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

“Sounds fine,” answered Anthony. “All aboard, now; draw up to the table and wade in. Guess you’ll have to use the rocker, unless you’d rather have this. Here’s the sugar. How about – Pshaw, you’re not going to drink coffee, are you? Have some water in the toothbrush mug? No? All right. Have an egg; that’s right, just slide it off. These rolls are good; I sprinkle the tops with water and heat ’em up on the stove. Sorry I haven’t more to offer you, though. Well, Jack, I’m glad you ran across White and came back. You’d been sorry – afterward – if you’d gone home; and so would I. And, by the way, what was it that set you going? What happened at the table yesterday morning? Your note was lacking in details.”

Jack told about Gilberth’s behavior and Anthony’s eyes darkened behind his spectacles.

“Ugly brute!” he muttered. “Ought to be spanked. But – Look here, don’t mind him, Jack; I don’t think he’s going to trouble you much after this. Just keep out of his way.”

“I’ll try to. If – if he was a freshman, or even a soph, I’d fight him; but I can’t fight a senior!”

“Huh! You won’t have to; he’s going to behave himself after this,” said Anthony grimly.

“Well, I don’t know; anyhow, I’m going to stick it out now, no matter what happens,” Jack said stoutly. “That’s my last try at running away. If it hadn’t been for forgetting my money, I guess I’d have gone. Funny how it happened, wasn’t it? The worst of it is, I thought I’d left the money in my trunk, but I’ve looked and it isn’t there; I can’t find it anywhere. It was about all I had. I guess dad will be madder than a hatter when I write home for more.”

“That’s too bad,” said Anthony. “If you want a little – a dollar or two, you know – to go on until you hear from home, I can let you have it as well as not.”

“You’re awfully good,” answered Jack gratefully. “But it would be a nice thing for me to borrow from you, wouldn’t it? Don’t you think I know how hard up you are?”

“Oh, well, you could pay it back, you know. If you’d rather, you could give me a mortgage on your clothes,” he added, smiling.

“Then, if my money didn’t come, you might for-clothes,” laughed Jack.

“Running away from school seems to sharpen your wits,” said Anthony. “Have another egg? Won’t take a minute. Good; I like my guests to have appetites.”

“You’d have one yourself if you’d been hauled out of a nice, soft bed at half-past six!”

“Guess I would; but I wouldn’t make bad puns.”

Presently, while the egg was sputtering in the pan, Jack asked, with a trace of embarrassment:

“Did you – get that watch-charm?”

“Yes; much obliged,” was the answer. “Guess I’d better give it back now. Won’t need it to remember you by if you’re in the same hut with me, eh?”

“I – I’d rather you did keep it, though, and wear it, if you don’t mind. Did you put it on your chain?”

The fork fell into the pan, and Anthony fished it out with much muttering before he answered. Then —

“Why, no, I didn’t, Jack. You see – ”

“I know; it isn’t very beautiful; just one I had.”

“That isn’t the reason,” said Anthony without turning around. “Fact is, I’m not wearing my watch just now.”

“Oh, aren’t you? Why – what – ”

“Well, a fellow can’t have money to lend and a gold watch at the same time. Just at present I’m a moneylender.”

“Oh, I see,” Jack replied. But, nevertheless, he didn’t look satisfied with the explanation, and when Anthony returned to the breakfast-table with the egg he had been frying the two finished the meal almost in silence.

Thanks to the secrecy of the three persons who alone knew of Jack’s absence from Centerport, his return to the training-table at lunch-time occasioned no surprise. Joe Perkins looked bewildered for a moment, but said nothing. King called across the board and asked Jack where he’d been since the day before, and Jack calmly replied that he’d been home with Professor White overnight. Several pairs of eyebrows went up incredulously, but no one voiced his doubts. Gilberth took absolutely no notice of Jack, and, at least in so far as the latter was concerned, the meal went off pleasantly. He had expected to be called to account by the trainer, but Simson had eyes of his own and said nothing as long as luncheon was in progress. When it was over he questioned the captain. After a moment of hesitation, Joe told the trainer the facts of Jack’s absence as he knew them.

“I think,” he said, “that the best thing to do is to take no notice this time. Weatherby may turn out a good man for us if he can get his mind on his work. But if this badgering continues he won’t be worth a continental; he’s all up in the air. Maybe you can give him a good word now and then, ‘Baldy’; the poor dub needs it all right.”

