BACK TO THE BENCH
The coach met Dud at third. He appeared smiling and unworried, but his
characteristic trick of jumbling his words betrayed the fact that he
was not as calm as he looked.
“Think you can go in there and pull us out of this mess, Baker?” he
asked. “Take all the time you want and set your gignals right――I mean
get your rignals sight――er――well, go ahead, my boy, and show what you
can do!”
Dud made no answer, which was perhaps just as well since had he replied
truthfully to the coach’s question he would have been forced to say
that he was quite certain that he couldn’t do anything of the sort!
Instead, he walked toward the mound with a fair appearance of ease and
in a condition of blue funk. Murtha met him, and although the latter
smiled cheerfully and tried his best to look as if he thought all his
troubles were now past, it wasn’t difficult for Dud to perceive that
the captain was a bit disappointed in Mr. Sargent’s selection. He would
have much preferred Nate Leddy, but he had a good deal of confidence
in the coach’s judgment and, after all, young Baker had shown real
pitching more than once.
“Good boy, Baker,” he said cheerfully. “Let’s see what you can do now.
Listen, let Gordon do the head-work, see? Just try to give him what he
wants. They’ve got three on and no one out, Baker, and the score’s two
against you. Whatever you do, old man, don’t pass him. Let him hit if
you have to and try to make him pop up. Do your best, Baker, for we
want this game!”
Guy handed him the ball and Dud, very trembly at the knees, conscious
of the hot glare of sunlight that made heat waves dance along the
paths, conscious of the encouraging voices of teammates and of hearty
applause from the stand, wrapped his fingers about the leather and
sent in his first “warming-up” ball. A whoop of joy and derision came
from the visitors’ bench, for the ball had almost eluded the spry
Gordon. Back it came and Dud, trying his best to calm his nerves, shot
it in again. It was all right that time and the next. Then the ball
struck the ground in front of the plate and Gordon had to drop and
block it. One more, high and wide, ended the practice and the Lawrence
third-baseman stepped up to the plate again as the umpire called
“Play!” From the Lawrence bench and from the Lawrence coachers came a
sudden hubbub of sound, but through it Dud heard Nick Blake’s cheerful
voice.
“We’re all with you, Dud! Go to it, son!”
“Dud!” Nick had never called him that before, and somehow the thought
steadied him remarkably. To be sure, his knees were still a trifle
wobbly as he studied Gordon’s fingers laid against the back of his
mitt, but the stage-fright was passing.
“Let’s get him, Baker,” called Gordon as he arose from his crouch and
held hands wide apart. “You’ve got the stuff, old man!”
With a man on third watching for the least excuse to race home, a full
wind-up was out of the question, and Dud realized that he must depend
more on cunning than speed. Gordon had shown three fingers horizontal,
and three fingers horizontal called for a low curve ball. Dud,
emulating the example of Myatt, surveyed the bases slowly, pulled his
cap down, tried to shut out the wild cries of the coachers, snuggled
the ball in his fingers, threw his arm up, took his stride and pitched.
At the plate the batter moved up on the ball, hesitated and let it pass.
“Strike!” said the umpire.
There was cheering from the stand, yells of triumph from the players
in the field, but Dud scarcely heard them. Gordon, walking down the
alley, thumped ball and mitt together. “That’s the stuff, Baker!” he
cried. “One-and-two now! Let’s have him out!” He tossed the ball back,
a watchful eye on third, went back to his place, crouched, signaled and
again held hands wide apart. He wanted a drop and he got it, but it
shaved too closely the outer corner and the umpire judged it a ball.
Gordon turned indignantly.
“_What!_”
“You heard what I said,” returned the official crisply.
Gordon grinned and returned the ball. “It looked good, Baker! Let’s
have it again!”
But it was “one finger” this time, and the fast one that sailed
straight across the plate caught the batsman napping, and the umpire’s
“_Strike――two!_” was drowned in a shout of joy from the Grafton
sympathizers.
“That’s the pitching, Dud!” called Nick, scooping a handful of dust
from the base path and tossing it joyfully into the air. “Fine work,
Baker!” “Keep after him!” “No one walks!” They were all calling
encouragement to him now. He almost forgot the shouting, cavorting
runners and the bawling coachers. Back came the ball once more, Gordon
grinning widely. Then he dropped to one knee and laid four fingers
across the big brown mitt.
“Right in the slot, old man! He can’t see ’em! At a boy! Let her come!”
