Weatherby's Inning: A Story of College Life and Baseball

The news of Erskine’s trouncing brought delight to the hearts of the Robinson players and coaches. Down there at Collegetown they had been having troubles of their own of late. The brown-stockinged team was inferior to its last year’s predecessor, and its coaches believed that if Erskine came to Collegetown in two weeks with a nine equal to that of the previous season she would win the dual championship. So it was that Erskine’s defeat by Arrowden brought encouragement to Robinson; for Robinson had met Arrowden ten days before and had shut her out to the tune of 5 to 0. What pleased Robinson worried Erskine. The college at large, with last year’s overthrow in memory, scented defeat. Hanson wrote four telegrams on Sunday. The tenor of all was the same; that to Thomas G. Higgins, captain of the defeated nine of the spring previous, read as follows:

“Need you badly. Come at once. Wire when.”

Joe Perkins dropped a pound of weight every day until the middle of the week. Examinations were imminent, and this fact, with his own condition to think of and the worry caused by the general slump, came very near to making him quite useless on the diamond or in class-room. There was no practise on Monday for those who had played against Arrowden. They were told to stay away from the field and rest. Joe moped in his room until Tracy called for him and again took him out in the automobile.

Jack went to second base that afternoon, and during the hour and a half’s practise made a good showing. His throwing to first and to the plate pleased Hanson vastly. On Tuesday the first nine was still largely composed of substitutes. Joe and Tracy remained out and the battery was Knox and Griffin. “Wally” Stiles, the regular second-baseman, was out, but as he wore his every-day clothes Jack knew that the second bag was his for the afternoon.

Showell played Bissell’s place at center-field during the fielding practise, and later, when base-running began, was selected to start the procession. He played well off of first in obedience to Hanson, and when Mears cracked a short grounder toward third base he was able to reach second with time to spare. Jack was standing just in front of the base-line, arms outstretched toward third-baseman, and Showell saw his opportunity to get even for the uncomfortable position in which Jack had placed him on the occasion of the mass-meeting. Lunging out of the base-line he struck Jack in the back with his left shoulder with all the force he could summon. Jack pitched forward on to his face, rolled over, and lay there, feebly kicking the turf with his heels, and Showell flung himself on to the bag.

The nearest players ran to Jack’s assistance and found him, white of face, gasping painfully for breath. “Baldy” reached his side almost with the first, and, kneeling above his head, he took his arms and “pumped” them until the air was forced back into his lungs. After a liberal dousing with water, Jack sat up, gasping, and looked about him. His eyes fell on Showell, who was sitting on the bag watching proceedings disinterestedly, and a wave of color swept into his face. “Baldy” lifted him and supported him for a moment while he tried his feet. Jack was angry clear through and wished that he and Showell were alone that he might have it out with him. But he said nothing, and only two or three near-by players knew that the affair was not an accident.

“Are you all right?” asked “Baldy.”

“Yes,” Jack answered. Knox handed him his gray cap and he pulled it down over his forehead again and went back to the bag. Showell eyed him sharply, evidently on the lookout for retaliation.

“You want to get out of the way,” he blustered.

“You’d better keep out of my way,” Jack replied grimly.

“Why, what would you do?” growled the other.

But Jack made no answer, save for a glance of contempt that brought an angry flush into the somewhat sallow face of the other, and the game went on.

After he had cooled off a little, Jack was heartily glad that he had not got into a fuss with Showell, for Hanson hated any approach to disagreement during practise, and was quick to show his displeasure by putting the offenders on to the bench for long terms of idleness. But Jack had the satisfaction of twice putting Showell out, once between first and second, and once between second and third, and of knowing that when the runner was replaced by another he had not made any too good a showing. In the locker-house Showell kept his eye on Jack, still not quite satisfied that the latter did not mean to resort to his fists to even the score, and saw Jack go out accompanied by Clover and Northup with feelings of relief.

The next day, Wednesday, Erskine played State University with a team still largely made up of substitutes. Joe Perkins was back behind the plate and Gilberth went into left-field, King occupying the box. But Motter’s place at first was taken by Mears, and Jack again held down second. Knox was back at shortstop, but the outfield, aside from Gilberth, was made up of substitutes. The most encouraging feature of the contest was the improved condition and hard, sharp playing of Joe. The rest, in spite of the fact that he had fretted continually under the enforced idleness, had done him lots of good. Erskine won, 5 to 0, and the students strolled back to the college talking more encouragingly of the nine’s chances.

