THE NATIONAL GAME
Dugan and Sanders had intended to return the "Dauntless" that night.
They sailed to the end of the lake, where "Big Bill's" cottage was
situated, and tied up. But the storm coming up prevented them from
carrying out their plans.
At daybreak the following morning, they set out, and were startled
to see the "Dart" lying in shoal water. Badly frightened, the boys
immediately headed for the hotel wharf, and lost no time in mooring the
"Dauntless" to her accustomed place.
When Havens was encountered, later in the morning, the members of the
Idleman's Club had a falling out. It was a lively affair, and proved
very amusing to a group of loungers on the Resort House porch. Mr.
Fenton, hearing the rumpus, also took a hand in the proceedings, to the
great discomfiture of the two bold pirates.
Of course the encampment on Promontory Island came to an abrupt close.
Dugan and Sanders, disgusted at the outcome, also quarreled and went
their separate ways.
One morning, just before breakfast, Bob Somers and Dick Travers were
sitting on the porch enjoying the cool air.
"So the ball game's coming off to-morrow, eh, Bob?" remarked the
latter, in a tone of satisfaction. "Who's on our team besides Fenton?"
"Phil Levins, Havens, and that little fellow from Boston."
"Old duck, with a bald head, eh?" said Dick, flippantly.
"Plays ball like a streak, though, they say. Fairly eats up hot liners
and all that sort of thing. He played short-stop for Harvard, I'm told."
"Just the kind we need. These chaps out here may know a thing or two
about the game. No telling but what Mr. Barton has done a lot of
coaching. Hello, Chub!"
The stout boy ambled slowly out on the porch. "You fellows still
talking baseball?" he asked. "Why don't you look at that great effect
over there? See that hazy light across the mountains?"
"Oh, the dickens with that," grumbled Dick. "The game's coming off
to-morrow, and you've got to hold down first base."
"By Jove, that's a hard thing to do, though. Still, I'd like to try it."
"What--painting or first base?"
"Why--weren't we talking about painting, Dick Travers?"
"I'll begin on 'camera' pretty soon, unless you quit, Dave Brandon."
"Oh, well, who do we play against, then?" sighed Dave.
"A lot of village chaps, and if we get beaten they'll have a jolly good
laugh on us, too."
"I always did like ham and eggs, boys," observed Dave, reflectively.
"Hope Sam Bins is cooking enough. Yesterday I only had three eggs
and----"
But, with a despairing gesture, Dick Travers arose and walked inside.
That afternoon the boys spent in practicing. Havens was on hand, and
Phil Levins, a village lad, also took an active part. The visitor
from Boston proved to be Mr. George Kimball, a small man, with a
fringe of sandy hair around a dome-shaped head, watery blue eyes and
insignificant yellow moustache.
"I see you chaps can play some," he said, in a high-pitched voice;
"but several, I won't say who, take a bit too much time in getting set
before throwing the ball. Shoot it right over. Here, Somers, let me
show you. Bat out a liner."
Mr. Kimball smiled complacently and trotted out in the field. Then a
sharp crack of the bat sounded.
"By Jove, he's a hummer, and no mistake," remarked Sam. "Look how he
took that bounder and sent it back."
"Yes! But Dave is what bothers me," whispered Dick. "He reminds me of a
freight car, and side-tracked at that."
"Well, boys," said Bob, as, perspiring and happy, they walked toward
the house, "we ought to put up a pretty good game."
"And I suppose I'll have to hop around like a sparrow again to-morrow,"
said Dave, with a quizzical look at the others, and a wide, very wide
smile played for a moment on the face of Mr. George Kimball, of Boston.
The day for the game proved ideal. The sky was flecked with a few white
clouds and a slight breeze tempered the rays of the sun.
No one would have dreamed that so many people could be found in the
small mountain village and its immediate surroundings. They came by
twos, threes, and in groups, flocking under the shade of a few big
trees, and cheered when the town boys began to practice.
"Little Bill" Dugan was among the players. He glanced coldly toward the
Ramblers and their friends, and sniffed scornfully at a white board
which Dick Travers had nailed to an apple tree. Painted on it in big
letters was the following:
Somers, p.
Brandon, 1b.
