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

“Oh, they’ve got a good nine, Greg, and they know it. And you and I know it. We might as well face it, too.”

“Well, what if they have? Great Scott, man, haven’t they had good nines lots of times before and been beaten out of their boots? What do we care for their old Voses and Condits and ‘Hard-hitting Hopkinses’? Maybe we’ve got a good battery ourselves, and a man or two who can slug the ball!”

“Maybe we have,” answered Joe dryly, “but you couldn’t just name them, could you?”

“Certainly I can name them! You’re just as good a catcher as that Condit wonder of theirs. And Gilberth can pitch all around Vose, when he wants to. And – ”

“Yes, when he wants to,” said Joe significantly.

“Well, he will want to when it comes to Robinson,” said King.

“Perhaps. And how about the hard sluggers?”

“Oh, well, there’s Motter, and Billings, and – ”

“Yourself; you’re a better batsman than either of them, Greg. But there’s no use in running down Hopkins; he’s a wonder at the bat; and we’ve got to get busy and turn out a few fellows like him. Saturday there wasn’t more than three decent hits made in the whole idiotic game.”

“My cheerless friend, please forget Saturday,” begged King. “It wasn’t nice, I know, but it showed up the weak spots, and that’s something to be thankful for.”

“Not when there’s nothing but spots,” lamented Joe.

“Besides, we kept them from scoring; and for a while it looked as though we couldn’t.”

“And even that was just a piece of good luck.”

“Good luck? Why, it didn’t seem so to me. I never saw a fielder look more certain of making a catch than Weatherby did. And the way he pulled down that ball was mighty pretty, too.”

“I don’t mean that it was luck for him; I mean that it was just by luck that I put him in your place when you went into the box; I almost sent Lowe out there. If I had it’s dollars to cents he wouldn’t have judged that ball so as to have caught it.”

“Well, all’s well that ends well, old chap. Cheer up! By the way, I was mighty glad Weatherby made that catch and kept our slate clean; for his sake, I mean. I’ve noticed that yesterday and to-day the fellows at the table have been very decent to him. I guess he rather made a hit with them Saturday.”

“I’m glad of that,” Joe responded heartily. “To tell the truth, Greg, Weatherby’s been bothering me a good deal; Hanson and I picked him out for a good man, and I think he is, but all this badgering by the fellows has made him pretty near worthless. I hope to goodness it’s done with now.”

“It’s been Tracy more than any one else,” said King. “He’s rather overdone it, I think.”

“I should say so! The trouble with Tracy is that he gets it into his thick head that he’s a sort of public conscience, and you can’t get it out. I don’t think he really intends to be mean; I’ve known him to do several mighty decent things – kind-hearted, you know.”

“Seems as though his sense of proportion was out of gear; and you can’t faze him, either.”

“Well, I don’t know; sometimes I manage to jar him a bit. I got at him last week and asked him to go easy on Weatherby, and so far he’s done it. I put it to him on the score of justice and that sort of thing, you know. I’ve noticed, by the way, that you’ve been kind of taking Weatherby’s part lately. Do you like him?”

“I don’t know whether I do or don’t,” answered King slowly. “I think maybe I could like him very well if he’d give me a chance, but the trouble is he won’t let you get near him. He’s the most independent, stand-offish sort of chap ever.”

“I know. It’s rather against him, that kind of thing. But I fancy, Greg, that that manner of his is sort of defensive; I don’t believe he’s really so independent as he is – well, shy. He thinks fellows don’t care to know him and so puts on that let-me-alone air just to hide the fact that he’s downhearted.”

“Do you? Well, maybe you’re right. It never occurred to me.”

“Yes; and something Professor White said the other day bears me out. He came up to see me about Weatherby. It seems he’s taken rather a shine to him, and had him home with him overnight last week. He says that Weatherby’s frightfully cut up over the way the fellows have been treating him; thinks no one wants to have anything to do with him on account of that affair down at the river, you know, and is just about ready to throw up the sponge and light out. In fact – ” Joe stopped, remembering that Anthony had requested him not to talk of Jack’s flight. “Anyhow, it seems rather a shame, don’t you think? The chap’s a nice-looking, gentlemanly sort, and apparently has lots of pluck, in spite of what happened at the wharf that day.”