And Dud let her! It was a slow one that did the trick, a ball that
sped away from the mound with all the ear-marks of a moderately fast
straight delivery but that never crossed the rubber until the batsman’s
sharp swing had passed harmlessly. Then it descended into Gordon’s
eager hands and the umpire waved an arm skyward.
“_He’s out!_”
How the stand shouted then and how silent the Lawrence bench suddenly
became! The third-baseman, disgusted and puzzled, dragged his
dishonored bat away with him and tossed it contemptuously into the
pile. But that was only one down, and a big, capable-looking youth with
a grim determination shown in his tight-set mouth was already waiting.
A wide one that went as a ball, a drop that the batter tried for and
missed, a second ball――Dud had attempted to cut the inner corner of
the plate with a hook and had failed by an inch――and then, in response
to Gordon’s signal of one finger, a fast one that reached the batsman
waist-high and which he met with his bat.
_Crack!_
He was speeding to first, the bases were emptying. Dud, heart in mouth,
turned in time to see Nick Blake spring two feet into the air and spear
the ball, and then, without a wasted motion, dash across the second
sack a scant instant before the runner from first slid, feet foremost,
into it in a cloud of dust!
Nick had played the double unassisted and the side was out! Grafton
stood up in the stand and shouted herself hoarse. Dud, still a little
dazed by the suddenness of the triumph, stood a moment beside the
pitcher’s box ere he turned toward the bench. Then Guy Murtha was with
him, had him by the arm and was laughing softly and saying extravagant
things that he probably wouldn’t have said five minutes later. But Dud
didn’t altogether sense them. He only knew during the ensuing minute
that Nick had saved him――and the game! And if he could have done what
he wanted to do he’d have embraced that youth on the spot. As it was,
ignorant that some of the applause was really meant for him, he made
his way to the bench and sat down a bit breathlessly, and someone was
waving a dampened towel in front of him and there was much talk and
laughter.
And so Grafton started her half of the seventh with the score still 1
to 0 and Ayer at bat. Ayer popped innumerable fouls into all sorts of
out of the way places and then, with two strikes and one ball against
him, stood inertly by and let a perfectly good straight one pass. He
shook his head dejectedly as he turned away. Boynton reached first
on second-baseman’s questionable error――the Lawrence scorer gave
Boynton a hit――and went to second a moment later when Jimmy was thrown
out at first. Gordon brought the inning to an end by fouling out to
third-baseman.
Then Dud was back in the box again and Gordon was shouting one thing
and signaling another and again the Lawrence coachers were doing their
level best to rattle him. But that first of the eighth was easy work
for Dud. The luck was all Grafton’s. The first of the enemy beat out
a bunt and then was caught by Gordon going to second. Dud scored his
second strike-out on the next man, using just four deliveries. The
succeeding batter proved more troublesome, for after Dud had worked two
strikes across he began to lay against the others and foul them off
with a fine impartiality. Everything, it seemed, was fish that went to
his net, and Dud was beginning to despair of ever getting rid of him.
He slipped up once and sailed one over the stubborn batsman’s head, and
added a second ball to the score. Then, however, Gordon signaled a low
curve and this time the ever-ready bat missed! So did Gordon, for that
matter, but he found the rolling sphere and got it to Ayer well ahead
of the runner. Dud got a round of applause all to himself this time,
as he went back to the bench to pick out his bat, but he was so busy
wondering just how much of a fool he would look when he stood up there
and tried to hit the redoubtable Fairway that he didn’t even hear it.
I’d like to tell you, in view of what occurred later, that Dud picked
out one of Fairway’s slants and drove it across River Street for a
home-run. But nothing of that sort happened, and if Dud didn’t look
like a fool at the bat on that occasion it was only because pitchers
aren’t supposed to be hitters. Dud was an easy proposition for the
rival twirler. He promptly forgot everything he had ever learned about
batting and swung wildly at the first two offers, held himself away
from temptation at the third one and fanned the air an inch above the
succeeding ball. He returned to the bench shame-facedly, but no one
paid any attention to his fiasco and it dawned on him that he had done
just what they had expected him to do and a great big determination
arose in him to do better the next time, to learn how to judge a ball
rightly and to eventually become that rara avis of baseballdom, a
pitcher who can hit! But there was, it proved, no second chance for him
today. Nick Blake fanned as effectively if not as promptly as Dud had
and Bert Winslow was thrown out at first. And the ninth inning began.
