DUD GOES TO THE RESCUE
Grafton had now played seven contests with outside teams and had
won five and lost two. Six games remained; seven in case it became
necessary to play a third game with Mount Morris. On the whole the
nine had showed average strength. The pitching had been good and
defensively the team had more than held its own against contenders.
But both Coach Sargent and Captain Murtha would have been anything but
displeased if the batting had been heavier or had even shown promise
of improvement. The remaining games were all, with the exception of
that with Yarrow High School, scheduled just before the second Mount
Morris contest, hard ones. St. James Academy especially was looked
on as a difficult opponent, and Lawrence Textile School as scarcely
less dangerous. Both teams boasted pitchers of reputation, and unless
Grafton’s stick work improved she was not likely to pile up much of
a score against either visitor. Of course, it could be argued that a
team with a perfect defense is in no danger of defeat, but on the
other hand, a team with no power of attack can’t win games. And Guy
Murtha, being captain and in his last year at school, naturally wanted
very much to come off victor in those remaining contests. Fortunately,
the St. James and Lawrence Textile games were to be played on Lothrop
Field, a circumstance which would aid to some extent. The meeting
with Corliss College was to be played away from home, but Corliss――or
Careless, as the Graftonians liked to call it――while strong, was not
the problem that either of the other two was. As for Yarrow High――well,
that was only a practice game to fill in between the first Mount Morris
engagement on the ninth of June, which was a Saturday, and the second
one, which fell on the following Friday, the Mount Morris Class Day.
In case each of the ancient rivals secured a game the play-off would
be at Grafton the next day, the teams remaining after the close of the
schools to settle the controversy.
On the Monday succeeding their defeat at Rotan the players were given
a particularly strenuous afternoon of it. With the exception of Gordon
Parker, whose leg still protested at the injury done it by a Rotan
baseman’s spikes, all the players were out and not one was spared,
unless we exempt Ben Myatt. Dud put in a hard afternoon, for he pitched
six innings for the scrubs and was fairly well hammered. Still, he
managed to keep the hits of the regulars so well scattered that Mr.
Sargent was satisfied to leave him on the mound until, in the seventh,
it became advisable to let a pinch hitter take his place. After that
Weston finished up for the scrubs and was so erratic that the one-run
lead handed over to him by Dud soon vanished, the regulars winning out
by the score of 9 to 6. When Dud heard the result in the Field House
later he tried to be sorry for Weston, but the effort wasn’t very
successful. Dud, you see, was already entertaining visions of pitching
a half-game or so against Mount Morris and thus winning his letter.
Not that the letter part of it interested him so much, however. Just
the glory of being in a Mount Morris game would be enough for him. Of
course, he couldn’t figure out as yet just how that desirable result
was to come about. There was Ben Myatt for the first game and Nate
Leddy for the second, or the other way around, with Weston to take
a hand if needed. As for Brunswick, Dud wasn’t worrying about him.
Brunswick was keeping along at about the same pace he had begun the
season on, neither worse nor better, while Dud could honestly assure
himself that he was improving from day to day, or, at least, from game
to game. And he didn’t have to rely wholly on his own verdict, for
others had seen the improvement and told him of it. Ben Myatt had
praised him warmly, Captain Murtha had had a good word more than once
and Mr. Sargent had let Dud see that he wasn’t blind to the latter’s
growing ability.
But Dud was forced to presuppose a third game in the big series before
he could see himself turning back the Mount Morris hitters, and a third
game might not materialize. Of course, if Gus Weston kept on blowing
up every time he went into the points, why, that would improve Dud’s
chances a whole lot, and it was this thought that made it difficult for
Dud to grieve over the loss of that game to the scrubs! With Weston out
of the way――――
But Weston was an old hand, had been pitching for three years and was
just as likely to steady down again the next time and send his stock
soaring again. All that was to be done, reflected Dud, was to hope for
the best――which, from Gus Weston’s point of view, was the worst!――and
keep right on getting better and better every day. He didn’t wish
anyone ill luck, but if only Leddy might have a slight attack of
measles or something and Gus Weston develop a bum wing――well, Dud was
forced to admit that it would be Providential!