On Friday “Wally” Stiles got back into the practise and Jack, greatly to his disgust, retired again to the bench, or, to be more exact, to the net where Bissell was coaching a squad in bunting. Saturday’s game was with Erstham, and before it was half over Jack was morally certain that unless Stiles improved greatly during the next few days the second-baseman in the Robinson game would be one Jack Weatherby.

Stiles, unlike most of the other players, had not recovered from the slump, and his playing that afternoon was deplorable. Yet, since Erskine took the lead in the second inning and held it throughout the contest, he was not replaced, Hanson hoping that he would find his pace before the last man was out. But he didn’t, even for a moment. The team, as a whole, showed up strongly, and Erstham went home with a 10 to 2 score against her.

Jack was sorry for Stiles, really and truly sorry, he told himself; yet he would have been less than human had he not experienced a feeling of delight in the thought that, after all, it was not improbable that he would get into the Robinson game. There was no certainty about it, of course, he reflected, for Stiles might, in fact probably would, take a brace on Monday, and, during the five days that would then intervene before the last contest, win back his title to the position. But there was ground for hope, and since Jack had hitherto never for a moment really expected to have a chance in the big game, that slender hope brought happiness. He went back to Elm Street and the sympathetic and patient Anthony, whistling merrily or humming “Down with Robinson,” much out of tune.

His poetical production had duly appeared, among many others, in the Purple, and for several days he had been highly delighted. Each contribution had been signed with the author’s name, and Jack had experienced not a little good-natured teasing by his friends. But there had been praise also, for his verses were better than the rest, and even Professor White had congratulated him.

Jack was discovering that he had a good many friends. Not many were intimate, to be sure, but all were apparently genuine. Joe Perkins had promptly spread the story of Jack’s swimming lessons, and at last the true reason for the latter’s failure to distinguish himself in the rôle of life-saver had become generally known. If the college had been quick to condemn, it was equally prompt to acknowledge its mistake, and while few fellows made mention of the matter to Jack, yet many of them went out of their way to show him courtesy and kindness.

Tracy Gilberth had never mentioned the subject to any one since the truth had come out, not even to Joe. But Jack was aware that the varsity pitcher very frequently sought his companionship nowadays and seemed intent upon making up for the injustice he had done him. Jack willingly met him half-way, his olden longings for revenge forgotten in his present content. Nor, as has been said, was Tracy the only one who sought to ease his conscience by paying little attentions to the fellow he had formerly despised. From an object of scorn and derision Jack had changed into something approaching a hero.

On the Sunday succeeding the Erstham game Jack and Anthony were seated in the latter’s room shortly after noon when Mrs. Dorlon knocked on the door and announced a caller, presently ushering in with many excited sniffles Professor White. The professor carried a newspaper in one hand and his immaculate silk hat in the other. He greeted the two and took the chair that Anthony promptly pushed forward. But remarks on the beauty and seasonableness of the weather seemed to interest him but little, and as soon as politeness would permit he plunged into the subject which had brought him.

“Do you own a watch, Tidball?” he asked.

Anthony stared, shot a glance at Jack, and after a moment of hesitation answered: “Yes, that is – well, in a way.”

“You have it now?” the professor went on. Jack scented mystery, and listened attentively, wondering the while why Anthony looked so uncomfortable. Surely it was no disgrace to borrow money on one’s own property! Anthony hesitated again, then answered “No.”

“Was it stolen?” continued the professor.

“Stolen? Well, now – But, look here, professor, suppose you tell me why you want to know?”

“Perhaps I had better,” responded the other. “You’re probably thinking me pretty cheeky and inquisitive. But I was reading the paper a few minutes ago, and saw that they’d arrested a tramp over in Gerrydale, and had found a lot of pawn-tickets on him. When they visited the pawn-shop and recovered the property they found among other jewelry a watch with the inscription – let me see.” He found the place in the paper he held and read: “‘Gold watch and chain; former inscribed Anthony Z. Tidball, from Henry Wright Porter – July, 1902.’ That’s your name, and I thought perhaps the watch was yours. Is it?”