“That’s what I think. I believe the truth of that business is that Weatherby doesn’t know how to swim, Joe.”

“Really? Did he ever say so?”

“Oh, thunder, no! He never’s talked about it to me; I’d be scared to death to ask him. But that seems a reasonable sort of explanation, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it does. And it’s funny that it never occurred to me. Somehow, you take it for granted here that every fellow knows how to swim; we’re such a lot of water-rats, you know. I believe you’ve hit it, Greg. But if that’s the case, why didn’t he out and say so?”

“Well, I don’t know. Maybe we didn’t give him a chance at first, and then, when he did have a show, maybe he got spunky and wouldn’t. It’s the sort of thing I could understand his doing.”

“Yes, it is. Well, anyhow, he’s cut up more rumpus and made more worry than any freshie I ever knew. And I hope to goodness it’s over. I want him to play ball. Going? Don’t forget to drum up the meeting. Bring a crowd with you and start the enthusiasm early in the game. And, by the way, if you ever have a chance, you might just try and find out about Weatherby; whether he can swim, you know. So long, Greg.”

Jack would have been distinctly surprised had he known that he was the subject of so much discussion. He was beginning to congratulate himself that the men with whom he associated seemed to have forgotten the unpleasant incident, and were, in a manner, making his acquaintance all over again. There was no denying the fact that since his performance of Saturday on the diamond the fellows at the training-table had shown themselves very friendly toward him. Of old he had usually eaten his meals in silence, save for an occasional word with Joe or King or the trainer. Nowadays the fellows greeted him as one of themselves, included him in their conversation, and even asked his opinion sometimes. And unconsciously he was bidding for their friendship. He no longer answered all inquiries with monosyllables, but forgot his rôle of injured innocence and entered into the talk with sprightliness and interest. Once he had even made a joke. It was a good joke, but its effect was embarrassing. Every one was so surprised that for a full quarter of a minute not a sound greeted it. Then the table broke into laughter. But by that time Jack was all self-consciousness once more, and for the rest of the meal ate in silence.

But his shyness wore off again, and by the middle of the week his companions had adopted a way of listening when he spoke as though what he had to say was worth hearing. The effect of this was like a tonic to Jack’s vanity. He began to recover his naturally good spirits and the change in him was noticeable. Anthony saw and was delighted.

The friendship between him and the younger boy had worked back into its old lines. Sometimes, more and more infrequently as time passed, Jack thought he could detect a difference in Anthony’s attitude toward him; fancied that the other was reserved in manner. But the difference, if difference there was, was slight and did not seriously impair Jack’s enjoyment of Anthony’s friendship.

Anthony himself in those days was not aware that he showed at times any of the doubts that assailed him. He did not mean to. He had argued with himself over the matter of the lost watch and had at length practically convinced himself that, despite all evidences against his friend, Jack was not guilty of theft. It is probable that even had Anthony detected Jack in the act of stealing he would still have kept much of his liking for the boy, even while detesting his offense. Anthony was big enough morally to view wrong-doing with pity as well as disfavor, and his affection for Jack – a big-hearted, generous affection – would have weighed in the boy’s favor.

But Anthony had made up his mind to believe in the other’s innocence, and believe he did. Sometimes the doubts would creep back despite him, and it was at such times that Jack believed he detected a difference in Anthony’s manner toward him. Meanwhile, Anthony had purchased a wonderful alarm-clock for the sum of eighty-five cents; wonderful for the reason that it gained an hour each day as long as it stood on its feet, and lost twenty minutes each day if laid comfortably on its back. Anthony corrected it every evening by Jack’s watch, and persevered in his efforts to lead it back into a life of veracity and usefulness.

“There’s some position,” he declared, “in which that thing will keep exact time. ’Tisn’t on its feet, and ’tisn’t on its back; it’s somewhere between. Patience and study will find the solution.”

So he propped it at various angles with his books, and even laid it on its head, but whether the numerals XII pointed toward the floor, the ceiling, or the dormer-window the result was always surprising and never satisfactory. And finally, after he had once awakened and prepared his breakfast before discovering that the alarm had gone off at five instead of half-past six, he gave up the struggle, settled the timepiece firmly on its little legs, and accustomed himself to being always one hour ahead of the rest of the world.