Once more Dud proved his mastery of the enemy, but there were no
strike-outs for him this time. The first Lawrence batsman hit to
Winslow and went out at first, the next man flied out to Ordway and
the third, after Dud had put two strikes across, lighted on a low
curve and popped it unexpectedly into short right for a base. Dud made
three attempts to catch him napping and failed and the next minute
the runner was sliding to second ahead of Gordon’s hurried throw. But
Lawrence got no further, for the following batsman, trying hard to hit
safely out of the infield, merely succeeded in smashing a liner into
Ayer’s hands.
Once more Grafton swung her bats and tried to break the deadlock. The
heat was moderating now and long shadows were creeping across the
diamond, but the players of both sides were fagged and wilted and
prayed for the end of the contest. But it wasn’t to come yet, for
Ordway fanned, Murtha flied out to left field――it would have been a
wonderful hit if that fielder hadn’t raced back like a rabbit and
made a one-hand catch that brought applause even from the Grafton
adherents――Ayer beat out a bunt and Boynton hit a weak grounder to
shortstop and the ninth had passed into history.
Dud was back at his post again, a little tired, too, in spite of
the fact that he had worked only two innings. He had the head of
the list against him now and realized that this was no time for
slip-ups. Lawrence began enthusiastically. The little, blond-headed
second-baseman outwitted Gordon and Dud and walked to first. The next
batsman fouled out to Ayer. Then came a sharp _rap_ and the ball
sailed over second base and there were two on and only one out. But
things looked better a few minutes later, for Dud scored his third
strike-out, turning the left-fielder ignominiously back to the bench.
That surely ought to have ended things for all practical purposes, but
right there Luck took a hand in the game. The next batsman was anxious
to hit, and Gordon knew it. In consequence the latter signaled high
ones and Dud tried to serve them up. They caught him on the second
for a strike, after the first had gone as a ball, and then Dud fooled
him with a low one that barely crossed and the score was two-and-one.
It seemed all over but the shouting and Gordon risked all on the
next delivery. One finger was the signal and Dud sped the fast one
in breast-high with not a thing on it but steam. The batsman leaned
against that nice ball and drove it far and high into right field and
although Boynton was under it he missed the catch. And although he
recovered it quickly and sped it back to second, and Guy Murtha pegged
it on to third, the runner there was safe and the chap who had hit took
advantage of the play and slid to second unchallenged.
Lawrence caught hopefully at the chance before her. A pinch hitter took
the place of the center fielder. Gordon had no line on the new man
and had to guess his tastes. A high one was refused and was judged a
ball, a curve that just didn’t cut the outer corner went as another
ball. Gordon signaled for a drop and the batter bit at it and had one
strike against him. Then another drop failed to please the umpire and
Dud was in the hole. Gordon called for a high one over the plate and
Dud tried to put it there. But he didn’t. The ball went wide and Dud
saw with dismay the batsman trotting to first and heard the triumphant
yelps of the enemy. Another pinch hitter was up and Gordon, a little
anxious of countenance now, was asking for a curve ball. Dud responded
and scored a strike, the batter hitting hard but uselessly. Then came
a ball, then a second. Gordon was calling all sorts of encouragement.
Guy Murtha came over and told Dud to take his time. His teammates were
assuring him that he could do it. The enemy’s coachers, back of first
and third, were howling and dancing like Comanche Indians. The runners
were running back and forth along the paths. Pandemonium was fairly
loose and the din thumped against Dud’s ears excruciatingly. He felt
his courage ebbing out of his finger-tips. He wanted to ask Murtha to
let him quit, to put someone else in, but was more afraid to do that
than he was to go on. Gordon was pleading for a straight one. Dud glued
his eyes to the catcher’s chest, took his half wind-up and sped the
ball. And even as he released it he knew that he had failed again!
“_Ball――three!_” called the umpire through the din.
Gordon was hurrying down the alley toward him, shaking the ball at him,
his eyes blazing.
“Settle down!” he growled. “Put ’em over! You can do it! Now get on to
yourself!”
Dud took the ball, nodded dazedly and turned back to the mound. Murtha
was there, Murtha and Winslow, too, and the captain was looking over
past third base and juggling a pebble in his dirt-grimed hands. When he
turned his gaze sought Dud grimly.
“Guess you’d better let someone else in, Baker,” he said. “Sorry, but
we need this, old man.”
Dud passed him the ball, tried to say something, he didn’t know what,
and turned, white-faced and with hanging head, toward the bench.