NARRATES THE PROGRESS OF THE CONTEST WITH WICKASAW, AND WITNESSES THE
DISINTEGRATION OF ONE WELLS
TILFORD, c.f.
SPEEDE, 1b.
CARTER, 2b.
RIDLEY, r.f.
LOOM, ss.
BRYANT, l.f.
HETHINGTON, c.
VAN RODEN, 3b.
WELLS, p.
That’s the way the names were written in the score-book by the Official
Scorer, Mr. “Babe” Fowler, who sat on a soap-box and looked and felt
vastly important. Behind him and about him--sometimes, much to his
wrath, interfering with his view of the proceedings--sat and stood
the boys of Camp Chicora. Across the plate were the supporters of
Wickasaw, while here and there, wherever shade was to be found, were
spectators from the Inn, the village, Camp Trescott, and the smaller
hotels and boarding-houses around. Behind Bob stood one of the Trescott
councilors, Mr. Downer, who was to umpire. Mr. Clinton, and Mr. Powers
of Wickasaw, watched the contest side by side from under the latter’s
big linen umbrella.
The afternoon was roasting hot, and by mutual consent the beginning of
the game had been postponed from three until four. But even now, as
Mr. Downer called “Play!” the sun beat down on the meadow in a manner
far from pleasant, while not a breeze stirred the leaves along the
lake. But the players were too much interested to notice such a small
matter, while as for the lookers-on they good-naturedly made the best
of conditions, cheered by the knowledge that they could seek launches
or rowboats whenever they pleased and speedily find a cooler spot than
this low-lying meadow with its encompassing walls of forest. Under a
near-by apple-tree Tom and Mr. Verder were fanning their faces and
munching the half-ripe apples that lay about them.
“I wonder if Wells will last out,” mused Tom. “He’s a queer dub. He
told me this morning that he couldn’t stand hot weather and asked if I
thought Bob couldn’t have the game postponed.”
“Yes, he is a bit funny,” answered Mr. Verder. “Well, they’re starting.
I’m glad we’ve got our last innings. That’s Bremer, one of Wickasaw’s
councilors, at bat. I used to know him at prep school. He didn’t know
much about baseball in those days.”
“I guess he doesn’t know much now,” chuckled Tom as Bremer struck at a
ball so wide of the plate that Bob disdained to even attempt to stop
it. Bremer went out on strikes, the next man popped a tiny fly into
short-stop’s ready hands, and the third batsman was thrown out at first
by Wells.
“No safe hitting there,” said Mr. Verder.
“Wonder if there’ll be any in this inning?” said Tom.
There wasn’t. Nelson struck out ignominiously, Dan failed to reach
first ahead of the ball, and Joe Carter sent up a fly that seemed aimed
at the third baseman’s big mitten. And so things went, with slight
variations, until the first half of the fourth. Then Hoyt, the Wickasaw
captain and first-baseman, found Wells for a long drive into left field
that netted him two bases. Bennett, a councilor and the rival pitcher,
followed this with a scratch hit that took him to first and sent Hoyt
on to third, and the next man up, although he went out at first,
brought in the first tally of the game.
And the score remained 1 to 0 until the last of the sixth. In that
inning Chicora developed a batting streak, Dan, Carter, and Ridley each
finding Bennett for singles, and the bases were full when Loom sent
a long fly into right field. Dan scored, Carter went to third, and
Ridley to second. Loom went out. Bryant retired after three strikes,
but Bob, who followed him, hit safely for two bases, and the score was
3 to 1. Nothing happened in the seventh, and it looked as though 3 to 1
might be the final figures. But with the beginning of the eighth inning
affairs took on a different appearance.
Wickasaw’s center-fielder went to bat, waited for a pass to first
and got it. Bob called out for the infielders to play for second. As
expected, the next man attempted a sacrifice. Had Carter not muffed
a good throw from Van Roden all might have been well, but as it was
there was a man on second and one on first with none out. Wells looked
worried and the coaching across the field added to his discomfiture.
The immediate result was that the Wickasaw third-baseman received the
ball on his elbow and trotted to first base. Bob informed the umpire
persuasively that the batsman had not tried to avoid being struck, but
the umpire couldn’t see it that way. Things looked bad for Chicora; the
bases were full and not one of the opponents was out.
The next man was Bremer, a councilor, and he should have been an easy
victim. But Wells seemed unable to pitch a decent ball, and after four
efforts Bremer went down the line and the man on third trotted home
amid the wild applause of Wickasaw. Bob walked down to Wells, keeping a
close watch on the bases, and strove to put confidence into him.
“Take your time, Wells,” he whispered. “There’s no hurry.”
But Wells had become sullen and stubborn.
“I can’t help it,” he muttered. “I told you I didn’t want to pitch
to-day, that I couldn’t do anything. The heat----”
“Oh, never mind the heat,” answered Bob soothingly. “Just put the balls
over; let them hit; we’ll attend to them all right.”
“That’s easy enough to say, but I’m not feeling well,” grumbled Wells.
“My arm’s tired, and it’s so hot----”
“Well, try your best, that’s a good chap. Get them over the plate;
never mind if they hit them.”
