The Lucky Seventh

With two out and the bases empty the scoring was apparently over, and the Pointers were doubtless already occupying their thoughts with the task before them of overcoming that one-run lead when they at last returned to their positions.

“Last man, Mel!” called Billy Houghton. “Let’s have him!” Then Billy signaled for a straight one. But Mason, as Dick had predicted, was a bit flustered. The straight one came over too low and was a ball. He tried it again, and another ball resulted. Houghton returned the sphere with a slow and cautioning toss, and then spread his fingers for a curve. The curve came, went wide, and Fudge, as nervous as a wet hen, made a mighty swing at it, missing it by six inches and winning a laugh from the spectators. Then he walked to the pitcher’s end of the box and flourished his bat, and seemed to be daring Mason to put one where he could get it. Houghton signaled for a curve once more, for he figured that Fudge was in a condition to offer at anything that came. And Mason, winding his fingers none too carefully about the ball, let drive with it, and was properly surprised when Fudge made no offer!

Then Houghton woke up. The score was three balls and one strike. He signaled for one over the plate, and it came. “Strike!” called Mr. Cochran. On the bench Dick watched anxiously. If Fudge could get his base, he reasoned, Harry Bryan would be up, and, in the present disgruntled state of mind of the Point players, errors were likely to result. On the mound Mason was shaking his head at Houghton’s instructions. He had no doubt that he could put the third strike over, but he preferred to make the batter fan. Houghton signaled again, Mason wound up, and the ball traveled forward. It had a jump on it, if ever a ball did, and that jump was Mason’s undoing. Fudge never moved as the ball passed him, only turned inquiringly toward the umpire. The latter nodded. “Take your base,” he said.

Billy Houghton ejaculated an amazed “What?” and Mason disgustedly kicked up the dust, but Fudge, grinning toward the bench as he passed, trotted to first. Rutter’s Point suddenly awakened to the fact that perhaps the trouble was not yet over, after all!

Nor was it. Harry Bryan found something to his liking, and banged it head-high across the diamond toward Billings. Caspar knocked it down, fumbled it, and then threw too late to Townsend. Harry was safe on first and Fudge on second. Clearfield yelled like wild Indians, and the crowd swayed and threatened to push on to the field. Then began a panicky five minutes.

Fudge danced around at second and Bryan at first. The coachers shouted and leaped, and the crowd kept up an incessant thumping of feet and a steady roar of voices. Up in the main stand, Mr. Jonathan Brent was hugging his cane and leaning forward from the very edge of his seat. Louise had her purple pennant twisted into a hard knot, and Morris was talking hoarsely to himself or whoever might be listening. “Take a good lead, Shaw!” he directed. “Look out, Bryan! He almost got you! Here we go, fellows! Here we go!” Of course, neither Fudge nor Harry heard him, but Morris never thought about that. Morris was running that game for himself just then.

Dick whispered a few words to Jack Tappen, and Jack sped to first and whispered a few words to Gordon. And Gordon turned his head inquiringly toward the bench, caught Dick’s emphatic nod, and renewed his shouting.

“What did you tell him, Dick?” asked Harold, in a low voice.

Dick smiled. “You wait and see, Harold,” he said.

Will Scott was up now, with one ball to his credit. Mason had made three attempts to catch Bryan napping at first, and now he directed his attention to the batsman again. A waister went for a strike, a wide one followed and scored the second ball, and then Mason wound up once more and shot his arm out. And as he did so Fudge leaped away toward third, Bryan sped for second, and a cry of “There he goes!” went up from the visitors’ bench. Will Scott glued his eye to that ball, swung and missed it. Houghton made a desperate attempt to cut off the runner at third, but failed, and bedlam broke loose. Mr. Potter knocked the silver trophy off its base in his excitement, and only caught it at the edge of the “press-stand” table. Harold kicked his legs in air and tossed his score-book up. Mr. Anthony Brent nearly broke his walking-stick. Morris challenged everyone within hearing to deny that that was the prettiest double steal that had ever been pulled off. Louise clapped her hands until her palms ached and her white gloves threatened to rip. And some six hundred other folks did whatever it occurred to them to do, and did it just as noisily as they knew how!

Dick Lovering, Manager of the Clearfield Baseball Club, only smiled quietly and made little marks in his score-book.

A minute later Scott was perched on first base, Mason having been totally unable to locate the plate, and Gordon faced the pitcher. Bases full, two out, and the captain at bat! Well, it was a fine situation, no matter what might come of it. The Point infield crept toward the plate. Everyone talked loudly to the pitcher, as much, perhaps, to tranquilize his own nerves as to encourage Mason. Mason, it seemed, needed encouragement. He was palpably unstrung, and the first ball he pitched proved it, for it was as wild as a shooting-star, and if Billy Houghton had not leaped sidewise and sprawled on his elbow it would have been by him and let in a run. But Billy stopped it, and Fudge scuttled back to safety at third.