“Sure, I can,” answered the trainer. “Give the lad a chance; why not? I doubt he’s varsity material, cap, but he’s a decent spoken lad enough.”

Tracy Gilberth walked back to his room after luncheon feeling very dissatisfied with life. He had not yet forgiven Joe for the lecture which the latter had delivered to him the day before. Tracy felt deeply wronged. He really believed that when he had publicly affronted Jack Weatherby that he had been performing a service to the college; that it was his duty to protest against the presence at the university of a fellow who had shown himself to be a coward. Tracy had a rather good opinion of himself and of his importance, and had never doubted that, since others had failed to act in the matter, it was his place to step to the front. The wigging he had received from Joe had surprised as well as disgruntled him, and his vanity still smarted.

And what increased his annoyance was the fact that he had been “called down” by the one fellow of all whom Tracy really held in affection, and who, or so Tracy argued, should have been the very last to oppose him. Never before had the two, whose friendship dated back from their sophomore year, come so near to quarreling as they had yesterday. Differences of opinion they frequently had, but Tracy always retired from whatever position he held at the first sign of displeasure on the part of the other. But yesterday Tracy’s backdown had been incomplete; to-day he was not decided whether to do as Joe wanted him to and leave the obnoxious Weatherby strictly alone or to show his resentment by continuing his righteous persecution of that youth with some more than usually severe affront. In fact, Tracy hovered on the verge of open mutiny when, after climbing the first flight of stairs in Grace Hall, he turned to the left down the broad corridor and kicked open the unlatched door of his study.

“Hello!” he exclaimed.

“Hello!” was the response from the depths of a big leather armchair, and Anthony, who had been reclining with widely stretched legs and reading a magazine, placed the latter back on the mahogany writing-table and calmly faced his host. The two knew each other well enough to nod in passing, but never before had Anthony paid Tracy a visit, and the latter’s evident surprise was natural enough.

“Found your door open,” explained Anthony, “so I came in and waited. Wanted to see you a minute or two, Gilberth.”

“That’s all right; glad you made yourself comfortable,” answered the other.

“Nice rooms you’ve got,” continued the visitor.

“Oh, they do well enough,” Tracy replied carelessly.

As a matter of fact they were the handsomest in college, and he knew it and was proud of it. The study was furnished throughout in mahogany upholstered in light-green leather, a combination of colors at first glance a trifle disconcerting, but which, when viewed in connection with the walls and draperies, was quite harmonious. The walls were covered to the height of five feet with denim of dark green. Above this a mahogany plate-rail ran about the apartment and held a few old pewter platters and tankards, some good pieces of luster-ware and a half-dozen bowls and pitchers of Japanese glaze. Above the shelf, buckram of a dull shade of mahogany red continued to the ceiling, where it gave way to cartridge-paper of a still lighter shade. The draperies at doors and windows were of the prevailing tones. The effect of the whole was one of cheerful dignity. The room was not overcrowded with furniture and the walls held a few pictures, and those of the best. There was a refreshing absence of small photographs and knickknacks. Tracy was proud of his taste in the matter of decoration and furnishing and proud of the result as here shown. Anthony liked the room without understanding it. Perhaps the little whimsical smile that curved his lips was summoned by a mental comparison of the present apartment and his own chamber with its cracked and stained whitewashed walls and povern fittings.

“You wanted to see me, you said?” prompted Tracy.

“Yes,” answered the visitor. “Maybe it will simplify matters if I start out by telling you that Jack Weatherby’s a particular friend of mine.”

“Oh,” said Tracy. “Well?”

“Well, don’t you think you’ve bothered him enough, Gilberth?”

“Look here, Tidball, I don’t like your tone,” said Tracy with asperity.

“Can’t help it,” answered Anthony. “I don’t like the way you’ve been hazing Weatherby. Now we know each other’s grievance.”

“What I’ve done to Weatherby doesn’t concern you,” said Tracy hotly. “And I’m not to be dictated to. The fellow’s a coward and a bounder.”

“Don’t know what bounder is,” answered the other dryly. “Doesn’t sound nice, though. Suppose we stop calling names? I might lose my temper and call you something, and you mightn’t like it, either. But I didn’t come up here to quarrel with you; don’t like to quarrel with a man in his room; doesn’t seem polite, does it? What I came to say is this, Gilberth: leave Weatherby alone or you’ll have me to deal with.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No, I guess not; just a statement of fact.”

