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

“Four to nine!” yelled Knox. “We can beat them yet!”

But King, with desperate purpose written eloquently over his face, went to bat and ingloriously fouled out to third-baseman, and the half was over. Erskine never came near to scoring again, although, now that the ice was broken, every man felt capable of doing wonderful things, and tried his best to accomplish them. The difficulty was with the Harvard team, and notably the Harvard pitcher; they objected. But if Erskine was not able to add further tallies to her score, she, at least, held her opponents down to two more runs, Gilberth pitching a remarkable game, and what had looked for a time like an overwhelming defeat resolved itself into a creditable showing for the Purple.

Jack didn’t get into the game for an instant, nor, in fact, did any of the substitutes. But, as he had scarcely hoped to do so, he was not greatly disappointed. After the game was over the team went back to Boston inside and outside a stage-coach, laughing, joking, cheering now and then, and, on the whole, very well pleased with themselves. Hanson didn’t see fit to dampen their enthusiasm by reminding them of the faults which had been plentifully in evidence, but reserved his cold water for the next day. They had dinner at a hotel. In the course of the meal, King called across the table to Joe:

“I say, we’ve got old Tidball to thank for this feed, haven’t we? If it hadn’t been for that speech of his we’d never have had enough money in the treasury to buy sandwiches.”

“I guess that’s so,” answered the captain.

“You fellows needn’t think, though,” cautioned Patterson, “that you’re going to get this sort of thing every trip.”

There was a groan.

“Put him out!” called Gilberth.

“Down with the manager!” cried King.

“I wish,” said Jack to Motter, who sat at his left, “that I could take some of this dinner back to Tidball. I don’t believe he ever had a real good dinner in all his life!”

“Guess you’re right,” Motter laughed. “Anyway, he doesn’t look as though he ever had!”

Patterson distributed tickets to one of the theaters, and the men were cautioned to be back at the hotel promptly at eleven in order to take the midnight train for home.

“The management doesn’t pay for these, does it?” Jack asked.

“Thunder, no!” answered Motter. “The theater gives them to us, and advertises the fact that we’re going to be there; calls it ‘Erskine night.’ We’re on show, as it were. Some of the Harvard team are going, too. You needn’t fear that Patterson’s going to buy theater seats for us; you’re lucky if you get him to pay your car-fare to the station!”

Jack’s experience of theaters was extremely limited, and he enjoyed himself thoroughly all the evening. The team occupied two big boxes at the left of the stage, while across the house the corresponding boxes were filled with members of the Harvard team. There was some cheering on the part of the Purple’s supporters, but neither Hanson nor Joe encouraged it.

“Shut that up,” begged the latter, once. “They’ll think we’re a prep. school!”

At half past eleven they got into a train at North Station and went promptly to sleep, two in a berth, and knew little of events until they were roused out in the early morning at Centerport.

CHAPTER XVIII

JACK AT SECOND

Half a mile beyond Warrener’s Grove, the wooded bluff at the end of Murdoch Street, the river makes in the shore an indentation which is known as the Cove. It is not an attractive body of water. At some time in the past there was a brick-yard there, and even yet the remains of two weather-beaten sheds and a couple of high troughs in which the clay was mixed may be seen. During a spring freshet the river went over its banks and flowed into the pits left by the excavations. Later, the water and the frost connected the stagnant pond with the river; rushes gained foothold in the clay bottom and the old quarry took on the appearance of a natural cove. Save in one or two places the depth is but slight, and, in consequence, the Cove offers warmer bathing in the spring than does the river. On the side nearest the railroad there is a stretch of gradually shallowing water that answers all the purposes of a beach. It was here, then, that Anthony and Jack, during the latter part of May, came almost every morning, and, exchanging their clothes for gymnasium trunks, played the parts of teacher and pupil.

The first time that Jack found the cold water lapping his knees he went pale with terror, and would have fled ignominiously had not Anthony seized and encouraged him. In the end, he allowed the other to persuade him to remain where he was and, after gingerly splashing himself with water, watch his teacher a few yards beyond illustrate the method of swimming. Anthony realized that he had a task before him that required a deal of diplomacy, and he carefully avoided saying or doing anything to increase Jack’s dread of the water.