Randall, c.
Travers, cf.
Clifton, rf.
Havens, ss.
Fenton, 3b.
Levins, 2b.
Kimball, lf.
Mr. Fenton accepted the position of official scorer, while a man from
Chicago, Mr. Perkins, was agreed upon as umpire.
The Ramblers won the toss and took their positions upon the field.
"Play ball!"
The spectators sat up, and the game was on.
"Speed 'em over, Bob," yelled Dick. "Make him hit it. Put the lap
dazzle shoot on it--yi, yi!"
Bob smiled, and sent in a wide out-curve.
"One ball!" yelled Mr. Perkins.
"H'm," muttered the pitcher.
Crack. Grimshaw, of the mountain team, swung, smashing the ball
squarely, and sped for first.
Then came a loud shout, when Kimball in left field jumped in the air
and pulled down the fly.
The next man also solved Bob's delivery, but Havens managed to get the
ball over to Dave an instant ahead of the runner.
"It wasn't out!" yelled Dugan.
"You keep quiet," counseled one of the others, and "Little Bill,"
scowling fiercely, turned away.
The next man struck out, and, with a sigh of satisfaction, Bob walked
in and picked up a bat.
"Take it easy, Somers," advised Dave. "Don't slam at the first.
There--that's the way."
"Ball!" cried Mr. Perkins.
"Two balls!"
"Three!"
"One strike!"
Crack. A hot liner burned the short-stop's hand. He let it drop, and
Bob, smiling good-naturedly, was safe on first.
Dave Brandon slowly ambled up to the plate.
"Chuck me an easy one, Grimshaw," he said.
The pitcher grinned. One strike--two strikes--the smile broadened, but
the stout boy did not seem in the least disturbed.
Dick Travers groaned. "Mind yourself, Dave. Get Bob off that bag."
Hurrah! Dave's sturdy arms swung the bat with telling force. Gleefully
the Ramblers saw the ball flying far beyond the right-fielder's reach,
and the "freight car" getting over the ground at astonishing speed.
Bob, with a desperate slide, managed to reach home, while Dave, puffing
and blowing, stopped on third.
But the boys' high hopes, at this auspicious beginning, were dashed
when Randall and Travers were thrown out at first and Clifton fanned
the air three times.
"Never mind," laughed Bob, as the shrill yells of the mountain
adherents were still echoing; "keep up your good work, Dave. We have
them beaten by a mile."
But the next inning proved disastrous. Their rivals earned three runs,
and the shouting redoubled.
"Hi, hi! Did they ever see a ball before?" yelled "Little Bill."
"Ah--ah! Look at that hit--yi, yi, yi!" came from others.
Mr. Kimball looked worried. "Not working quite enough together, boys,"
he said. "Take it easy--don't let the noise rattle you. Who's up? You,
Havens? Now give us a line drive like Dave's, and we won't find any
fault with you."
Havens prided himself upon being a heavy hitter. He swung his bat far
around and after missing two good balls landed on the third. Grimshaw
dodged. Dugan, at second base, made a wild grab for the sphere, tripped
and tumbled head foremost into the grass. Then, as it neared the limits
of the grounds, two fielders came together with a crash. Havens ran for
all he was worth, did not stop to look around and was home long before
the ball had been recovered.
"Good work, old man," cried the delighted Sam Randall. "Only one more,
and the score is tied."
Fenton hit safely. Levins was out on a foul tip and Kimball walked to
first on balls.
The head of the batting order was again up. Bob had his eye on the ball
and another line drive resulted from his efforts, but it went straight
into the hands of the waiting second baseman, who easily threw him out.
"How's that for style?" called "Little Bill," a moment after the first
baseman's gloves closed on his throw.
"Worst play I ever saw," returned Dave Brandon, who was already at the
plate; "you had lots of time to touch second and make a double play."
Dave swung fiercely at the first ball pitched, only to miss it by a
very scant margin, and the fielders all played out as far as possible.
A tantalizing slow one he failed to aim at, and strike two was called
on him.
The instant Grimshaw received the return throw, he whipped in the
speediest inshoot of which he was capable. Brandon was not caught
napping. He met it by the merest tip, and a little pop fly dropped
safely in the territory usually covered by short-stop.