“Do you think I’m afraid of you?” demanded Tracy angrily.

“Guess not; keep on tormenting Weatherby and I’ll know you’re not.”

“Now, look here, Tidball, if you want a row, you can have it right off. You don’t need to wait and see what happens to your precious friend. I’ll fight you any time you like. Do you want a fight?”

“No, not particularly,” answered Anthony, with his most exasperating drawl. “Never fought any one in my life. Wouldn’t know how to go about it, I guess. Even – ”

“Well, you’ll know all about it mighty soon if you don’t get out of here!”

“Don’t think I shall. Haven’t any intention of fighting.”

“Haven’t you, indeed? Well, what, I’d like to know, are you hinting at?”

“Not hinting at all. You leave Weatherby alone or I’ll catch you in the yard and wallop you with a trunk-strap; but,” he added grimly, “there won’t be any fighting.”

He drew his long length out of the chair and took up his hat. Tracy, pale with anger, eyed him silently a moment. Then he leaped forward and sent him spinning back against the chair with a blow on the shoulder. The next moment he felt himself lifted bodily from his feet, turned head over heels, and deposited in that inglorious position on the broad leather couch. When things stopped revolving he saw Tidball’s calm face bending over him and felt his wrists held tightly together by fingers that grasped them like steel bands. He struggled violently until his opponent placed a bony knee on his chest. Then he subsided.

“Now keep still and listen to me,” said Tidball in quiet, undisturbed tones. “I’m a peaceable fellow, and don’t fight. But if you don’t remember what I’ve told you, I’m going to grab you just like this some day – and it’ll be when there are plenty of men looking on, too – and I’m going to spank you with a trunk-strap. If you don’t believe me,” he added with a slight grin, “I’ll show you the strap!”

“I’ll – I’ll kill – ”

“No, you won’t do a thing,” the other interrupted sternly. “You’ll stay just where you are and behave yourself. If you don’t, I’ll lock you up in your bedroom; and that’s a liberty I don’t want to take.”

He released Tracy and stepped back. Tracy leaped to his feet, but something in the look of the eyes behind the steel-bowed spectacles persuaded him to keep his distance. Anthony picked up his hat from the floor, dusted it tenderly with his elbow, and walked to the door.

“Sorry there was any trouble, Gilberth,” he said soberly. “Maybe I lost my temper; it’s a mean one sometimes. Think over what I said.” He closed the door noiselessly behind him, and Tracy, shaking and choking with wrath, groaned futilely.

CHAPTER XII

A FLY TO LEFT-FIELDER

Jack sat on the players’ bench, chin in hands, elbows on knees, and watched Centerport High School go down in defeat. It was the first game of the season for the varsity, and, judged by high standards, it wasn’t anything to be proud of. At the end of the sixth inning the score was 9 – 0 in Erskine’s favor, and not one of the nine runs had been earned. The error column on the score-sheet was so filled with little round dots that, from where Jack sat, it looked as though some one had sprinkled it with pepper. If, so far, there had been any encouraging features they were undoubtedly Joe Perkins’s catching of Gilberth’s erratic curves and Knox’s work at shortstop. The outfield had conscientiously muffed every fly that had come its way, and only the quick recovery of the ball had, on several occasions, prevented High School from scoring.

Joe Perkins looked disgusted whenever he walked to the bench, and the expression on the countenance of Hanson, the head coach, was one of bewilderment. “It’s simply wonderful!” Jack heard him confide to Joe. “I don’t see how they do it. I can understand how they can muff every other ball, say; but the whole-souled manner in which they let every one slide through their fingers is marvelous!” And Joe had smiled weakly and turned away.

When the men trotted out for the beginning of the seventh, Jack slid along the bench to where Patterson, the team’s manager, was scowling over the score-book. Jack had never spoken to Patterson, and a week ago he would have hesitated a long while before risking a snub by doing so. But since his return from his “visit” with Professor White the treatment he had received from the other members of the team had been so decent that he was ceasing to look upon himself as a Pariah and was regaining some degree of assurance. He studied the book over the manager’s shoulder a moment. Then he asked:

“Pretty poor, isn’t it? Do you think Perkins will put any more subs in?”

