CHAPTER VII
AT THE BATTING NETS
Meanwhile Erskine had won a victory over Robinson, a victory which didnot, perhaps, occasion as much enthusiasm as would have a triumph onthe gridiron or the diamond, but which, nevertheless, pleased everybodygreatly, and added new laurels to the wreath, encircling the brow ofAnthony Zeno Tidball. Erskine won the debate. The result was never indoubt after Anthony delivered his argument, and when the last wordhad been said the judges did not even leave their seats, but, after amoment of whispered conference, awarded the victory to the visitors.
The debaters and their small company of supporters did not return toCenterport until noon the next day, and long before that the morningpapers had arrived and the college at large had proudly read theiraccount of the contest. That explains why when Anthony, attired in along, yellowish plaid ulster of great antiquity, and carrying hisnightgown and toothbrush wrapped in a piece of brown paper, lurchedfrom the train to the station platform and looked about him, his jawdropped in ludicrous dismay, and he made a hurried effort to retreat.But his companions were crowding down behind him and he was forcedforward into the ungentle hands of the cheering students, who filledthe platform. Somehow, he never knew quite how, he was thrust andlifted to a baggage truck, from which, since his legs were securelypinioned by several enthusiastic jailers, he found it impossibleto make his escape. So he hugged his bundle desperately and beamedgood-humoredly about him, recognizing the advisability of making thebest of things. The other debaters were hustled to his side in a wildmedley of cheers, and then, clutching each other madly in an effortto maintain their balance, they were wheeled up and down the longplatform in the vortex of a swirling throng and cheered to the echo,individually and collectively. For his part, Anthony was filled with agreat relief when the train with its long line of grinning faces at thewindows drew away, and with a greater relief when one of the occupantsof the truck, losing his hold, tumbled between the framework, and sobrought the triumphal procession to an end.
The prey were allowed to escape, and Anthony drew his long ulsterabout his thin shanks and scuttled ungracefully into Town Lane and soout of the rabble of still cheering students. But he hadn't escapedJack, for that youth, somewhat out of breath, overtook him before hehad reached the corner and showered fragmentary congratulations uponhim.
"I got up--almost before--light," panted Jack, bravely trying tokeep up with Anthony's long strides, "and went--down and--gota--paper--and--read--read-- Oh, don't go so fast, please!"
Anthony moderated his pace and put an arm affectionately over theother's shoulders.
"Did you?" he asked. "Well, now, that was real friendly."
"And when I--saw--that you'd won--I danced a jig in--the--middle ofMain Street!"
"And haven't got your breath back yet?" laughed Anthony.
"But--aren't you glad?" asked Jack.
"I should say so," answered the other. "So tickled that I don't mindthe money it cost."
Another event, important to a large part of the college, took placea day or two later. March, which had raged in with a big snow-storm,relented and attempted the role of April. The ground dried and becamefirm and springy and little warm breezes almost induced one to believethat he had somehow lost track of the months and had torn one too fewleaves from his calendar. Erskine Field, given over during the winterto snow and winds, clothed itself in a new green livery and suddenlybecame the Mecca for more than half the college. One Thursday morningthe following welcome notice hung in the window of Butler's bookstore:
UNIVERSITY BASEBALL.--Outdoor practise on the Field at 4 sharp. Candidates must bring their own togs.
Jack went out to the field early and, having got into his baseballclothes, threw his white sweater over his back, and sat down onthe steps of the locker-house in the sunshine. Many fellows passedhim, going in and out of the building, some according him a word ofgreeting, others a mere nod, while still others pretended not tosee him. But Jack was beyond slights to-day. The spring was in hisblood and he would have liked to throw himself down on the grass androll over like a colt for mere joy of living. Instead, he only beata restless tattoo with his heels and watched the passers. Presentlythe varsity squad trotted out; King, who played left field andwas substitute pitcher; Billings, third-baseman; "Wally" Stiles,second-baseman; Knox, last year's shortstop and substitute pitcher;"Teddy" Motter, crack first-baseman; Lowe, center-fielder, and severalmore, with Gilberth emerging last of all in talk with Joe Perkins.
Jack watched Gilberth as he went by, much as a cat watches a mousebeyond its present reach. He had a score to even with Tracy Gilberth,and he was convinced that in good time the opportunity would come tohim to even it. Meanwhile he waited patiently, observing Gilberth likea calm, inscrutable Fate. Gilberth had a firm grasp on the pitcher'splace, while Jack was only one of the second squad, and so, of late,their paths seldom crossed, and the senior had had no chance to giveexpression to his sentiments regarding the freshman. Of this Jackwas glad, since Gilberth's contemptuous glances roused his hatred asnothing else could.
The varsity squad took possession of the diamond and began practising.Presently Bissell, the varsity center-fielder, made his appearance andtook the second squad in charge. Bissell was out of the game for thewhile with a sprained ankle, and Hanson, the head coach, had placedthe second squad under his wing. There were sixteen of them in all,for the most part upper classmen who had failed to make the varsitythe year before, with a sprinkling of sophomores and two freshmen.The freshmen were Jack and a small, wiry chap, named Clover, who wastrying for shortstop. Bissell led the way to the batting nets and soonthey were hard at work. A third squad, made up of some twenty more orless hopeless candidates, many of them freshmen who would later formthe nucleus of their class nine, were occupying an improvised diamondat the farther end of the football field. The scene was animated andinteresting. The sharp crack of bat meeting ball, the shrill cries ofthe coachers, and the low thud of flying spheres against padded glovesfilled the air.