After four lessons Jack had gone the length of immersing himself and, held tightly by Anthony, had essayed a few wild strokes with arms and legs. Anthony strove to teach confidence first of all, and it was not until Jack could allow him away from his side that Anthony set about the easier part of his task. As soon as Jack could struggle for a few strokes through the water Anthony taught him to float. And it was not until Jack could float in every possible position that the swimming lessons were resumed. Then progress was rapid. By the middle of June Jack could swim out to a rush-covered raft which had been anchored about a hundred feet from shore by enterprising duck-hunters. At first Anthony kept beside him; later, they had races in which Anthony left Jack half-way to the goal; in the end, Jack found courage to swim to the raft and back by himself. But, as I have said, that was not until June was half over, and before that other things had happened.

It was on the fourth of the month, a Wednesday, that Jack, for the first time, played a game through as second-baseman. Erskine’s opponents were the Dexter nine, a hard-hitting aggregation of preparatory schoolboys, and to meet them Hanson and Perkins put in a team largely composed of substitutes. This team, in batting order, was as follows:

Perkins, catcher.

King, pitcher.

Northup, right-field.

Mears, first base.

Weatherby, second base.

Smith, third base.

Clover, shortstop.

Lowe, left-field.

Riseman, center-field.

The last six, with the exception of Lowe, were substitutes, and before the game was over Lowe, too, had been replaced, Showell going in for him. Jack’s playing that afternoon raised his stock fully a hundred per cent. He was in fine fettle – he had never felt better in his life than he had since he began his morning dips in the cold waters of the Cove – and covered the second of what Anthony had called the salt-bags in a manner that opened the eyes of his companions and caused “Wally” Styles much uneasiness. His batting, too, was as good as his fielding; he had the honor of making the first hit and the first run for Erskine, and was the only man on the team that afternoon, with the exception of Perkins, who knocked out a home run in the sixth, able to hit the Dexter pitcher for more than one base. In the fifth inning his three-bagger was clean and timely, bringing in two runs and placing him where he was able to score a minute after on a passed ball.

Dexter made things extremely interesting for a while in the seventh inning, getting in two runs and filling the bases again directly afterward. It was Jack, then, who, in a measure, saved the day. With the bags all occupied, Dexter’s catcher went to bat and lined out a hot ball just to the right of King. There was one out. King got one hand on the ball, but failed to stop it. Jack, who had run forward to back him up, found the ball in the air and threw quickly and true to the plate in time to put out the runner. Then Perkins, without more than a second’s pause, returned it to Jack, who was again covering second, and Jack found the Dexter catcher two feet off base.

The game ended with the score 5 to 2, and of those five tallies two were opposite Jack’s name. The other three belonged to Perkins and Northup. Jack’s record that day included four put-outs and five assists, and held no errors. Perhaps it was the consciousness of having done a good afternoon’s work that put him in such a state of elation that composing verse alone seemed to satisfy him. When half past seven arrived and he had not appeared in Anthony’s room, Anthony went in search of him and discovered him curled up in a ball on his bed, laboring with pencil and pad and flushed cheeks.

“I’ve got it!” cried Jack.

“Got what?” asked Anthony.

“The song! Listen!” Jack squirmed about on the creaking cot until he had his back against the wall. Then he waved his pad triumphantly over his head. “It goes to the tune of ‘John Brown’s Body’; you suggested that, you know; and I didn’t have any trouble at all; and the rhymes are all right, too, I think! Now, then!” And Jack, beating time with his pencil, recited sonorously his verses:

“Robinson is wavering, her pride’s about to fall;Robinson is wavering, she can not hit the ball;Erskine is the winner, for her team’s the best of all;Oh, poor old Robinson!Glory, glory to the Purple!Glory, glory to the Purple!Glory, glory to the Purple!And down with Robinson!“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!”

“Fine!” cried Anthony. “That’s the sort of thing! Let’s see it.” He took the paper and, turning it to the light, began to hum, then sing the words to the old marching song, nodding his head in time to the music. Anthony had about as much melody in his voice as a raven, but Jack, watching and listening eagerly from the bed, thought he sang beautifully, and was enormously pleased with the production. When the final refrain was reached he joined his own voice, rocking back and forth in ecstasy, and the concert ended in a final triumphant burst of mel – Well, no, not melody; let us say sound.

“Do you like it?” Jack asked, as eager for praise of his lines as any poet.

“Great!” Anthony answered. “And I should think it would do for a football song, too, wouldn’t it?”