Patterson glanced around with a flicker of surprise in his eyes. But his answer was friendly enough:

“I don’t know what he’ll do. But if the subs can play any better than the men he’s got in there he’d better give ’em a chance. Where do you play?”

“Almost anywhere, I guess. They’ve had me at left-field, right-field, and second base. I guess I’ll be in the outfield if I get in at all.”

“You’d better go out there and help Northup,” said the manager, as he credited Motter, at first base, with his third error. “I don’t suppose it matters much whether High School scores or not; only I would like to see Erskine have a clean record this year. And to get scored on in the first game looks pretty rotten. Who made that assist?”

“Stiles. Can’t Gilberth pitch better than he’s doing to-day?”

“Of course he can. He’s all right when he tries; he evidently thinks this game isn’t worth while. But I’ll wager that Hanson will have something to say to him afterward. Side’s out. Stiles at bat!”

Erskine managed to find High School’s pitcher to good effect in the last of the seventh and piled up four more runs, two of them fairly earned. When Erskine trotted into the field again Hanson and Perkins had materially altered her batting list. King, who had been playing in left-field, went into the pitcher’s box, and Jack was sent out to left-field. Griffin succeeded Joe as catcher, Mears took Motter’s place at first, and Smith went in at shortstop.

Jack watched events from his position over near the rail fence and was never once disturbed; for King retired the opposing batsmen in one, two, three order, and the sides again changed places. Jack didn’t have a chance to show what he could do with the stick, for High School, following Erskine’s lead, put a new man into the box, and the new man puzzled the batsmen so that only one reached first, and was left there when Billings, third-baseman, popped a short fly into the hands of High School’s shortstop. Jack trotted back to the rail fence very disgusted.

It was the last inning. The sun was getting low and the chill of early evening caused Jack to swing his arms and prance around to keep the blood circulating. Over by the bench he could see them packing the bats away, and a little stream of spectators was filling around behind the back fence toward the gate. High School had reached the tail-end of her batting list again, and, to all appearances, the game was as good as finished. But last innings can’t always be depended upon to behave as expected. The present one proved this. High School’s first man at bat heroically tried to smash a long fly into outfield and, all by good luck, bunted the ball into the dust at his feet. After a moment of bewilderment, he put out for first and reached it at the same time as the ball. High School’s noisy supporters took new courage and awoke the echoes with their fantastic war-whoop. King looked bothered for an instant, and in that instant struck the next batsman on the elbow. The latter, rubbing the bruise and grinning joyfully, trotted to first and the man ahead took second.

“Huh,” muttered Jack, rubbing his chilled hands together, “something doing, after all.”

But King settled down then, and, after three attempts to catch the High School runner napping at second base, struck out the next man very nicely. The succeeding one, finding a straight ball, bunted it toward first, and, while he was tagged out by King, advanced the runners. High School’s supporters, gathered into a little bunch on the stand, waved their flags and ribbons, and shouted frantically. For surely, with men on third and second and their best batter selecting his stick, a run was not unlikely. Hanson shouted a command and King, repeating it, motioned the fielders in. Jack obeyed, doubtingly, for he had watched the present player and believed him capable of hitting hard. And so, although he made pretense of shortening field, he remained pretty much where he had been. And a moment later he was heartily glad of it.

For the High School batsman, a tall, lanky, but very determined-looking youth, found King’s first delivery and raced for first. Along the base-lines the coaches were shouting unintelligible things and flourishing their caps. The runners on third and second were running home. In the outfield Bissell, center-fielder, was speeding back, cutting over into Jack’s territory as he went. Jack, too, was going up the field, yet cautiously, for the shadows were gathering and it was hard to tell where the little black speck up there against the purple sky was going to fall. Yet when, with a final glance over his shoulder, he took up his position, and heard Bissell, panting from his run, cry: “All yours, Weatherby!” he never doubted that he would catch it. To Jack a fly was merely a baseball that required catching; and he was there to catch it. So he took a step or two forward, put up his hands, and pulled it down. Then he threw it to second-baseman and trotted in.

When he reached the plate the applause had died away and the remainder of the audience was hurrying off the field. The players were finding sweaters and, having thrown them over their shoulders, were hurrying across to the locker-house. Jack, searching for his own, heard Hanson’s voice behind him:

“Well, Joe, we’ve got one man who can catch a ball, eh?”