CHAPTER XXI

OFF TO COLLEGETOWN

Ere Professor White had finished Anthony was on his feet with hands stretching forth for the paper. The look of delight which he had flashed across at Jack and which still illumined his face caused that youth much wonderment.

“Guess it’s mine, all right,” Anthony cried. The professor yielded the paper, and Anthony read the article through in silence. When he handed it back his eyes were dancing behind the lenses of his spectacles. “It’s mine, sir; no doubt about it! The paper says all I need do is prove my ownership, and I can do that easily enough, for I have the number of the watch!”

“But, Anthony,” Jack objected, “you said that you’d – ”

“I’ll go over to Gerrydale in the morning,” Anthony interrupted hurriedly, shooting a warning glance at his friend. “I’m much obliged to you, sir; if you hadn’t seen that and told me I don’t believe I’d ever have got it back; I don’t read the papers very often myself.”

“Well, I’m glad I saw it, Tidball. When was it stolen?”

“About a month ago,” answered Anthony somewhat vaguely. “I left it in my room, and when I came back for it it was gone. Of course I never knew who’d taken it. But – I’m plaguy glad to find it again.”

“Of course, especially since it was presented to you. What is the story, Tidball?”

So Anthony told the professor about the rescue at Jonesboro, making it sound very casual and far from thrilling. But neither of his hearers was deceived, and insistent questioning and cross-examining finally gave the incident a different aspect.

“Well, yes,” Anthony acknowledged, “there was quite a sea running – Danger? Nothing to speak of if you knew how to manage a dory – The kid? Oh, he came round all right after a while; pretty near thing, though; another second or two would have finished him, likely. Father of the boy wanted me to take some money, but I wouldn’t; a fellow doesn’t take money for saving a life. So after he got home he sent me the watch. That’s all. Good deal of fuss about it.”

After the professor had taken his departure, insisting, for some reason, on shaking hands with the tall, ungainly junior, Jack turned upon Anthony and began his questions.

“I didn’t come right out, Jack, and say I’d pawned the watch,” Anthony explained, “but I gave you to understand that. The fact is I didn’t know what had become of it, and there wasn’t any use saying it had been stolen as long as I wasn’t certain about it. I left it in the room one morning when I went to recitation. I missed it in class, and came back, and couldn’t find it. I guess the tramp found the door open and walked in.”

“When was it?” asked Jack.

“Oh, well, about a month ago.”

Jack looked thoughtful, and Anthony eyed him uneasily. At last Jack brought one fist into the palm of his other hand and jumped up.

“Anthony! Was it the morning I went off?”

Anthony hesitated; but the boy’s face showed that he had no suspicion that Anthony had for a while connected him with the missing article.

“Why, yes, it was,” replied Anthony.

“I thought so!” Jack cried. “I remember now that I saw a trampish-looking fellow on the street when I came from breakfast. I passed him. I didn’t pay much attention, though, because I was – feeling sort of knocked out. But once I heard a noise in the entry here while I was packing. I’ll bet it was the tramp. And I remember seeing your watch on the table in your room, Anthony, when I took that note in there, and – why, come to think of it, I put the note under the watch!”

“He followed you in, I guess,” said Anthony.

“That’s just what he did. And when I went out he was in your room, I’ll bet. And – and he took my money, too, don’t you suppose? I must have left it out somewhere!”

“That’s about what happened,” Anthony replied, grinning jovially. “I wish you could get your money back; but I guess that’s too much to hope for.”

“I suppose so. Oh, I don’t care now. But I am glad you’re going to recover your watch, Anthony. Wouldn’t it have been funny if I’d gone back into your room again and found him there?”

“Yes, but you might have got laid out!”

“Laid out nothing! I’ll bet I could have whipped that chap. And I would have saved your watch, and – ”

“Missed your train!”

“Yes, so I would have. I wonder if it would have made any difference? I fancy it’s best the way it all happened.” He considered the subject for a moment in silence. Anthony beamed across at him happily. He was glad he was to get his watch back, but gladder still that the last doubt as to Jack’s honesty was dispelled; and, oh, so very glad that Jack knew nothing of his idiotic suspicions!