Fenton raced home, and the score was tied.
"Hi, hi! Did we ever see a ball before!" cried Dick. "Oh--wow! It'll be
about ten to three."
But the end of the seventh told a different story. Mr. Fenton's card
showed the score to be seven to six in favor of the Ramblers.
Bob stepped up, determined to make a mighty effort. Grimshaw was
weakening.
"Put it over, Grimmy," yelled Dugan. "He can't hit anything--never
could."
The captain smiled, then bunted, and the ball rolled slowly toward the
pitcher. Grimshaw made a frantic dash, fumbled it, and Bob, on a close
decision, was declared safe at first.
"Oh, yi, yi, he calls that safe!" yelled Dugan. "The feller was out by
a mile. We won't stand for anything like that."
He came in from second, followed by several of the others, and the home
plate was immediately surrounded. Then the crowd began to shout.
"Get back to your places," commanded the umpire, briefly.
"Yes, skip back, Dugan," added Dave. "That hit was easily safe."
"I ain't a-talkin' to you," cried "Little Bill," angrily. "I say it
wasn't safe."
"Come now, Dugan, trot out in the field," went on Brandon, quietly.
"I will not! An'----"
"The man was safe, and my decision stands," exclaimed Mr. Perkins in an
authoritative tone.
"You don't know the game, then," blustered Dugan, excitedly. "Look out!
Don't you bump into me, fat feller."
Dave laughed good-naturedly.
"You make an awful lot of noise for a little chap," he said.
"A little chap, eh?" Bill clenched his fists, his eyes blazed with
passion. Dave had touched him on a tender point.
"I'll show you how little I am," he yelled. "Here's where trouble
begins."
His right fist shot out in the direction of Dave's nose.
But the "poet" jumped nimbly aside, then his sturdy arms encircled
"Little Bill's" waist, and, in an instant, the latter found himself on
the ground.
"Let go--lemme be!" he cried.
But Dave was calmly sitting on his shoulder.
"Look out--help! You'll mash me ter nuthin'!" yelled Bill, frantically.
"Keep quiet," admonished Dave. "Lie still! A little conversation might
be all right, but we don't want any shouting."
"Push that elephant off, somebody. I'm mashed to a pulp a'ready. Oh,
now, Grimshaw, don't stand there like an idjit."
"We were talking," said Dave, pleasantly, "about keeping quiet. Now, if
you promise to do what I say, an awful lot of trouble will be saved."
There was no help for it. Dave Brandon's hundred and seventy-two
pounds held the belligerent ball player helpless, and Bill, furious and
chagrined, was obliged to surrender.
"You ain't heard the last of this, you clumsy elephant!" he shouted, as
he arose and edged away. "Don't you forget it!"
Dave's face wore a very broad grin.
But Mr. Perkins was speaking--"No, Dugan, you cannot continue to play,"
he said, firmly. "How is it, boys?--good--we don't want any rowdyism on
this field."
There was a few minutes of silence. Grimshaw held a brief conference
with his fellow players, then walked forward and called out in a loud
voice, "Hello, Sanders, get down there to second and play the base."
It was a very willing boy that hurried forward to obey this summons,
and Bill Dugan, thoroughly discomfited, almost immediately saw the game
going on without him.
And the score still stood seven to six when the villagers came to bat
in the ninth. It was their last chance, and they were determined to at
least tie the score.
"My arm's getting kind of played out, Dave," whispered Bob. "I'll do
what I can."
"You can't do any more," said the other, soothingly. "Make them hit
it--we'll do the rest," and the stout boy grinned.
Clayton was the name of their opponents' first batsman. He came within
one of striking out, then drove the ball over Havens' head and sprinted
to second.
Loud cheers came from the spectators, and Bob looked worried.
"Don't let them get your nerve, old man," called Sam.
The loud coaching of Mills and continuous cries from the field,
intended to disconcert the Ramblers, only served to spur pitcher Somers
to greater efforts. Putting forth every ounce of strength he possessed,
the captain sent in an inshoot.
The batter knocked a fly, which Fenton on third easily caught. Clayton,
who had been playing off second, just got back in the nick of time.