But the measles didn’t afflict Leddy nor did Weston complain of trouble
in his arm, and practice went on each day and Dud pitched or didn’t
pitch but always stood in front of the net and took his turn at
“looking like a silly goat,” to use his own expression, while he tried
to connect with the puzzling offerings of Leddy or Weston or Brunswick.
St. James descended like a wolf on the fold on Wednesday and took
Grafton’s measure without a great deal of trouble. To be sure, the game
went to the fifth inning before St. James solved Leddy’s slants and by
that time Grafton had herself assailed the opposing twirler for three
hits and scored one run. But when the visitors did take to Leddy’s ways
they took enthusiastically. Nate got through the fifth with difficulty,
some brainless base-running on the part of the enemy aiding him out of
a tight place, but in the sixth, after the bases were filled with only
one out and two runs already across, he was retired from service and
Myatt went in to save the day. And Myatt might have done it had he been
backed by errorless fielding, but Nick Blake booted one in the seventh
and Ayer fumbled a heave a minute later and two more runs came over.
Grafton managed to add to her score in the eighth, increasing it to two
when Winslow cracked out a two-bagger after Nick Blake had been passed
to first and had stolen second. But that was the last of the home
team’s scoring, while, just to clinch the game, St. James broke through
with a couple of hits, one good for two bases, and added a fifth run in
the ninth. Grafton tried everything she knew in the effort to start a
rally in the last half of that inning, but the best she could do was to
get Ayer as far as third base, at which station he remained while Hugh
Ordway reached first on a weak infield hit that bounded erratically,
and Jimmy, batting for Boynton, hit into a double, his luck for once
deserting him. So 5 to 2 was the final score, and it pretty fairly
represented the merits of the two teams. St. James had been there
with the hits when hits meant runs and Grafton had failed to show any
attack worthy the name. In view of results, it was cold comfort to know
that, outside two errors and a wild pitch by Leddy, she had played an
excellent defensive game. Results were what counted and another defeat
had been scored up against Grafton.
That game came off on the last day but one in May, and on Friday June
came in with a spell of torrid weather. The heat combined with the
knowledge of impending final examinations tended to rather take the
starch out of fellows, and the ball players were no exception. Practice
became half-hearted, in spite of Guy Murtha’s impassioned pleas and
scoldings, and when Saturday dawned things looked bad for Grafton
as regarded that Lawrence Textile contest. Most of the fellows were
pulling their feet behind them and wearing worried frowns. The mercury
climbed up to eighty-four at noon that day and what breeze had made
life bearable in the forenoon died away entirely. Lawrence arrived
shortly after one o’clock and, after getting a taste of conditions in
the region of Grafton, willingly consented to a postponement of the
start of the game from two-thirty to three o’clock. The delay, however,
was of not much avail, for at the half-hour it was just as hot as it
had been at two-thirty, and the spectators went to the field armed with
newspapers and fans and all sorts of devices to shield their perspiring
countenances.
Coach Sargent again altered the batting order. Parker, while probably
able to get in, was not used and Jimmy took his place in center field.
Hugh Ordway went to third place on the list and Jimmy to seventh. Ben
Myatt started the game, with Gordon behind the bat. Lawrence’s twirler
was a tall, able-looking chap of about twenty years, unless appearances
were deceptive, named Fairway. Nick Blake was responsible for an
excruciating pun when, during Grafton’s third time at bat, he confided
to Jimmy that it looked as if that pitcher was in a fair way to beat
them. Jimmy charitably assumed that Nick was affected by the heat. Up
to that time neither team had presented more than three men at the
plate in an inning, the two pitchers going very smoothly and working
the corners for all they were worth. But in that last of the third the
luck broke for the home team.
Jimmy, surviving Nick’s pun, chose a likely bat and took his stand.
Being first man up, it was required of Jimmy that he secure his base
by any method short of robbery. Fairway sneaked the first one over
on him and teased him with a slow ball, which Jimmy wisely let pass.
After that an attempt to bunt resulted in a foul down the third-base
side. With two against him, Jimmy took a firmer grip of his bat and
bent all his energies to the task. Naturally, Fairway could afford to
waste a ball, and did so, and it was two-and-two. Jimmy took heart.
The next one looked good and he swung briskly. Another foul resulted,
the first-baseman almost making the catch. Another offering curved up
to him and again he laid his bat against it and again it went foul.