“Would it?” cried Jack. “Yes, I believe it would! That’s fine, isn’t it? Of course, I don’t want you to think I’m stuck up, Anthony, but I really think it’s better than any that the Purple has published yet. What do you say?”

“Well, I haven’t read many of ’em; should think it might be, though. Better send it in right off, so it’ll be in time for the next issue, eh?”

“Yes, I’m going to mail it to-night; as soon as I make a good copy.” Then, after a moment’s hesitation: “I say, Anthony, would you mind copying it off for me? I write such an awful fist, you know.”

So they adjourned to Anthony’s room, and Jack leaned anxiously over his friend’s shoulder while the lines were copied in the most careful of copperplate chirography, folded, sealed, and addressed. Then Jack bought a one-cent stamp from Anthony and took the letter to the post-office, marching back through the warm June evening humming “Glory to the Purple,” and in imagination leading the cheering section at the Robinson game.

After he had gone to sleep he dreamed that he had been appointed poet-laureate of Erskine College, and was being driven along Main Street in Gilberth’s automobile between serried ranks of applauding students and townfolk, his brow adorned with a golden fillet of laurel-leaves. The automobile was extremely spacious, since it held besides himself not only the faculty, but Anthony and Joe Perkins and the entire baseball team. When he acknowledged the plaudits of the multitude he had to hold his laurel wreath on with one hand, which annoyed him a great deal. In the end the president solved the problem by tying it on with a red silk handkerchief. Then, at the moment of his greatest triumph, Showell arose from somewhere and shouted in a voice that drowned the cheers: “He didn’t compose it! The writing was Anthony Tidball’s! I saw it!” Jack tried to deny the awful slander, but none would listen to him, and he awoke breathless and despairing, to find the sunlight streaming in the end window and the robins singing matins to the early day.

CHAPTER XIX

ANTHONY TELLS A SECRET

“I wish I’d never taken the captaincy,” said Joe Perkins.

“Oh, rot! What’s the good of talking that way?” asked Tracy Gilberth. “The nine’s coming along all right. What if Artmouth did rub it into us? We had an off day; every team’s liable to have them. Look at last year.”

“I know,” answered Joe, “we had plenty of them then, and see what happened! We lost to Robinson, seven to nothing; we scarcely made a hit! If I thought – if I thought we were going to lose this year, I’d – I’d cut and run; honest, Tracy, I would!”

“That’d be a nice thing to do, wouldn’t it?” asked the other disgustedly. “Fellows would be proud of you, wouldn’t they?”

“It would be better than losing again,” muttered Joe.

“Oh, get out, Joe! Brace up; you’re off your feed, that’s what’s the matter with you. I heard ‘Baldy’ telling Hanson yesterday that you were going stale. He didn’t mean me to hear it; but I couldn’t very well help it. That’s why you’re out here with me in my ‘bubble’ instead of taking batting practise this morning.”

“Oh, I know all that. A trainer doesn’t send a fellow out for rides on Saturday mornings unless he’s gone stale or has something else the matter. I suppose I am out of sorts, Tracy. And I guess I’d rather stay and take a licking like a little man than run away, but – ” He stopped and scowled ahead of him at the dusty road. Then, “It’s all well enough to talk about ‘honorable defeat,’ and all that, but it’s mighty hard to lose your big game when you’re captain and have worked hard and put your whole heart into it.”

“Of course it is; I know that,” answered Tracy soothingly. “But you’re not going to lose. You’re going to win. So buck up, old chap!”

“And there’s poor old Tom Higgins,” Joe continued dispiritedly. “What will he say? I promised him I’d win this year. He’s coming up next week, if he can, to coach for a few days; I told you, didn’t I? What’ll he think when he sees how things are going?”

“Oh, Tom Higgins be blowed!” cried Tracy. “He couldn’t win himself, and I’d like to know what business he has finding fault with you if you don’t win, either?”

“But I promised him – ”

“Well, supposing you did? If you can’t win, you can’t, and that’s all there is to it. Every fellow on the team is going to work as hard as he knows how; every fellow is going to stand by you until the last man’s out. If we lose, it’ll be simply because Robinson’s got a better baseball nine. Cheer up, now, Joe, or I’ll run this machine into the ditch there and send you out on your silly old nut.”