CHAPTER XIV

THE MASS-MEETING

On the Wednesday for which the mass-meeting was called Jack returned to the house at quarter after five, and, as was his custom, stopped in at Anthony’s room to spend half an hour before dinner. Anthony had improvised a window-seat out of a packing-case, covering it with an old red table-cloth and installing upon it his one cushion, a not over-soft and very flamboyant creation in purple and white. When Jack entered he found Anthony perched thereon before the open casement. The seat was not very long and so the occupant was obliged to either let his legs hang over the edge or fold them up beneath him. At present he had adopted the latter tactics, and a ludicrous figure he presented. Jack subsided on to the edge of the bed and giggled with delight until Anthony tossed the book he was studying at his head.

“What are you crying about?” he demanded.

“I’m not cr – crying,” gurgled Jack. “I’m la – laughing at you.”

“What’s the matter with me?”

“You look so – so funny!”

“Do I?” Anthony grinned and unfolded himself. “I was thinking a while ago that I was like a pair of scissors I saw once. The blades tucked back against the handles. How’d the game come out?”

“Pretty well; seven to nothing. Millport came pretty near getting a run in the fourth, but after that she didn’t have a ghost of a show. I didn’t, either. I didn’t get in for a minute; just sat on that old bench and looked on and nearly froze to death.”

“Too bad,” sympathized Anthony.

“Wasn’t it? However, I don’t care very much. Hanson sat with me a while and we had a long talk. He knows a whole lot about baseball; stuff I never thought of; scientific part of the game, you know.”

“Hanged if I do!” answered Anthony. “I don’t know a baseball from a longstop.”

“A what?” gasped Jack.

“Longstop; isn’t that it?”

“Shortstop, you mean.”

“Well, knew it was some kind of a stop. Might as well call it one thing as the other, I guess.”

“Why don’t you come out and see a game some day?”

“Going to some afternoon, when I’ve nothing to do.”

“Huh! I guess you’ll never come, then. You’re always grinding.”

“Oh, I’ll take a vacation some Saturday and go and watch you play.”

“Don’t know whether you will or not,” said Jack dolefully. “King played in left-field all the game to-day. Pretty nearly every sub except me went in. I wish they’d give me a place to try for and let me see if I can’t make it. I hope, though, they don’t put me out in the field. Perkins told me yesterday that there’s no use in my trying for pitcher this year, and I guess he’s right. Gilberth played a great game to-day; struck seven men out and gave only two bases.”

“How are you and he getting on nowadays?” Anthony asked.

“All right. He never has anything to say to me, and I let him alone.”

“Guess he won’t trouble you any more,” said Anthony.

“Perhaps not. Sometimes, though, I think he’s saving up for something particularly unpleasant. I don’t care, though. He can go hang.”

Anthony closed the window, drew down the stained green shade, and lighted the gas-stove. Jack lay back on the bed for a time and watched the dinner preparations in silence.

“What’s the pièce de résistance to-night?” he finally asked, as there came a sputtering from the pan.

“Hamburger steak with onions,” answered Anthony.

“Ugh!”

“Don’t you like it?” asked his host in surprise.

“Not a bit; and I don’t like the beastly smell, either. So I’m going home.” He stretched his arms luxuriously and sat up. Then, “Did you ever wish you were rich, Anthony?” he asked.

Anthony paused a moment with fork outstretched, and looked thoughtfully across the room. Finally, he shook his head.

“No, I don’t believe I ever did. What’s the use?”

“No use, I suppose. But I have, often. I wish so now. Do you know what I’d do if I had fifty thousand dollars?”

“No; but something silly, I guess,” answered the other, prodding the steak till it sizzled.

“Well, I’d throw that foolish, lying clock out of the window and get your watch back. Then I’d take you to – to – Boston, I guess, and buy you a ripping good dinner for once in your life. We’d have quail and asparagus, and – Do you like chocolate éclairs?”

“Don’t know; never ate any. What are they like?”

“Well, we’d have them, anyway. Wish I had one now. And – But I’m getting hungry, myself.”

“Better stay and have some Hamburger and onions,” advised Anthony, with a smile. But Jack fled toward the door, ostentatiously holding his nose.

At half past seven they set out for the mass-meeting together. When they had crossed the Common and had entered the yard they found themselves in one of a number of little eddies of laughing, chattering fellows that flowed across the campus and merged in front of Grace Hall into a stream that filled the doorway and staircase from side to side.