Fairway dragged his sleeve across his perspiring face, had a good look
at the signals and unlimbered. The ball shot in, knee-high and looking
good, and Jimmy started his swing. But something warned him in time and
he recovered just as the ball took a most deceptive drop in front of
the plate.
“Ball――three!” called the umpire. Jimmy grinned and hitched his
trousers. From the bench came encouraging and approving cries. Jimmy
stepped out of the box and wiped his damp hands in the dust. Then he
wiped them on his trousers. Then he stepped back with bat poised.
“All right, Fairy!” called the catcher. “Right over now, old man!”
Jimmy’s smile broadened. “Fairy” was such an amusing title for that
tall, husky youth down there! Then the ball was singing up to him, his
bat was swinging at it, there was a _slap_ and Jimmy was legging it to
first. But again he had fouled, and again the Fates that rule over the
lives of such as James Townsend Logan came to his rescue. The catcher,
running back with gaze set skyward, hands poised for the descending
ball, managed at the last instant to get the sun’s rays fairly in his
eyes. The ball struck his mitten, bounded out, was juggled and dropped
to the sod. A shrill shout of joy arose from the Grafton bench. The
catcher angrily sped the ball to third and looked for his mask in a
very disgruntled manner. Jimmy held it out to him.
“Hard luck,” said Jimmy consolingly. “Next time I’ll put it where you
can catch it.”
The Lawrence backstop grunted.
That trifling incident proved psychological, as many trifling incidents
do in baseball, and Fairway’s next attempt at a strike passed a foot
wide of the base, and Jimmy, dropping his bat, trotted to base amidst
the plaudits and laughter of the spectators. The coachers got busy on
the instant, Captain Murtha at first and Bert Winslow at third, and
sent a veritable fusillade of interesting remarks across the diamond.
“On your toes, Jimmy! Take a lead! Watch his arm! Look out! Up again!
At a boy! Here we go! Go on! Go on! _Who-oa!_”
Jimmy, hooking a leg back to the bag, grinned, climbed to his feet
again, shook the dust from his togs and inched along the base line.
Fairway gave him up after two attempts and turned his attention to Pete
Gordon. Gordon was there to sacrifice, of course, and the safest way
to do it was to bunt. But Pete was the slugging kind of a hitter, the
sort who doesn’t very frequently connect, but slams out wicked liners
or screeching flies when he does. Bunting, therefore, was not his
strong suit, and his two attempts failed, the first one going foul and
the second resulting in a harmless swing against the atmosphere. After
that, with two strikes against him and only one ball to his credit,
Pete was not dangerous, and when he finally hit one it arched amiably
into center fielder’s hands and Jimmy retraced his steps to first.
Myatt, however, did better, for Ben landed against the second delivery
and whizzed it over the pitcher’s upraised glove and safely into the
field, and Jimmy slid to second unhurriedly. Nick Blake went out on
strikes, and it was Bert Winslow who came through with the longed-for
safety, rapping the ball straight down first base line and a yard to
the right of the baseman’s best reach. Jimmy scampered home, Myatt
reached third, and Bert managed to get to second ahead of right
fielder’s throw. But that ended Grafton’s chances for the time, for the
best Hugh could do was to lift a fly to short left that shortstop got
after a run.
At one to nothing the game went to the fifth, Myatt holding the enemy
harmless in the fourth and Grafton failing to reach first base in her
half. But in the first of the fifth a fumble by Winslow put a runner on
first. Myatt struck out the next two batsmen and Grafton’s adherents
began to breathe easier. But Fairway, the Lawrence twirler, who had
fanned ingloriously the time before, took a liking to Myatt’s first
offering and poked it straight between Blake and Winslow. Result,
an eager youth on third casting longing eyes at the plate! Also, an
equally anxious runner on second, Fairway having gone on to that sack
during the throw to the plate.
Myatt started in with the head of the opposing batting list by putting
himself promptly in the hole, pitching three remarkably poor balls
one after another. Then he got two strikes across, neither of which
was offered at, and tried to follow it with a third. But the heat was
beginning to tell on Myatt, and the next attempt, while it looked
pretty good from the bench, was adjudged a ball and the bases were
full.
“Weston,” called Mr. Sargent, “get a ball! You, too, Baker.”