“There’s something I ought to tell you, Anthony,” said Jack suddenly. He looked rather ashamed and apologetic and very serious. “I’ve thought of owning up several times, but – I never did,” he continued.

“Owning up? Well – what is it, Jack? Murder?”

“No, it’s – it’s robbery!” Anthony stared.

“That morning I went away,” he continued, “I – I took something of yours with me. It wasn’t much, but I shouldn’t have taken it.”

“Why, what was it?” Anthony asked wonderingly. “I haven’t missed anything.”

“No; but then, I put it back afterward. It was a pencil.”

“A pencil!”

“Yes, the green one with the rubber tip; the one you used to have on your desk. I – I wanted something to remember you by,” he added shamefacedly. “And so I took that. I thought you wouldn’t care. I was going to write and tell you when I got home.”

“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” exclaimed Anthony. “I missed that pencil for two or three days, and then one morning it turned up again on the desk. But, hang it, Jack, you were welcome to the old thing, of course! I’m glad you took it – glad you cared to remember such a silly old codger as I! Why, that was nothing; not worth mentioning. Besides, you gave me that charm, and fair exchange is no robbery!”

“I’m glad you don’t mind now that you know,” said Jack simply. And, after a moment: “When you get your watch back again you can wear that bean, can’t you?” he asked.

“Well, I should say so!” replied Anthony with much decision. “And what’s more, Jack, I’ll wear it as long as the chain holds together!”

There was no difficulty the next day in recovering the watch. Anthony gave a detailed description of it, and explained the circumstances of the robbery, and his property was handed over to him at once. But it is needless to say that Jack’s roll of money was not among the objects recovered from the pawn-shop, nor was it found on the prisoner. Anthony was told that it might become necessary for him to attend the trial and give evidence. But he begged off very eloquently, and in the end the police decided that perhaps there would be evidence enough to convict the thief without calling upon Anthony. And, as it turned out, the decision was correct.

Jack never learned that Anthony had for a while suspected him of the theft of the watch; and it was better so. For while Anthony’s suspicions were certainly justified by circumstances, yet Jack could never have seen the matter in the same light, and would have been greatly hurt had he ever learned of it.

In the second week of June two things began simultaneously, final examinations and morning baseball practise. Naturally, the first seriously interfered with the second, and it was only by the most complicated arrangement on the part of Hanson that the players were able to report at the nets during the forenoons for batting practise. Three assistant coaches had put in appearance in response to his telegrams, among them the captain of the unsuccessful nine of the year before. Higgins was a good player and turned out to be as good a coach. His heart was set on witnessing a victory over the Brown and he worked enthusiastically and tirelessly. Afternoon practise began every day at three-thirty, and never let up as long as there was a ray of light left. The slump was a thing of the past, and every man responded well to the demands of the coaches. Stiles gradually recovered his form, and in the last game before the final contest – played on Thursday with Harwich Academy – he superseded Jack at second, and Jack, his hopes dead, sat on the bench and tried to be philosophic.

That Thursday game attracted the biggest audience of any thus far played; not because the Academy team was strong enough to promise a hard-fought battle, but for the reason that it was given out that the Erskine nine was to play just as it would in the game at Collegetown the next day but one. The batting list was as follows:

Perkins, catcher.

Gilberth, pitcher.

Motter, first base.

Bissell, center-field.

Stiles, second base.

Knox, shortstop.

Billings, third base.

King, left-field.

Northup, right-field.

Allowing for the fact that every man had been worked hard all the week up to the very beginning of the game, and that examinations were in progress, the exhibition of ball-playing made by them was decidedly encouraging. The cheering was a notable part of the contest. Led by the senior class president and five assistants, the stands did heroic work, and cheers and songs thundered forth unceasingly.

Jack, sitting forlornly on the bench, wedged in between other substitutes quite as forlorn, found balm for his disappointed hopes in the fact that the song that went the best of any, and the one which was most often sung, was his. The way in which the throng emphasized the “Poor old Robinson!” was good to hear.

