THE BORROWED HAND-CAR
It was hot and the walking was hard. They took to the path between the
tracks, but even that was far from being an ideal surface. Now and then
a sleeper, longer than the rest, protruded to trip unwary feet and for
long stretches at a time they walked over ballast. When they had been
on their way only a few minutes a locomotive whistle sounded in the
distance behind them and Jimmy was for turning back. It might be, he
thought, a train to Greenbank. But Dud destroyed his hope.
“It’s that branch line train,” he said. “The one we didn’t wait for.”
“I’d like to push it off the track,” muttered Jimmy. “If it hadn’t been
for that we wouldn’t be in this fix.”
After another ten minutes conversation ceased altogether. They were
too hot and tired for talking. The track, with strange perversity,
ran for a long way through a cut and what breeze there was failed to
reach them. They watched eagerly for the mile-posts at first, but they
were unusually far apart, they concluded, and they soon got tired
of looking for them. A wooden trestle made the going easier while it
lasted, for there were planks to walk on, but it ended all too soon and
they were back on cinders and broken stone again. Near the end of the
third mile they retired to the ditch at one side to let a long freight
trundle past. Jimmy morosely observed that, of course, the pesky thing
had to be going in the wrong direction!
They reached a small station at about half-past two and made an assault
on the water tank in the little room. Perhaps fortunately, the water
had not seen any ice that day. They rested a few minutes and then went
on again. A hundred yards down the track Jimmy uttered an exclamation
and Dud turned to find him pointing dramatically at a hand-car reposing
on a couple of ties laid at right angles to the rails at one side of
the way.
“What do you know about that?” asked Jimmy in awed tones.
“What about it?” asked Dud.
“Why, you chump, all we’ve got to do is slide that on the track and get
to Greenbank in no time at all!”
“And get arrested for swiping railroad property!”
“We won’t swipe it; we’ll just borrow it,” said the other indignantly.
“I guess,” responded Dud dubiously, “it’s harder to work one of those
things than it is to walk. Besides, we couldn’t lift it onto the rails.”
“I’ll bet we could. And all you have to do is just work those handles
up and down like a pump, you on one side and I on the other. It may be
hard, but it’ll be a mighty pleasant change!”
“We’re certain to get in trouble if we try that, Jimmy. Come on. We’ve
done half the distance, I guess, already.”
“Oh, come on!” Jimmy was already struggling with the hand-car. “We can
lift it easy enough, Dud. It isn’t heavy. Here, we’ll toss this junk
off.” And Jimmy ruthlessly slid a box of spikes and some tools to the
ground. “Give us a lift, Dud!”
Dud hesitated an instant longer and then went to Jimmy’s assistance.
The car was lumbersome, but they had no great difficulty in trundling
it along the ties and then swinging it to the rails. Fortunately, a
bend in the tracks hid them from the little station.
“Climb aboard!” said Jimmy joyfully. “Bend your back, Dud! Let her
flicker!”
She didn’t “flicker” much at first, though, and it proved to be surely
a case of “bend your back”! They did a good deal of grunting and
perspiring before the hand-car found its gait. After that it wasn’t
hard to keep it going, except that the continual raising and lowering
of the bars soon began to tire arms and shoulders and backs. But
Jimmy, although the perspiration was soon trickling down his nose, was
full of encouragement.
“There’s another mile-post coming, Dud! Say, I’ll bet we’re making
fifteen miles an hour, eh?”
“More like ten,” panted Dud. “Wish we’d come to a grade so we could
quit a minute!”
“Bound to be one soon, I guess. Keep it up! We’re doing finely!”
And there was one soon. It began a few rods beyond, but, instead of
being a down-grade it was the other sort, and for the next ten minutes
they had their work cut out for them! Dud was all for abandoning the
hand-car and taking to their legs again, but Jimmy pointed out that
when they had once reached the top of the hill they’d be able to coast
down the other side of it. But Jimmy was wrong about that, for when the
grade did come to an end only a level track awaited them. Still, after
propelling that thing up a quarter-mile rise, even level track was a
vast relief, and they let the car run a minute while they dropped the
handles and mopped their streaming faces.