Jack had just finished his first turn at bat by sending a hot grounderacross the grass, and had taken his place at the end of the line againwhen he heard an authoritative voice addressing Bissell, and lookedaround to find the head coach standing by.
"Haven't you got a man who can pitch better than that, Bissell?" askedthe coach.
Bissell surveyed the candidates doubtfully and the man who waspitching, quailing under the disapproving eye of the coach, threw hisnext ball over the batsman's head and so completed his disgrace. Thehead coach was a small man, small in stature and small of limb andfeature, but possessed of a shrewd and sharp brown eye that was theterror of shirking candidates. He was unmistakably good-looking, wasHanson--his full name was Alfred Ward Hanson--and had the facultyof commanding instant respect, rather a difficult feat for a smallman. He was aided there, however, by a reputation for wonderfulplaying; nothing commands the respect and allegiance of the soldieror the athlete as does past prowess, and an army officer or collegecoach whose history contains valorous deeds is seldom troubled withinsubordination or discouraged by half-heartedness in the ranks. Hansonwas liked, respected, admired, and--feared.
"You must have somebody here that's able to pitch a straight ball,"continued the coach.
"There ought to be," replied Bissell. "How about it, you fellows? Canany of you pitch?"
There was a moment's silence. Undoubtedly several of them could, butwith Hanson's dissatisfied gaze upon them they hesitated to make knowntheir accomplishment. It was Jack who spoke first.
"I can pitch some," he said, in matter-of-fact tones, stepping out ofthe line. "I'll try, if you like."
"Go ahead then," said Hanson. "It isn't necessary to pitch curves; justget an occasional ball over the plate."
The head coach went over to the other net and Jack took the place ofthe retired pitcher. He hadn't tried pitching since the summer and hisfirst ball went very wide. The line of waiting batsmen grinned; someeven laughed audibly.
"That
's a great deal better," remarked one of them with fine sarcasm,and the laugh became general.
"That'll do, Showell," exclaimed Bissell. "We don't need your opinion."Showell, a junior, and the fellow whom Jack had ousted, grinnedsheepishly under the amused glances of the others and Jack settleddown to business. After a few poor balls he got his hand in again andBissell nodded approvingly. One after another the candidates took theirplaces in front of the net and stayed there until they had made cleanhits. Jack did not attempt to puzzle them, for at this time of year,despite the practise in the cage, batting work was still pretty poor.He delivered straight balls as slow as possible and the line movedalong quickly. When Showell took his place, however, Jack rememberedhis sarcastic remark and resolved to make the former pitcher earn hishit. He attempted no curves or drops, but sent the first ball verystraight over the square of wood that did duty as a plate. But if itwas straight it was also swift, so swift that Showell merely looked atit go by and then glanced inquiringly at Jack as he tossed it back tohim.
He gripped his bat afresh then, and waited the next ball confidently.It came, and was, if anything, swifter than the one before. Showellstruck at it hard, but was half a foot too late. The watchers began toguess what was up and looked on interestedly.
"Shorten your swing, Showell," directed Bissell. "You were way too latethen."
Showell's face took on a deep red and he gritted his teeth as Jackslowly and calmly threw up his arms for the next delivery. Again theball came straight and fast over the plate and this time Showell struckan instant too soon and the sphere glanced up off his bat, boundedagainst the hood of the net, and came down on his head ere he couldduck. He picked it out of the dust and tossed it back with no pleasantexpression. The line was grinning appreciatingly by this time, butJack's face showed neither amusement nor interest. Again Showell struckand missed miserably.
"What are you pitching, Weatherby?" Bissell asked suspiciously.
"Just straight balls," answered Jack, simulating surprise.
"Well, now look here, Showell," said the acting coach, "do try andremember what you've been taught. Give me the bat." Bissell took theother's place. "Don't stand as though you were going to run away. Facethe plate; if you're hit you've got your base. Now, watch me. Allright, Weatherby."
Jack sent him a fairly fast ball, and Bissell took it neatly on the endof his stick and sent it sailing in a short flight toward right field.
"You see, Showell? Swing back easily and don't try to slug the ball. Ifyou swing hard you miss your balance nine times out of ten. Bring thebat around easily on a line with the ball, hold it firmly and you'vegot your hit. Try it again, please."
Showell did try it again and struck a palpable foul. Once more he triedand missed entirely. By this time he was as mad as a hatter.
"I can't hit them unless he sends them over the plate," he growled,eying Jack aggressively.
"You need to learn how to bat," said a voice behind him. "I guess itwould do you good to have a term with the third squad."
He looked around into the face of Hanson, who unnoticed, had beenwatching his work for several minutes. He subsided and again faced thepitcher. But Jack had no desire to bring about Showell's removal tothe third squad, and so sent him a slow ball that he could not helphitting. When Showell had yielded his bat to the next man and steppedaway Hanson turned to Bissell.
"Who's that fellow?" he asked.
"Showell, a junior."
"Junior? No, no; I mean the youngster that's pitching."
"Oh, that's Weatherby, a freshman."
"Weatherby? Oh, yes." He watched Jack send in a couple more balls andthen turned to Bissell again. "You'd better let him keep on pitching,"he said. "Seems to me he's rather promising. What do you think?"
"I've never seen him pitch until to-day," answered Bissell. "But heseems to be able to send in good, clean, straight balls. I don'tsuppose he knows much about anything else, though."
"Well, keep your eye on him," said Hanson. "Can't have too manypitchers, and that chap looks as though he might learn."
Weatherby's Inning: A Story of College Life and Baseball Page 7