“Going to have a full house,” observed Anthony.

At the door of the meeting-room they ran into Joe Perkins. He grabbed Anthony and sent him, under charge of Patterson, the manager, to a seat on the platform. Then he put a detaining hand on Jack’s arm.

“Cheer like everything, Weatherby!” he whispered.

Then a six-foot sophomore, leading a flying wedge consisting of a handful of his classmates, bucked Jack between the shoulders and he went rushing up the aisle, tossing the crowd to either side, until he managed to avoid the men behind by slipping into a vacant seat. The big sophomore banged him on the shoulder as he charged on. “Bully interference!” he cried. Followed by his companions, he leaped over the intervening row of occupied seats and subsided in a heap among a little throng of delighted friends. “Down here!” he yelled. Some one imitated a referee’s whistle and a falsetto voice called: “Third down and a yard to gain!”

Jack found himself seated next to a group of second-nine men. The little freshman Clover was his immediate neighbor, and beyond that youth sat Showell, the fellow whom Jack had fooled with his pitching on that first day of outdoor practise. They had met but seldom since then, but Showell had never missed an opportunity to annoy Jack, if possible, or, failing that, to show his dislike. His annoyances usually took the form of allusions to the incident at the river, plain enough, yet so petty that Jack never regarded them as worth noticing. Clover greeted Jack with evident pleasure. The latter returned his greeting and then nodded to the fellows farther along. Only Showell failed to respond. Turning to the man on the other side of him he asked:

“Been down to the river lately?”

“Oh, cut it out,” growled his neighbor, scowling at him.

“Cut what out?” asked Showell, pretending great bewilderment. “The river?”

“Let him alone, can’t you?” whispered the other.

“If you can’t, take your old jokes somewhere else,” advised Clover. Jack had not missed any of it, and for the first time Showell’s pleasantries aroused his anger.

“What’s the matter with you dubs?” Showell asked, grinning. “Can’t I talk about the river? All right, then, I’ll talk about the weather. Nice, dry evening, isn’t it? Any of you fellows get your feet wet?”

Jack touched Clover on the shoulder. “Do you mind changing seats with me?” he asked. Clover looked doubtful a moment; then he got up and Jack slipped along into his place. Showell watched the proceedings with surprise, and when he found Jack beside him turned his gaze uneasily ahead and for the rest of the evening attempted to look unconscious of the other’s presence. But, what with the grins and whispering of his friends, it is doubtful if he enjoyed himself.

The senior president made his little speech and introduced the dean. The latter, who never was much of an orator, said just what everybody knew he would say, and was succeeded by Patterson, the manager. Patterson explained the needs of the Baseball Association, and Professor Nast, chairman of the Athletic Committee, followed and urged the students to come to the support of the team. Neither his remarks nor Patterson’s awakened any enthusiasm, and the cheers which followed were plainly to order. Some one at the rear of the hall started a football song and one by one the audience took up the refrain. Perkins, who had stepped to the front of the platform, paused and glanced inquiringly at the head coach. The latter shook his head and Joe turned away again.

“Let them sing,” whispered Hanson. “It’ll warm them up.”

But as soon as it was discovered that there was no opposition the singing died away. King was on his feet then, calling for cheers for Captain Perkins. They were given loudly enough, but lacked spontaneity. Joe’s speech was short, but had the right ring, and several allusions to past successes of the nine and future victories awakened applause. But when he had taken his seat again and the cheering, in spite of the efforts of King and Bissell and others of the team, had ceased, it was evident that the meeting was bound to be a flat failure unless something was done to wake it up.

Hanson, who was down as the next speaker, called Joe to him, and for a minute they whispered together. Then Joe crossed the stage and spoke to Anthony. At the back of the room there was a perceptible impatience; several fellows had already tiptoed out, and there was much scraping of feet. Joe heard it and held up his hand. Then Anthony lifted himself up out of the ridiculously small chair in which he had been seated and moved awkwardly to the front of the platform. Instantly there was the sound of clapping, succeeded by the cry of “A – a – ay, Tidball!” Anthony settled his spectacles on his nose and thrust his big hands into his trouser’s pockets.