“What time is it now?” asked Jimmy, easing a wilted collar about his
neck. They had long since removed their jackets and hats and bundled
them at their feet.
“Two minutes to three,” answered Dud. “How much farther is it, do you
think?”
“Only about two miles, I guess. Say, suppose we come to a station?
We’ll have to beat it by in a hurry, eh?”
“Either that or let this thing go. But there isn’t likely to be another
station before Greenbank, I guess. Let’s hit her up again.”
They hit her up and overtook another mile-post and were arguing
breathlessly as to the distance they had covered when a sudden roar and
clatter down the track behind them put the question out of mind.
“_Train!_” yelled Dud, who was facing the rear. “Stop her, Jimmy!”
Jimmy threw his body across his ascending bar, after one glance behind
him. A short blast of warning came from the approaching locomotive, and
then another and another. The hand-car slowed and stopped and before it
had ceased its momentum two badly scared boys were on the ground beside
it.
“We’ve got――to get――her off!” cried Dud. “Quick, Jimmy!”
On came the train, still whistling, but now they could hear the grating
of brake-shoes as the engineer put on the air. Dud had his end of the
hand-car clear of the rails, but at Jimmy’s end the wheels were caught.
“Give me a lift――here!” panted Jimmy, and Dud sprang to his aid.
Neither dared look back up the track, but they could feel the rails
pulse as the locomotive bore down upon them, while the screech of
locked wheels was deafening. It seemed minutes before they managed to
wrench the hand-car from the track, although it was in reality but a
matter of seconds from the first warning blast to the instant that,
pushing the hand-car down the slope beside the railway, the two boys
literally threw themselves after it. There was a roar, a maelstrom of
dust, the sound of releasing brake-shoes and the freight, gathering
speed again, rushed by them.
_Clank-clank! Thump-thump!_ Car after car went past while Dud and
Jimmy, white-faced, breathless and trembling from their exertions,
crouched in a tangle of bushes beside the half-overturned hand-car,
deafened, choked and blinded with dust, shudderingly grateful for their
escape.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, some two miles distant, Grafton and Mount Morris were
battling valiantly on a sun-smitten diamond before the gaze of nearly
a thousand excited spectators. The fourth inning was drawing to its
close. It had been a slow contest, filled with anxious moments for both
contenders. Every inning so far had seen runners on the bases and yet
only one tally had been scored and that for the visitors. In the first
of the second a pass had been followed by a clean hit and a bad error
by Mount Morris’ second-baseman and Captain Murtha had dashed over the
plate. But since then Saylor, for the Green-and-White, and Nate Leddy,
pitching for the visitors, had managed to stave off runs, although more
than once a hit would have spelled disaster. Neither Saylor nor Leddy
had gone unpunished, for there had been hits aplenty for both teams,
but neither Grafton nor Mount Morris had been able to hit safely when a
hit would have meant a run. Errors had been frequent and each team had
been about equally guilty, although the Green-and-White’s slip-ups had
proved more costly. Now, with two down and Gordon on second, Nate Leddy
was trying his hardest to solve the mysteries of the sharply-breaking
deliveries of his rival. Here again a hit would send a tally across,
and here again the hit was not forthcoming, for Nate, after getting
Saylor in the hole, fouled off his second strike and then lifted a high
one to first-baseman.
The fifth began with the tail-end of the Mount Morris batting list
coming up and Leddy beginning to show wear. Strike-outs had been few
and Nate had in nearly every case been obliged to serve at least seven
balls. Mount Morris had displayed a positive passion for knocking
fouls. Nate’s first two offerings were not good enough and the third
went bounding off the batsman’s cudgel into the stand. Then came a
third ball, and simultaneous with the umpire’s decision Ben Myatt left
the bench and began to warm up with Brooks. Nate had to let that batter
go. The next one flied out to Boynton. Then came another hit, the
seventh for the home team, and first and second were occupied. Nate was
slipping now and from the bench Coach Sargent was watching him as a cat
watches a mouse. One ball――two balls――a strike――another ball――
Mr. Sargent arose and Guy Murtha hustled in from second to the mound.
Back of first base Ben Myatt removed his coat and moved into the field.