Possibly the sight of the two relief pitchers and Brooks trudging
off to warm up put Myatt on his mettle, for he fairly stood the next
batsman on his ear, fanning him with just four deliveries while the
Grafton sympathizers cheered and yelped. Three disappointed runners
left as many bases and turned sadly to their positions.
Grafton tried hard to add to her score in her half of the fifth, but
Fairway was quite master of the situation. The sixth passed without a
thrill, even if Lawrence did manage to work a pass and get a scratch
hit. Nothing came of it, for Blake, Murtha and Ayer pulled off a double
and stopped the rampage. For Grafton, Winslow, Ordway and Murtha went
out in order.
The seventh witnessed Myatt’s Waterloo. For several innings he had been
in bad shape owing to the heat, and when he faced the first batsman in
the seventh it was not difficult to see that he was working on pure
nerve. When the first man had found him for a single and he had pitched
three balls to the second, Murtha stepped over and held a conference.
Myatt shook his head and Bert Winslow joined them. Over behind third
Gus Weston and Dud had taken up their work again, and Will Brunswick
had been sent to join them.
“There’s a job open for somebody,” remarked Brooks, throwing the ball
to Gus. “Ben’s quitting.”
The three pitchers, their backs to the bench, never turned, but three
pairs of ears were, you may be certain, very alert. It was Weston
who was summoned, and Gus, throwing aside his sweater, which he
had worn tied across his chest, lolled onto the field. Dud watched
him enviously, first because he had been chosen to relieve Myatt
and secondly because he was able to approach the honor with such a
wonderful assumption of indifference!
Weston pitched his trial deliveries, rather wildly as a matter of
fact, received the intelligence that the batter had three balls to
his credit and no strikes, and instantly supplied him with a fourth!
The Lawrence coaches and the Lawrence players on the bench hooted and
jeered joyfully as the batsman walked to first, the runner on first
jogged down to second. But that was what might have been expected, that
pass to the batter, for it is no mean task to go to the mound with the
score three against you and keep the batsman from walking. Dud had to
acknowledge that as he and Brunswick and Brooks retired to the thin
strip of shade afforded by the little house in which were stored the
tennis nets.
But this was not Weston’s day. To Grafton’s dismay, Gus very promptly
passed the third man, working only one strike against him, and behold,
the bases were filled and there were no outs! So suddenly can the
fortunes of battle shift in the game of baseball! Brooks, his gaze on
the bench, jumped to his feet.
“Come on, fellows!” he said. “At it again! Peter signaled.”
“Gee,” murmured Brunswick, “I don’t see much use warming up a day like
this! I haven’t a square inch on me that’s dry!”
“Never mind your troubles, Willie; shoot ’em!” responded Brooks,
grinning as he drew his mitt on. “One of you guys will have to go in
there in about two shakes. They’re holding the game now for you to
limber up your old arms. Shoot ’em, Dud!”
Over on the diamond Captain Murtha and Bert Winslow and Nick Blake had
surrounded the unfortunate Weston, Pete Gordon, ball in hand, standing
guard at the plate. A faint breeze came up from the river and awakened
murmurs of relief from the sweltering spectators. Lawrence demanded
that the game go on, half a dozen impetuous youths leaping from the
bench to confront the umpire. The group in the center of the diamond
melted and Weston held up his hand for the ball. Gordon tossed it back
to him, knelt and signaled.
“All right, Gus, now?” he encouraged. “Make ’em good, old man! Let’s
get this one! Slide ’em over!”
The infielders crept up to short-field, the runners capered and took
daring leads and the coachers shouted themselves hoarse. Gus wound up
and shot the ball away. It dropped prettily across the base, but the
batter refused it and the umpire upheld him.
“Ball!” announced the latter. Weston, hands on bent knees, stared as
though dumfounded. Then he straightened, turned on his heel and cast
his arms derisively apart. Lawrence jeered enjoyably.
“Pretty good, Gus,” called Gordon. “Never mind, though. Let’s have it
this time!”
But Weston, though he took time and pains, shot one in that sent the
batsman staggering out of his box and sent Guy Murtha to the mound.
“That’ll do, Gus,” said Guy. “This isn’t your day, old man.”
“It’s so beastly hot,” grumbled Weston.
Murtha nodded non-committingly and raised a hand. At the bench Mr.
Sargent turned to Nate Leddy. “Better warm up,” he said. “We may need
you. Send Baker in.”