“Good old Tidball!” cried some one; the remark summoned laughter and clapping; men on their feet and edging toward the door paused and turned back; those who had kept their seats settled themselves more comfortably and looked expectant. The senior class president jumped to his feet and called for a cheer, and the response was encouragingly hearty. Joe threw a satisfied glance at Hanson and the latter nodded. The tumult died down and Anthony, who had been facing the gathering with calm and serious countenance, began to speak.

CHAPTER XV

ANTHONY ON BASEBALL

“Well,” commenced Anthony, in his even, deliberate drawl, “you had your chance to get out, and didn’t take it. I guess you’re in for it. I’ve been requested to speak to you about baseball. I told Captain Perkins that I didn’t know a baseball from a frozen turnip, but he said that made it all the better; that if I didn’t know what I was talking about you would realize that I was absolutely unprejudiced and my words would carry more weight. I said, ‘How are you going to get the fellows to listen to me?’ He said, ‘We’ll lock the doors.’ I guess they’re locked.”

Half his audience turned to look, and the rest laughed.

“Anyhow,” Anthony continued, “he kept his part of the agreement, and so I’ll have to keep mine. I’ve said frankly that I know nothing about baseball, and I hope that you will all pardon any mistakes I may make in discussing the subject. I never saw but one game, and after it was over I knew less about it than I did before. A fellow I knew played – well, I don’t know just what he did play; most of the time he danced around a bag of salt or something that some one had left out on the grass. There were three of those bags, and his was the one on the southeast corner. When the game was over he asked me how I liked it. I said, ‘It looks to me like a good game for a lunatic asylum.’ He said I showed ignorance; that it was the best game in the world, and just full up and slopping over with science. I didn’t argue with him. But I’ve always thought that if I had to play baseball I’d choose to be the fellow that wears a black alpaca coat and does the talking. Seems to me he’s the only one that remains sane. I asked my friend if he was the keeper; he said no, he was the umpire.”

By this time the laughter was almost continuous, but Anthony’s expression of calm gravity remained unbroken. At times he appeared surprised and disturbed by the bursts of laughter; and a small freshman in the front row toppled out of his seat and had to be thumped on the back. Even the dean was chuckling.

“Well, science has always been a weak point with me, and I guess that’s why I’m not able to understand the science of hitting a ball with a wagon-spoke and running over salt-bags. But I’m not so narrow-minded as to affirm that because I can’t see the science it isn’t there. You’ve all heard about Abraham Lincoln and the book-agent, I guess. The book-agent wanted him to write a testimonial for his book. Lincoln wrote it. It ran something like this: ‘Any person who likes this kind of a book will find this just the kind of a book he likes.’ Well, that’s about my idea of baseball; anybody who likes that kind of a game will find baseball just the kind of a game he likes.

“Now, they tell me that down at Robinson they’ve found an old wagon-wheel, cut the fingers off a pair of kid gloves, bought a wire bird-cage, and started a baseball club. All right. Let ’em. There are other wheels and more gloves and another bird-cage, I guess. Captain Perkins says he has a club, too. I’ve never seen it, but I don’t doubt his word; any man with Titian hair tells the truth. He says he keeps it out at the field. From what I’ve seen of baseball clubs I think that’s a good, safe place. I hope, however, that he locks the gates when he leaves ’em. But Captain Perkins tells me that he has the finest kind of a baseball club that ever gibbered, and he offers to bet me a suspender buckle against a pants button that his club can knock the spots off of any other club, and especially the Robinson club. I’m not a betting man, and so I let him boast.

“And after he’d boasted until he’d tired himself out he went on to say that baseball clubs were like any other aggregation of mortals; that they have to be clothed and fed, and, moreover, when they go away to mingle with other clubs they have to have their railway fare paid. Captain Perkins, as I’ve said once already, is a truthful man, and so I don’t see but that we’ve got to believe him. He says that his club hasn’t any money; that if it doesn’t get some money it will grow pale and thin and emaciated, and won’t be able to run around the salt-bags as violently as the Robinson club; in which case the keeper – I mean the umpire – will give the game to Robinson. Well, now, what’s to be done? Are we to stand idly by with our hands in our pockets and see Robinson walk off with a game that is really our property? Or are we to take our hands out of our pockets, with the fingers closed, and jingle some coins into the collection-box?