The two were speeding comfortably along River Street in Tracy’s automobile. It was ten o’clock of a fresh morning in the first week of June. They had left the village a half mile behind and were chugging along over a somewhat dusty country road with green hillsides to the right and the gleaming river to the left. Occasionally the fragrant air was sullied with the smell of gasoline, and Joe sniffed disapprovingly and made uncomplimentary remarks about motor vehicles in general, and Tracy’s in particular. But Tracy, who had had his orders from Simson to cheer Joe up and bring him home in good spirits, refused to take umbrage, and declared that gasoline had a rather pleasant odor.

Joe was certainly suffering from nerves, and had been ever since the disastrous game with Artmouth, two days before, when Erskine had gone down ingloriously to the tune of 17 to 1, the 1 being the result of good fortune rather than good playing. Perhaps, as Tracy put it, the team had merely had an off day; at all events its performance had been anything but encouraging to the supporters of the Purple, and had thrown Joe into the depths of despair. With the final game of the season, the contest with Robinson, but two weeks distant, he saw only defeat ahead.

They were in sight of the Cove now, and Tracy suddenly pointed ahead. “What in thunder’s that, Joe?” he asked. Joe roused himself from unprofitable thoughts and looked toward the point indicated by his friend’s finger.

“Must be a duck,” he said finally.

“Duck be blowed! There aren’t any ducks around here at this time of year. Perhaps – I tell you what it is, Joe, it’s a man’s head! See? Some one’s in swimming.”

“Queer place to swim, among all those rushes,” Joe responded. “But I guess you’re right. We can tell for sure farther on.”

“Yes. Look; there he comes out. There’s a sort of beach there, remember? He’s walking out, and – ”

“If it doesn’t look like Jack Weatherby, I’ll eat my hat!” Joe interrupted.

“Weatherby!” echoed Tracy. “What’s he doing down here? He’s at practise.”

“No, only the first squad from ten until eleven; he’s in the second. That’s who it is, Jack Weatherby.”

“Rot! It doesn’t look the least bit like Weatherby to me. I tell you what, we’ll go over and see.”

“Can you get there in this tea-kettle?” asked Joe doubtfully.

“Sure; run in where the old bridge used to be; it’s just a nice little jounce.”

“All right, only remember that I’m not made of india-rubber.”

That is why Jack, when he rejoined Anthony in the shade of the old shed near-by, reported uneasily that an automobile, with two occupants, was crossing the clay field from the road, and that it must be Gilberth’s. Anthony finished dressing and then went to investigate. As he turned the corner a voice hailed him.

“Hello, Tidball! Was that you, for goodness’ sake?”

“Hello!” answered Anthony. “Was what me?”

“The chap we saw in the water a minute ago. I could have sworn it was Weatherby,” Joe replied.

“I was in there,” Anthony said. “Water’s nice and warm down here.”

“Well, but how did you get dressed so quickly?” Joe went on, suspiciously. “Oh, you be blowed! It wasn’t you we saw. It was Jack Weatherby, wasn’t it?”

“Maybe it was. He’s just dressing himself around the corner there.” Anthony saw that further attempt at concealing Jack’s identity was idle. During the conversation Tracy and Anthony had not noticed each other’s presence save by perfunctory nods.

“Going back?” asked Joe.

“Yes, as soon as Jack gets his clothes on.”

“Well, get in here and go with us, can’t you? There’s lots of room, eh, Tracy?”

Tracy nodded. He had not told Joe of Anthony’s call, and his friend was unaware that relations between the two were somewhat strained. Joe wondered at the lack of hospitality displayed.

“Oh, I guess we’d rather walk,” Anthony answered, smiling a bit behind his spectacles.

“Nonsense, you’ll get in here, both of you, and Tracy will show you what he calls ‘squirting through space.’ Hello, Jack!”

Jack came into sight carrying the bathing-suits and towels and somewhat red of face. He feared that Joe and Gilberth had guessed his secret.

“Hello!” he answered. “Hello, Gilberth!” The latter returned his salutation affably enough and Joe exclaimed:

“You’re a couple of nice mud-hens, aren’t you? Why don’t you pick out a decent place when you want to bathe? Come on and get in; we’ll take you back.”