Mason worked a slow ball over for a strike on the next attempt, and that seemed to settle him somewhat. Gordon let one go by and found he had judged it correctly. Then a foul back of first base made the standing two and two. The noise had diminished, and now an almost breathless silence enveloped the field. Only the voices of the coachers were to be heard.

“Oh, come on, Fudge! Take a lead! That’s better! Hold it! On your toes, everyone! Look out for a passed ball now! Here’s where we score a few!”

“Pick out a good one, Cap! Make him pitch to you! Here it is! Here it is!”

But Gordon refused to offer at it, and, “Ball!” announced the umpire.

“It’s got to be good, now, Gordie!” yelled Jack. “Lean on it! Lean on it! Make it a homer, Cap!”

Mason wound, unwound, sped the ball toward the plate, bat and ball met and a sudden swelling pæan of joy went up as the spectators leaped to their feet and craned their necks. But Gordon, speeding down the first-base line, and the other runners, spurning the dust between bags, slowed up and turned disappointedly back. The hit had gone foul by several yards. A brand-new ball was thrown to the pitcher, and Gordon picked up his bat again, waited until the runners had regained their bases, and then once more faced Mason.

That new white ball looked good to him! What he feared most now was that Mason would pitch a bad one and that he would have to take his base on balls. To be sure, that would force in another run, but Gordon wanted more than that. Something told him that if Mason put one over he could hit it! Perhaps it would have been well if Mason had sacrificed a run and passed the Clearfield captain, but Mason couldn’t be expected to know what was to happen. He wanted to strike the batsman out and end a deplorable inning, and Billy Houghton wanted the same thing. And so Billy spread his hands wide and Mason was just a bit more careful than usual and the ball sped forward fast and straight. And Gordon felt his heart jump as he saw what was coming. Every muscle tightened, his bat swung sharply, there was a crack that was easily heard outside the field where an eager army of small boys had their eyes glued to all available cracks and knot-holes, and Gordon was racing for first!

Over Leary’s upstretched glove traveled the ball into the outfield. Jim House made a desperate effort to get it on the bound, missed it, whirled and scuttled back toward the fence. It was Pink Northrop, right fielder, who finally recovered it and threw it frantically in to second baseman. But by that time three joyous youths had crossed the plate and Gordon was sliding, in a cloud of dust, to third. And he might have kept his feet, at that, for poor Caspar, seeing the game slipping away, muffed the throw. Gordon had come through with a clean three-bagger! The score stood five to one! The “lucky seventh” had proved itself!

The inning ended two minutes later when Way was an easy out, shortstop to first, and Rutter’s Point again took up the bat. But four runs was a desperate handicap to overcome, and Tom Haley, encouraged by success, pitched the best ball of his career. To be sure, Rutter’s Point did score once more, in the first of the ninth, Caspar Billings slamming out a two-bagger much too hot for Pete Robey to handle and sending Jensen across the plate. And after that Townsend got to first on an error by Will Scott, and the Point, with Gil Chase at bat, tried heroically to pull the game out of the fire by a ninth-inning rally. But Tom was not to be trifled with, and Chase finally went out on a long fly to center, which Fudge, making the most of his second chance of the game, pulled down without a tremor!

And then the band crashed forth into a triumphant march, the stands emptied, the field was flooded with laughing, satisfied spectators, cheers were given and answered, and, surrounded by a dense throng of enthusiastic admirers, Gordon and Dick and the others tried to hear Mr. Potter’s speech as he presented to them the silver cup and the silken pennant. That speech appeared in full in Monday’s Reporter, together with three columns of descriptive matter and a detailed story of the game; but no one heard it now.

Five minutes later, Dick, the trophy held on his knees, sat in the blue runabout, and, with the triumphant Clearfield nine following behind, was paraded thrice around the field, Morris acting as charioteer. And the crowd, loitering behind to miss none of the fun, scuttled aside and cheered and waved purple flags.

Last of all, with a score-book somewhat the worse for wear clutched tightly under his arm, strode Harold, adding his shrill cheers to the general tumult.

CHAPTER XXV

“THE LUCKY SEVENTH”

On a crisp and sunny Saturday morning, a fortnight after the game, a blue runabout automobile came quietly and circumspectly along Troutman Street, under the yellowing maples, and, with two gruff toots of its horn, slowed down and came to a stop in front of the Merricks’ gate. As the driver of the car slid the gears into neutral and kicked off the switch at the battery, a look of relief succeeded the somewhat strained and anxious expression he had worn. I think he even sighed his satisfaction as he relaxed his grasp of the steering wheel and looked toward the doorway. Along the running-board on the driver’s side of the car lay a pair of crutches, held in place by an ingenious contrivance of heavy wire.