When the game was at an end – it was almost dark by then – the spectators marched back down William Street to the college, cheering and singing all the way. Jack, trotting over to the locker-house in the wake of the other players, heard from down the street the refrain arising splendidly to the summer sky:

“Purple is the color of the stalwart and the brave;Purple are the banners that the conq’ring heroes wave;Purple are the violets above the lonely graveOf poor old Robinson!Glory, glory to the Purple!Glory, glory to the Purple!Glory, glory to the Purple!And down with Robinson!”

The enthusiasm didn’t cease until late at night. After dinner the fellows thronged the yard in front of Walton and the cheers and songs were gone through with again and again.

There was little work the following day for the players. Morning practise was omitted, and in the afternoon a little running and throwing to bases constituted the program. In the evening there was a reception to the nine and substitutes in Brown Hall, and again enthusiasm was rampant. The Glee Club sang, the college band played, the fellows cheered, the dean and Professor Nast and the coaches and Captain Joseph Perkins made speeches, and there was a grand hullabaloo until half past nine.

Jack bade good-by to Anthony that night, for the nine and substitutes were to go to Collegetown in the morning on a train that left at half past six. The supporters were to follow on a later train, but Anthony was not to be among them.

“I wish I were going,” he said, “but I just can’t afford it, Jack. But I’ll be down on the street in the afternoon, and while you’re knocking base runs and such things you’ll know that I’m flinging my cap for you here at home.”

“It’s little chance I’ve got,” said Jack sadly. “But I may get on for a while, Anthony. Anyhow, I wish you were going along.”

“So do I. Good night, Jack, and good luck to you and the nine and old Erskine. You’ll play, of course; they can’t win without you, Jack! Good night!”

CHAPTER XXII

AT THE END OF THE SIXTH

If you are so fortunate as to be occupying a seat in the stand running parallel with the line to first base, and if you are about midway between that base and the home plate, you may congratulate yourself upon being in the best place of all from which to watch the game. Under ordinary conditions you have a clear view of every player, the batsman, unless he is left-handed, is facing you, and the run to first base is made directly in front of you. Make yourself as comfortable as the narrow board seat and uncompromising back will permit, be grateful for the clear sky and warm sunlight, which, if it beats a little too ardently upon your cheek, makes up for it by limbering the joints and muscles of the players and urging them to their best efforts, and watch the game, prepared to applaud good work, joyfully if performed by your side, ungrudgingly if by the other, and to accept victory with gratitude and defeat with equanimity.

From where you sit you see first the Erskine players on their bench at the foot of the sloping stand, their purple caps thrust back on their heads or held in their hands. You can’t see their faces, but their broad shoulders suggest the best of physical condition. Beyond them to the right a white deal table is occupied by four men who are busy writing the history of the contest.

At the feet of the players the field begins, a level expanse of closely cropped turf, which stretches away for a quarter of a mile like a great green carpet. Beyond the field is a thicket of trees, elms, chestnuts, and maples. Beyond that, again, the warmly red roof of the gymnasium peers forth, the forerunner of many other roofs and turrets and towers set sparsely at first amid the foliage, but quickly grouping together about the campus. There lies Robinson College. To the left, where the white spire pierces the tree-tops and glistens against the blue sky, the village of Collegetown commences and straggles away to a tiny river, no wave or ripple of which is from here visible.

But you have wandered far afield. About you the tiers are gay with purple flags and ribbons, but farther along to your left the purple gives place grudgingly to brown, and from there on in a long sweep of color the brown holds sway even beyond third base. Four hundred among four thousand is as a drop in a bucket. Yet the four hundred is massed closely together, and every unit of it flaunts a purple banner, and is tireless in cheering and in song. Across the diamond the Robinson band plays lustily between the innings; you can see the leader swinging his little black wand, the cornetist’s cheeks rising and falling like a pair of red bellows, the player of the base drum thumping away with his padded stick; but you hear nothing – nothing save an occasional muffled boom from the big drum; how can you when all about you cheers are thundering forth for “Erskine! Erskine! Erskine!” Your throat is dry and parched, the perspiration is trickling down your cheek, and your eyes are dazzled with the sunlight; but you’re as happy as a clam at high tide, for the sixth inning has begun, neither side has yet scored, Erskine is at bat, and your heart’s in your mouth!