“All right,” answered the pitcher despondently.
The Wickasaw captain found the first ball, but it went up in an infield
fly. The next man, too, went out; Loom pulled down his liner head-high
and the man on third scurried back to his base. Then came the Wickasaw
catcher--and Wells kindly presented him with his base, and again the
“Babe” was forced to score a tally for the enemy. The honors were even
now, but the inning was not yet at an end. Wells went thoroughly to
pieces. A two-base hit by one of the rival nine’s councilors brought
in two men and still left second and third bases occupied. Wickasaw’s
supporters kept up a continuous shouting, hoping doubtless to add to
the discomfiture of the Chicora pitcher, while back of first and third
bases the Wickasaw coachers screamed and yelled with the same end in
view. Naturally enough, Wells’s wildness eventually proved contagious,
and it was Bob himself who let in the next run, missing a throw to the
plate after a hit. But if he was accountable for that tally he was also
accountable for the termination of the inning. For he managed to toss
the ball, while lying flat on his back, to the plate in time to put out
the next ambitious Wickasaw runner. And so the rout finally came to an
end with the score 6 to 3 in Wickasaw’s favor.
Bob was an anxious-looking youth when the side trotted in and threw
themselves about the ground to rest and cool off.
“I don’t know what the dickens to do,” he said to Dan and Nelson.
“There’s no use putting Wells in again, even if he’d go, and he says he
won’t. Little Morris can’t pitch on account of his ivy-poisoning. Van
Roden has done a little of it, but he can only pitch a straight ball,
and it isn’t even swift. Who’s up, ‘Babe’?”
“Ridley up, Loom on deck!” piped the “Babe.”
“For goodness’ sake, Rid, hit the ball!” called Bob. “We’ve got to get
four runs this inning.” And after Ridley had nodded and stepped to
the plate Bob went on: “The worst of it is we’ve got our tail-enders
coming up. After Loom there isn’t a man can hit. However--” He turned
frowningly to watch Ridley, chewing savagely at the blade of grass
between his teeth. Ridley made a safe hit and went to first, and
Chicora applauded wildly.
“Joe, coach at first, will you?” Bob called. “You’re up, Loom. You know
what to do, old chap. We need runs, you know.” Then he turned to Dan
and Nelson again. “Look here, what do you fellows think? Shall I give
Van a chance?”
“No use,” answered Dan gloomily. “He’s no pitcher. Isn’t there any one
else?” Bob shook his head.
“Not a soul that I know of. I’ll try it myself, if you say so,” he said
with a feeble effort at humor.
“You cu-cu-cu-couldn’t do mu-mu-mu-much worse!” stuttered Tom, who had
long since left the shade of the apple-tree and was now hopping around
wide-eyed with excitement. “Why du-du-du-don’t you mu-mu-make Nel
pu-pu-pu-pitch?”
“Can you?” cried Bob.
“No; that is, mighty little, Bob,” answered Nelson. “I pitched one
season on a class team. But I’m willing to try if you want me to. Only
don’t expect much; I’ll probably be worse than Wells was the last
inning.”
“Find a ball,” said Bob quickly, his face lighting up with hope, “and
pitch me a few. Where’s my mitten? Say, Nel, why didn’t you tell me you
could pitch?”
“I can’t, not enough to call pitching. I can get a ball over now and
then and I used to be able to work a pretty fair drop, but that’s about
all. You’ll have to explain signals to me.”
“All right. Say, Van, run over and tell Kendall I want him to play
center field, will you? There he is talking to Clint. Scoot!”
There was a yell at that moment, and Bob and Nelson looked up in
time to see Loom drive out a pretty liner toward first. He was out
without question, but the sacrifice had advanced Ridley to second, and
Chicora’s little group of cheerers made themselves heard. Bob ran over
to speak to Bryant, who was next up, and then came back to Nelson. The
signals were quickly explained, and Nelson began throwing into Bob’s
big mitten, slowly at first, then increasing in speed as something
of the knack came back to him. Bryant offered at a close ball, and
Ridley, who was ready and waiting, shot out for third. Catcher lost a
half a second in getting the ball down, and the umpire waved his hand
downward; Ridley was safe. Dan took Bob’s place in front of Nelson,
and Bob hurried over to Ridley’s assistance, relieving Loom on the
coacher’s line.
Nelson felt some of his old power returning to him and slammed ball
after ball into Dan’s hands in a way that made that youth grin with
approval. Once or twice he essayed a drop with but indifferent success;
somehow, he couldn’t yet make that work.
Bryant connected with a straight ball over the plate, which, had he
allowed it to pass, would have been the third strike, and lit out for
first. At the same instant Ridley started for home. But Wickasaw’s
short-stop smothered the ball on its first bounce and lined it in to
the plate. Ridley doubled back, slid for the base, and got there an
instant ahead of the ball. Bryant was safe at first. Chicora’s shouts
were deafening. The audience had gradually edged toward the infield
until now the paths to first and to third were lined with excited
partizans of the rival teams. Bob trotted in and selected his bat,
pulled his gray cap firmly down on to his head, and went to the plate.
Nelson stopped his work to watch. There were two on bases; a home run
would tie the score.