After that, there is no use trying to longer conceal the identity of the boy at the wheel. It was Dick. A week of instruction by Morris and a second week spent in operating alone had made him a fairly competent driver, but he had not yet passed the stage where a corner was something to be approached with vast anxiety and to be negotiated with care and deliberation. Every inch of the blue varnished surface of the car shone resplendently, and every particle of brass was polished until it was painful to view.

Two more blasts of the grumpy horn at last produced results. The screen door flew open, and Gordon, a piece of toast in one hand and a napkin in the other, appeared.

“Say, what time do you think it is?” he demanded laughingly.

“It’s time you were through breakfast, anyway,” responded Dick. “Get a hustle on. Eli hates to stand.” (Dick had named the car Eli Yale because of its color, but generally referred to it as Eli.)

“I’ll bring a lump of sugar for him,” said Gordon. “Keep a tight rein on him, Dick, and I’ll be with you in five minutes. Maybe he will stand long enough for you to come in and have a cup of coffee.”

“I wouldn’t dare risk it,” replied Dick gravely. “Besides, I never take coffee in the middle of the forenoon.”

“Middle of the forenoon!” grunted the other. “It isn’t half-past eight yet! Since you got that car, you never go to bed at all, I guess!”

Gordon vanished with that, and Dick leaned comfortably back in the runabout to wait. But an instant later a speck of tarnish on the dash clock – a gift from Louise Brent – caught his eye, and he whisked a piece of cheesecloth from a pocket on the inside of the door and attacked it indignantly. Before he had conquered it, returned the cloth and buttoned the flap again, Gordon appeared once more, capped and ready for the ride.

“All set?”

Dick looked carefully at levers and switch. “All set,” he said.

Gordon turned the handle half over, and Eli broke into a frantic chugging that could be heard six blocks away. Dick pushed back the throttle and pulled down the spark, however, and Eli moderated his transports. Gordon, who had clapped his hands to his ears, grinned as he climbed in beside Dick and slammed the door. “Gee,” he said, “but he’s some noisy!”

“Not at all,” denied Dick indignantly. “He naturally chortles a little at times.”

“Oh, was he chortling? I thought he was champing his bit. Hello, see who’s here!” added Gordon, as the car swayed across B Street. A lusty shouting was heard, and Fudge came racing along the sidewalk. Dick stopped.

“W-w-where you going?” panted Fudge. “Take me, too, Dick. You haven’t given me a ride yet!”

“All right,” laughed Dick. “Open the door and sit on the edge there, Fudge. But don’t drag your big feet and stop the car.”

“Go get your cap,” advised Gordon.

“Don’t need a cap. Where are you going?”

“Oh, just for a ride,” replied Dick, throwing in his clutch again after a calculating survey of the empty street.

“The Springdale road’s pretty good,” suggested Gordon, with a wink at Fudge.

“I thought I’d run out toward the Point,” said Dick carelessly. “You don’t meet many teams that way.”

“By the way,” asked Gordon, “when do they move in?”

“Who?” Dick inquired.

“The Brents, of course.” Fudge giggled.

Dick laughed. “Who said anything about the Brents, you idiot?”

“No one; only you spoke of going to the Point. You can drop Fudge and me at the hotel. We don’t want to be in the way.”

“Oh, you run along and play!” said Dick good-naturedly. “If you really want to know when they’re coming back to town, I’ll tell you. They’re going to move in next Wednesday. Morris says it’s too hard to get to school on time. And since football practice has begun – ” Dick broke off to negotiate a corner.

“Morris is crazy to think he can play this Fall,” said Fudge. “He will bust his leg again. You’ll see.”

“He’s going to try, anyway,” said Gordon. “They’re going to mark out the gridiron this morning, Dick.”

“That so? Oh, by the way, I heard from Harold. I’ve got his letter here somewhere. Steady the wheel a minute, Gordie, will you?” Dick drew forth an envelope from his pocket and handed it across. “Read it aloud.”

“‘Dear Dick,’” read Gordon, “‘I passed all right. Only I have got to do some extra Math this term. I was sort of rotten on Math. Old Penny (he’s the principal) says I did better than lots of fellows who come here. Loring said I was to thank you, and I do awfully, Dick. You were fine and dandy to me, and I am sorry I was such a rotter at first. And I am very sorry about the Math. It wasn’t your fault, Dick. Please remember me to the fellows, and tell them I am coming back next year. I am going out for the junior baseball team next week and maybe next summer I can play for you, Dick, if you want me. Loring says remember him to you, and so no more at present from your firm friend,

Harold.’”

“‘Firm friend’ is pretty good,” commented Gordon, as he folded the letter up and returned it to its envelope. “But I’m glad the kid passed, if only on your account, Dick.”