Nate passed him the ball and Ben clapped the other on the shoulder as
he turned toward the bench.
“Myatt pitching for Grafton!” announced the umpire.
Weston had joined Brooks and was tossing the ball to him desultorily,
his gaze on the diamond. The cheers from the visiting contingent died
away and Ben took up the task. The batsman accepted the first ball and
slammed it across the diamond to Nick Blake. Nick dashed to second and
made the out, but the oncoming runner from first spoiled his throw
and the double. Two down and men on first and third. But Ben had the
situation in hand and the next batsman fouled out to Winslow.
Once more Grafton put runners on the bases, Winslow first, after Blake
had retired by the strike-out route, and then Ordway, the latter
beating out a bunt by a hair’s-breadth. But then Murtha, swinging like
a Hercules, only succeeded in driving a liner into shortstop’s glove
and Neil Ayer’s fly to right was an easy out.
Mount Morris’ first-batsman struck out amidst the joyful whoops of the
Grafton supporters, but the next man hit safely to short left and was
advanced by a bunt which Winslow, coming in for on the run, scrambled.
A double steal followed, Gordon pegging to Winslow too late. Myatt had
trouble finding the plate and the bags were filled again. But Fortune
had not yet turned her back on the Scarlet-and-Gray. The Mount Morris
left fielder, doing his utmost to bring off a sacrifice fly, only hit
a weak, bounding ball to the pitcher’s box and the runner was out at
the plate. But Gordon’s throw to first was too late to get the batter.
Myatt worked a strike over and followed it with a ball. Then a healthy
swing failed and the score was two-and-one. But a second ball followed
and then a third, and Grafton saw trouble ahead. The next was a strike,
not offered at, and Ben gathered himself together for a final effort.
When the ball left his hand it sped straight for the center of the
plate with nothing on it but speed. There was a _crack_ of wood against
leather and out in left field Hugh Ordway, shading his eyes for an
instant, turned and raced back. A swift turn, a change of direction to
the right and then a breathless, silent moment in the stand. Down came
the ball, Hugh stepped forward a pace and then a mighty shout of joy
and relief arose from the flaunters of the scarlet-and-gray pennants.
With his back almost at the wall of the red-brick dormitory, Hobo
Ordway had pulled down one of the longest flies in the history of the
dual contests!
The seventh began with Grafton still one lone tally to the good.
Boynton was an easy out, shortstop to first, Star Meyer fanned, Gordon
got a lucky hit that glanced from Saylor’s glove and rolled safely
past second-baseman. Myatt received a salvo of applause as he made his
first appearance at the plate and there were demands for a home-run.
But Ben was not the old Ben today. Those on the bench realized that he
was playing on his nerve and Mr. Sargent viewed him anxiously. Ben let
Saylor put a strike and two balls over before he offered. Then came
the hit-and-run signal and he swung at a fairly wide one while Gordon
streaked to second. Ben missed entirely, but the catcher’s hurried
throw was low and Gordon was safe. Ben spoiled the next one and Saylor
made it three balls and Grafton howled and whooped expectantly. But
Ben’s attempt to wallop failed, for the ball only glanced from his
stick and rolled slowly toward third. Pitcher and third-baseman both
scurried for it and Saylor fielded it. It was too late to get Gordon
and the pitcher pegged across to first. Ben, running hard, scented the
throw and dived feet-foremost to base with the result that he collided
with the baseman and that youth dropped the ball. Had Gordon started
for home at that moment he could have reached it safely, but he didn’t
and a golden opportunity was lost.
Nick Blake let two go by, one a strike and the other a pitch-out. Then,
on the next delivery Myatt sprinted to second unchallenged. Nick tried
to hit but failed and found himself in the hole. Saylor coaxed him with
a drop and then a wide and high one and Nick refused both. It had to be
good then and it was, and Nick let go at it and dashed for first, while
Gordon tore in from third and Myatt legged it to third. But Nick’s
effort was vain, for the Mount Morris third-baseman speared the ball a
yard in the air!