Jack hesitated and looked inquiringly at Anthony. The latter’s expression gave no clue to his wishes, and so, in the end, Jack assented, and the two crowded into the carriage, and Tracy started back across the field toward the road. Joe seemed to have forgotten his troubles for the while, and the talk, ranging from baseball to final examinations, grew lively, even Gilberth finding his tongue at last. There was no hurry about getting back, he said, and so they crossed westward to the turnpike, and there, with a hard, safe road underneath, sped homeward at a rate that took Jack’s breath away and made Anthony hold tightly to so much of the seat as he could find. They turned into Main Street at the Observatory just as the clock in the tower of College Hall, glimpsed over the tree-tops, indicated a quarter of eleven.

“I guess I’d better get out at William Street,” said Jack, “or I’ll be late at the field. Will you come along, Anthony?”

“Can’t. I’ve got a recitation and I’ve already cut once this week.”

“Once?” cried Gilberth. “Great Scott, I’ve cut four times!”

“Well, you’d better quit it, Tracy,” Joe remonstrated, “or they’ll be putting you on probation, and then we’ll be beaten, sure as fate!” He turned to Jack. “Come to the room with me and then I’ll go out with you.”

“You’re not allowed out there this morning,” cried Tracy. “Hanson said I was to keep you away until the game.”

“You can’t,” Joe replied quietly. “Besides, I’m feeling fine now, and it would give me the horrors to have to mope around the college while you fellows were enjoying yourselves.”

“Enjoying ourselves!” Tracy grumbled. “You’ve got a queer notion of enjoyment. If you think I’m happy when Hanson is throwing it into me because I don’t hold my bat the way they did when he was a boy, you’re away off, Joe.”

“Well, I’m going out, anyhow,” Joe answered. Suddenly, just as they reached the corner of the yard, he turned to Anthony. “I say, Tidball, I wish you’d tell me what you two were doing at the Cove. I – I’ve got a reason for wanting to know.”

Jack shot an admonitory glance at his friend, but Anthony didn’t see it; perhaps he didn’t want to. He looked gravely back at Joe and replied:

“All right, Perkins, I’ll tell you. I was teaching Jack how to swim.”

“Anthony!” cried Jack, the color flooding into his cheeks. “You promised!”

“No, I didn’t promise, Jack,” he answered calmly. “I know you didn’t want me to tell, but I think the thing’s been a secret long enough.”

Gilberth was frowning intensely and studying the clear road ahead, as though he expected a stone wall to rise out of the ground at any instant and bar his progress. Joe was looking curiously at Jack’s averted face.

“King was right,” he said softly. Then, “Why in blazes didn’t you explain, Jack? Why didn’t you tell the fellows you couldn’t swim?”

But Jack only shook his head without turning.

“Pride,” said Anthony. “Jack’s full of it. I wanted to tell what the trouble was the next day, but he wouldn’t listen to it.” He reached around and placed one big, ungainly hand on Jack’s shoulder. “He’s an idiot, Jack is, but he’s all right!”

Gilberth swung the machine over to the sidewalk, and stopped it in front of the north gate.

“You’ll have to get out here,” he said gruffly. “I’ve got to take this thing down to the stable. You might as well stay in, though, Tidball; I’m going your way. So long, you fellows.”

The automobile whizzed off again down Main Street, and disappeared around the corner of College Place. Joe and Jack watched it out of sight and then turned together and passed through the gate, bending their steps toward Sessons Hall at the upper end of the quadrangle. For the first part of the way neither spoke. Then Joe put his hand through the other’s arm and bent forward smilingly until he could see Jack’s flushed face.

“You’re an awful fool, Jack,” he said affectionately.

CHAPTER XX

STOLEN PROPERTY

Erskine met with defeat that afternoon.

Arrowden did pretty much as she pleased; base-hits were as plentiful as errors; the former were to the credit of the visitors, the latter were the property of the home team. When it was over, and the audience had clambered soberly down from the stands to shake their heads disappointedly over the showing of the Purple as they tramped through the golden evening back to the town and the college, Patterson, the manager, slipped his pencil back into his pocket and softly closed the score-book to shut from sight the obnoxious figures, 15 – 3. It had been a veritable Waterloo.

In the locker-house little was said. Every one realized that the team had taken a slump. Hanson stood aside, and “Baldy” Simson became the man of the hour. His was the task of getting the men back into condition, a task requiring patience and vigilance and all the knowledge that many years of experience had brought him. This was no time for fault-finding; on the contrary, Hanson was silent, and “Baldy’s” tone was cheerful and soothing.