“Yes; if he had failed, I’d have felt sort of mean about taking the money. Speaking of money, fellows,” he continued, as the runabout slid across the trolley tracks and headed toward Rutter’s Point, “Mr. Potter sent me the statement this morning. I didn’t bring it, though.”

“How did we come out?” asked Gordon. “About the way we figured?”

“Nearly forty dollars better. There were six hundred and thirty-three paid admissions to the game, amounting to four hundred and three dollars. The total expenses were, I think, sixty-one dollars; or maybe they were sixty-three. Anyway, the net profits amount to three hundred and forty-two dollars. That includes four dollars and something made on the pennants sold.”

“Peanuts?” exclaimed Fudge. “I didn’t know we – ”

“Pennants, stupid!” corrected Gordon. “Well, that’s doing pretty well, Dick. Then, after paying for the car, we have money left?”

“Over fifty dollars,” was the reply. “What shall we do with it?”

“G-g-give it to me,” suggested Fudge.

“I think you ought to have it for gasoline and tires,” laughed Gordon. “This thing will keep you poor, I’m afraid, Dick.”

“No, sir,” replied the owner of the car seriously. “I’m studying up on autos, and I’m going to make my own repairs. And I’ve sent for a vulcanizing outfit that only costs three dollars and a half. When I get that I can fix my own tires. As for gasoline, why, Eli only drinks a gallon every twenty miles! And I don’t run that far in three days! I think it would be a good plan to hand over what we have left to the Athletic Committee, Gordie. They’ll need a lot of money now that we own the field. We’ll have to pay the taxes and for water and other things.”

“That’s right. As far as I’m concerned – ”

“Remember this place?” interrupted Dick.

Gordon nodded. “Yes; that’s where Morris steered the car into the fence and me into the bushes.”

“It’s where you became a blooming hero,” said Fudge.

“Hero, nothing! What I did didn’t amount to a row of pins!”

“Well, it amounted to the gift of an athletic field to the school,” said Dick, with a smile. “That’s something, you know!”

“And it amounted to something else, t-t-too,” added Fudge. “It made Morris a respectable member of s-s-s-society!”

“What beautiful expressions you do use, Fudge!” laughed Gordon.

“Fudge is right, though,” agreed Dick, when he had carefully steered the car around a wagon. “Morris is a heap more – more likable than he was last year. Whether it was the accident – ”

“It jarred some of the nonsense out of him, perhaps,” said Gordon. “Although, for that matter, Dick, maybe you like him better for other reasons.”

“Humph!” said Dick, with a suspicious sidelong glance. Fudge chuckled.

“Even you and Morris’ father seem to be getting quite chummy,” pursued Gordon, “while as for Mrs. Brent, why, she’s absolutely spoony about you!”

“Go ahead and enjoy yourself,” said Dick. “I don’t mind your ravings. Looks as though they were getting ready to close the hotel, doesn’t it?” he added, as they took the corner cautiously and turned into the shore road.

“I should think they would. About everyone has gone. Did I tell you what Caspar Billings said at the station the other day?”

“I don’t think so. What was it?”

“He said he was going to send circulars of the hotel to all the prep schools next Spring, so he could get up a nine that would beat us next summer and get that pennant back!”

“L-l-let him!” sputtered Fudge. “We’ll be ready for them!”

“Yes, indeed, for we’ll have Mr. Harold Townsend playing for us,” said Gordon. “By the way, Dick, we’d better put him in center field, don’t you think?”

“Certainly.”

“That’s all r-r-right!” exploded Fudge. “P-p-put him there! I’m going to p-p-p-play in the infield next s-s-s-summer! I’m g-g-going – ”

But Fudge’s remarks were drowned by the sudden croaking of the horn as the blue runabout approached the Brents’ cottage.

“There’s Morris on the porch,” said Dick, adding another dismal warning.

“Yes, and – am I mistaken, or is that – My sight isn’t what it used to be, Fudge. Look and tell me if that is Louise on the steps.”

“Dry up!” muttered Dick, turning the car toward the curb and throwing out the clutch.

Morris and Louise came down the walk. “Some driving, that, Dick,” Morris applauded.

“Oh, I told him what to do!” said Gordon modestly.

“Good morning, Mister Manager,” greeted Louise. “Good morning, Mister Captain. Good morning, Mister – ” She paused, at a loss.

“Mister Historian,” supplied Gordon. “Fudge is writing a beautiful story about the game, aren’t you, Fudge? He’s going to call it – ”

“C-c-cut it out!” growled Fudge.

“Please tell me, Fudge,” begged Louise. “What are you going to call it?”

Fudge scowled, grinned, and relented.

“I’m g-g-going to c-c-c-call it,” he said, “‘The Lucky Seventh.’”

THE END