turn. Many were drawn to
the bank, and their crews were usually lying at ease above. About two
miles beyond the bridge and within view of Needham Falls they overtook
a white canoe, or a canoe that had been white at one time, apparently
empty, since at a little distance nothing showed but an idle paddle and
the backs of the seats.
“That,” mused Dud, “looks like Ordway’s. It must have got away from him
somewhere further back. We’d better tow it home, hadn’t we?”
“I guess so. Got anything we can tie it up with?” Jimmy altered the
direction of his craft to run alongside the derelict.
“Maybe we can use my belt,” Dud suggested. But at that moment they came
near enough to see into the white canoe and discovered that it was far
from empty, since two forms were stretched out flat on the bottom.
One had the colored pages of a Sunday paper over his face and was
consequently unrecognizable, but the other was unmistakably Nick Blake
himself. Jimmy signaled to stop paddling and the canoe floated silently
alongside.
“Asleep!” whispered Jimmy. Dud nodded. Their eyes questioned. Here,
plainly, was a Heaven-sent opportunity to perpetrate a joke, but what
form the joke was to take was not easily decided. Dud watched Jimmy
expectantly, and Jimmy frowned thoughtfully, benignantly down on the
recumbent forms. If, he pondered, there was some way of fixing a line
to the white canoe without waking the occupants it would be a lark to
tow it down to the Falls and tie it up there in plain sight of the
trolley bridge. But Nick or his companion would probably wake before
they had accomplished that deed. And, besides, there was no rope handy.
Jimmy was for once at a loss. So, evidently, was Dud, for the latter
returned Jimmy’s inquiring look blankly. The precious moments passed.
And then, while Jimmy still racked his usually prolific brain, Nick’s
lips opened, although not his eyes, and Nick’s voice murmured: “Hello,
Jimmy! How well you’re looking. Isn’t he, ’Ighness?”
And from under the newspaper came the reply in dreamy accents: “Oh,
rather! Perfectly ripping!”