Jack knew that he wasn’t supposed to hear that remark, and so he took his time at pulling his white sweater out of the pile. When he turned, the head coach and captain were walking away. Jack followed, feeling very thankful that he had not missed his one chance of the game. As he entered the door he almost ran against the coach. Hanson smiled into his face as he stepped aside.

“That was a very fair catch, Weatherby,” he said.

And a moment later, when, wrapped only in a big bath-towel, he was hurrying to the shower-room, “Baldy” Simson clapped him on the back with a big hand.

“That’s the lad now,” he cried heartily, adding then his invariable caution: “Easy with the hot water, and don’t go to sleep!”

At dinner-table Jack thought the other fellows looked at him with something like respect. And all, he reflected, because he had caught a ball he couldn’t help catching!

CHAPTER XIII

JOE IS PESSIMISTIC

“Have you seen the editorial in the Purple?” asked King.

Joe Perkins, who had pushed his book away as the other entered his study, swung around in his chair and shook his head.

“About the mass-meeting?” he asked. “No, I haven’t seen the paper yet. What does it say?”

Gregory King leaned over the table until the inky-smelling sheets of the college weekly were under the green glass shade of the student-lamp.

“Listen, then, benighted one! ‘It is to be hoped that every student who can possibly do so will attend the mass-meeting to be held on Wednesday evening next in Grace Hall for the purpose of raising money for the expenses of the University baseball team. A victory over Robinson this spring decisive enough to obliterate – ’”

“Hear! hear!” cried Joe.

“Yes, elegant word, isn’t it?” grinned the other. “‘To obliterate the stigma of last year’s defeat is what every friend of the college hopes for and expects. But unless enough money is placed at the disposal of the management, to meet the expenses of the team, such a victory can not be secured. The nine has never been self-supporting and every spring it has started in with a deficit of from fifty to a hundred and fifty dollars, which has been paid by the Athletic Committee from the general fund. Heretofore the Committee has, besides making good the deficit, paid over to the baseball management sufficient money to carry the team through the first half of the season. This spring, however, the Committee is unable to do this. The football receipts last fall were scarcely more than half as large as usual, while the expenses were much greater. As a result, the sum at the disposal of the baseball team, the track team, and the crew is extremely small, and the former has received as its share the sum of one hundred and fifty dollars only – a sum not nearly sufficient to carry it through the first half of the season.

“‘It becomes necessary, therefore, to secure funds from some other source. Subscriptions have been invited from the alumni, but the result of this step is uncertain. A popular subscription is necessary and will be asked at the meeting on Wednesday. The amount required to insure the success of the nine is not large, and it is the duty of the student body to see that it is raised before the meeting is adjourned. Manager Patterson will make a statement of the association’s condition, and there will be addresses by Dean Levatt, Professor Nast, Coach Hanson, Captain Perkins, A. Z. Tidball, ’04, and others. It is to be hoped that the meeting will be attended by every member of the university.’”

“Not bad,” commented Joe. “But whether Patterson has made a mistake by stating frankly that the meeting is called to secure money remains to be seen.”

“What else could he say? The fellows aren’t going to be gulled into thinking that they’re invited to a mass-meeting to play ping-pong!”

“I know, but there are lots of fellows who won’t come if they know they’re to be asked to dive into their pockets.”

“Then let them stay away,” answered King forcibly. “Any chap that isn’t willing to give a dollar or two to beat Robinson isn’t worth bothering with!”

“I dare say; but we’ve got to have a lot of money, and if every fellow of that sort stays away – ” He shook his head doubtfully.

“Oh, get out! You’re pessimistic this evening. Cheer up; the tide’s coming in! We’ll get all the money we need, and lots more besides. You’ll see.”

“Hope so. Fact is, Greg, I’m a bit down in the mouth over the showing we made Saturday. If we don’t do better Wednesday I sha’n’t blame the fellows if they refuse to pony up for us. A nine that plays ball like a lot of girls doesn’t deserve support.”

“Well, we were pretty rotten Saturday, Joe, and that’s the truth. But we’ll stand by you better next time. We’ll give a good exhibition of union-made, hand-sewn baseball on Wednesday that’ll tickle the college to death. By the way, there’s a long fairy tale from Collegetown here in the Purple about Robinson’s team. To read it you’d think they expected to walk all over us and everybody else. They’re talking about beating Artmouth next week! How’s that for immortal cheek?”