Mills fanned the air three times, and threw down his bat in disgust.
Their chances seemed about to go glimmering, yet one good hit might
save the day.
Dalton, a big, strong chap, older than any of his team mates, faced the
pitcher. Clayton played away off second. It was a moment of intense
interest to the spectators and anxiety to the Ramblers.
Bob forced the runner back to the base by a throw, then pitched the
ball quickly. Clayton anticipated this, risked everything and was
instantly off on a wild dash for third.
Sam handled the sphere nicely, making a perfect throw.
There was an expectant hush, as ball and runner neared the bag. A cloud
of dust arose. Clayton had thrown himself flat, and touched the base
with his hand.
The silence, intensified until not a sound could be heard, continued
for a moment longer. Then Mr. Perkins' voice rang out clearly. "Safe,"
he said.
A storm of cheers broke forth, while the cries which it was hoped would
disconcert the pitcher redoubled.
"One strike!"
"Two strikes!"
Bob grinned and gripped the ball more firmly. Then came Mr. Perkins'
voice again, "One ball--two balls!"
All eyes were upon the stalwart form of Dalton. One more strike, and
the game would be over.
But as the next ball shot above the plate, a solid smack sounded. An
awkward bounder was ripping toward first base at such a speed that the
eye could scarcely follow it.
Another great shout arose as Clayton sped home. No one expected that
the ball would be fielded until the batter was safe on second.
Then the spectators witnessed an astonishing sight. Dave Brandon darted
off the bag with lightning agility. Breathlessly they watched him. The
stout boy reached far out.
"Look at that elephant," remarked "Little Bill" to the boy sitting next
to him. "What does he think he's going to do?"
Smack! The ball had bounded, striking squarely in the centre of
Brandon's mitt. Dave instantly recovered himself and made for first
base.
Then a series of wild yells and whoops from the Ramblers broke forth,
for Mr. Perkins was heard to say, "Runner out on first." By a fraction
of a second, Dave had beaten Dalton in the race and won the game.
Even the villagers were good-natured enough to cheer his play, and the
"poet" almost blushed when his enthusiastic friends surrounded him.
"Bully boy," said Mr. Kimball, patting him on the shoulder. "Biggest
surprise out. Thought, from the way you moved yesterday, that--oh,
well, what's the use of saying it?"
"And I called him a 'side-tracked freight car,'" mused Dick, with a
smile.
"When Chub gets waked up, he's like a streak o' lightning," declared
Bob. "Now, I'm satisfied. We've had a good game, and, what's more, won
it. Let's skip off on our hunting trip next week----Say, but wasn't
'Little Bill' wild, though," and Bob smiled at the recollection.
"An' don't you think he's goin' ter forgit what that elephant done,
neither," growled a voice.
Unobserved, Dugan had approached. But he stopped at a respectful
distance, and pointed his finger threateningly toward Dave Brandon.
"You'll wish yer hadn't, fat feller!" he cried. "Remember what I says,"
and he stalked slowly off the field.
"He's wearing his number one sour expression," laughed Dick. "Most as
bad as the mountaineer we saw at the hotel."
"Bill's a pretty mean fellow at times," put in Jim Havens, "but I
wouldn't pay any attention to him. Let's fix it up about that trip to
the mountains."
The boys, accordingly, made their way to the porch of the Rickham
House, Mr. Kimball and Phil Levins accompanying them.
Before supper time, all arrangements had been made. It was decided that
Bob, Dave Brandon and Dick Travers would take the first jaunt, and on
their return Sam and Tom could go off on theirs.
"That way, we'll all have a fling at it during the summer," said Bob;
"not once, but a couple of times, and the Rickham will never be left
without an occupant."
"You fellows ought to have a daisy time," observed Phil Levins.
"It makes me feel real envious, boys," said Mr. Kimball of Boston,
"but--well, I never handled a gun or fishing pole in my life--I'm more
at home running over a column of figures in a ledger than I would be
facing a grizzly--but, seriously, don't you think it's rather a risky
undertaking?"
"Huh! I guess the Rambler Club can take care of itself," and Mr.
Kimball laughed at the scorn which Dick Travers put into his tones.