The Green-and-White was not yet acknowledging defeat, and proved it
by the way she went after the redoubtable Myatt in the last of the
seventh. Ben was slow and careful today, lacking his usual certainty
and dash, and after the first man at bat had smashed a drive down the
first base line for a single the home team batters lost their awe of
him and began to make trouble. Ben retired the second man after much
trouble by making him fly out to Meyer, and Meyer held the runner at
first by a quick return. But the next man found something to his liking
and sped it straight over second and the runner on first went on to
third. Ben’s trip around the bases had been his undoing and he knew
it, and after he had pitched two balls to the succeeding batsman he
turned and spoke to Murtha and a consultation followed. Mr. Sargent was
already on his feet beside the bench. A nod of his head and Guy Weston
tossed the ball to Brooks and walked toward the mound.
Ben came out with hanging head and staggered when he reached the bench,
and Davy Richards, a supporting arm around him, led him off to the
dressing-room.
Weston sped in his warming-up deliveries and then faced his task. A man
on first and one on third, one down and two balls on the batsman was
the situation, and Weston didn’t better it any by pitching two balls in
succession and adding a third runner to the bases! On the bench, Mr.
Sargent watched dismally. Brunswick, his last chance now, was warming
up, but it was a question whether Brunswick could do any better than
Weston. Mr. Sargent was thinking hard things of Dudley Baker at that
moment!
And consequently it was something of a surprise to him when Dud’s voice
came to him across his shoulder! “I’m terribly sorry, sir,” Dud was
saying breathlessly, “but we got left at that place where we stopped,
Logan and I, and we walked most of the way and stole a hand-car, sir,
and we just got here.”
Mr. Sargent’s surprise turned to cold disapproval. “Very nice, Baker,”
he replied scathingly. “It may comfort you to know that you’ve probably
lost the game for us. I had meant you to pitch today, but――――”
“Yes, sir, thanks, and I’m all ready to if you’ll let me!”
“All ready to!” Mr. Sargent surveyed the boy’s disheveled attire and
flushed, tired face sarcastically. “You look it! Why, you couldn’t find
the plate in the condition you are!”
“You try me, sir! I’ll be all right in three minutes, sir! Just let me
get into my togs, Mr. Sargent, and give me a chance! Will you, sir,
please?”
Weston had just served another ball to the new batsman. Mr. Sargent
hesitated only an instant. Then: “I’ll give you a chance, Baker,” he
said quickly. “Hurry into your togs. Churchill, show Baker where to
change. I’ll hold the game up as much as I can. But hurry!”
“Yes, sir, I won’t be three minutes! And Jimmy, sir? Logan, I mean. May
he――――”
“Yes, yes, only don’t stand here! Hurry, I say.”
Mr. Sargent sped Parker to where Brunswick was warming up and in a
moment Brunswick was listening to the coach’s instructions. In the
box, Gus Weston, ball in hand, waited uncomprehendingly. Then Murtha
took the sphere from him, slapped him on the shoulder and sent him
disgustedly to the bench.
“Brunswick pitching for Grafton!” called the umpire.
But Brunswick’s pitching was an extraordinary affair! If cold molasses
is slow, then Brunswick was molasses frozen to a state of solidity!
It took him the better part of sixty seconds to get from bench to
mound, and once there he had to talk long and earnestly with Murtha and
Winslow. And then he went at his warming up very, very slowly, with
a wait between each delivery. Mount Morris protested volubly and the
stand hooted, but Brunswick was not concerned. Before each delivery he
examined the ball rather as though he had never seen anything just like
it before, and then, having assured himself that it was all right, he
studied the plate and the catcher, and some time later he pitched. Just
how long it took him to send those five practice balls to Pete Gordon I
don’t know, but I’m certain that he established a record that afternoon
for dawdling! And, finally, just as he had pulled his cap down for the
twentieth time and the batsman was impatiently pawing the dirt and
waving his bat, an interruption occurred. A brand-new scarlet-legged
player appeared on the scene and walked toward the box. Brunswick
dropped the ball and turned away and Mount Morris found the mystery
explained. Gordon was yielding his mask and protector to Ed Brooks and
the umpire, removing his own mask, stepped again in front of the plate.
“For Grafton,” he announced, “Baker pitching, Brooks catching! _Play
ball!_”