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

by Ralph Henry Barbour

  CHAPTER X

  FLIGHT

  When Jack left the house he hesitated a moment at the little gate. Thenhe turned to the left and hurried to Murdoch Street and down that tothe railroad track. He was taking the longest route to the station;but, since his main desire was to avoid meeting any one he knew, itwas also the safest. His battered valise, although by no means full,soon grew heavy and began to bump against his legs at every stride.When he reached the track, what with the aggravating behavior of thevalise and the difficulty of walking over the uneven ties, speed was nolonger possible. He had barely reached the Washington Street crossingwhen a whistle down the track behind him brought consternation. It wasthe 9.22 train, he told himself; and he knew that if he missed thathe would have to wait a whole hour at the station before he could getanother--an hour which might serve to bring Anthony upon him with awealth of unanswerable argument in favor of his return.

  So, after a quick glance over his shoulder in the direction of thewarning blast, he shifted the valise again and set out over the tiesat a run. Once he stumbled and the bag went hurtling down the bank andbrought up against a board fence. When he had recovered it and hadscrambled back to the track the train was but a few hundred yards away.But the station was almost gained now. He retired to a hand-car sidingwhile the engine and its three cars whizzed past him with much grindingof brakes, and then ran on in the wake of dust.

  There was no time to buy a ticket. When he reached the platform and thelast car, the conductor had already swung his hand to the engineer.Jack pushed his valise on to the car-steps and crawled, breathless,after it. Then the train moved again, and a minute later Centerport waslost to sight. Jack, huddled upon the rear platform, saw it disappearwith mingled emotions. Regret was prominent. He wondered at this.Surely, he thought, he had been miserable enough at Erskine to make theparting anything but regretful. And yet, even as he thought that, theidea of leaving the train at the next station and walking back cameto him with strange attractiveness. Anthony would be glad; none elsewould know that he had contemplated flight; he would go back to thetraining-table, secure a place on the nine, and do great things--thingsthat would make the college proud of him. And Gilberth might----

  But at the recollection of Gilberth the plan lost its attractiveness.Jack gritted his teeth and shook his fist toward where the tower ofCollege Hall was still just visible above the tree-tops. Then, havingrecovered his breath, he took up his bag and passed into the car. Itproved to be the smoker and was almost deserted. He selected a seat onthe riverside, placed his valise beside him, and gave himself up tohis thoughts. These were not cheerful. He wondered what his father andmother would say to his return. As for the latter, he could count withcertainty upon her sympathy and support. But his father was different.He was a man with a stern conscience, and one singularly devoid ofthe finer sensibilities. For him the path of duty was always clearlydefined and he trod it unswervingly, no matter what might befall. And,as Jack well knew, he looked for and demanded the same moral couragefrom others that he himself displayed. No, there would be no sympathyforthcoming from his father. Jack could almost hear him now:

  "You had done no wrong, my son. With a clear conscience you had nothingto fear. The wrong was in running away."

  He might, thought Jack, even insist upon his returning. But that hewould not do. He would find work and, as soon as possible, wouldpay back to his father the money wasted upon him at Erskine. He hadintended becoming a teacher. But now that was impossible. Perhaps hecould get employment from Billy Cromwell. But, whatever happened, hewould not, having once reached home, go back to Erskine!

  Had Jack been less busy with his thoughts he might, perchance, havetaken notice of a passenger who sat across the car and a little tothe rear. He was a man of about forty years, with small, clearlycut features, brown eyes, and carefully trimmed mustache and beard.His attire was notably neat. In his mouth was a cigar, in his handsa morning paper, and at his feet a handsome suit-case. Ever sinceJack's advent he had been watching him over the top of his paper witha puzzled frown. The boy's face, seen against the white light of thecar window, expressed every passing emotion, and the passenger acrossthe aisle, who was a good reader of expressions, felt a stirring ofsympathy at the pervading look of despondency he saw.

  Presently the conductor entered, and Jack remembered that he must payhis fare. He felt for the little roll of money that was to take himhome, first in his vest pocket, then in his trousers. Then, while anexpression of bewilderment came over his face, he searched hurriedlyin every pocket he possessed. The conductor came and waited patiently.Jack seized his valise and began to unstrap it. Then he paused andglanced uneasily at the conductor.

  "I can't find my money," he said. "If you'll just give me a minute ortwo--" The other nodded and passed on down the car. Jack opened thevalise and feverishly searched it. But when it was thoroughly upsethe was forced to acknowledge with a sinking heart that the money wasnot there. He had taken it out of the trunk; he remembered doing thatperfectly; he had meant to put it into his vest pocket. But it was notthere.

  He stared blankly out of the window, still searching his clotheshopelessly. Well, he was not going home after all. Fate had intervened.Disappointed and chagrined, he counted the few coins in his trouser'spocket and found that while they would pay his way to the next stationthey would not serve to take him back to Centerport. He blinked hiseyes to keep back the tears. Tears, he reflected miserably, were alwaystrying to crawl out nowadays. And then--

  "What's wrong, Weatherby?" asked a voice over his shoulder, and Jacklooked up with startled eyes into the face of Professor White.

  "What's wrong, Weatherby?"]

  For a moment his surprise kept him silent. And in that moment he sawin the professor's face a kindliness that he had never before noticed.The professor's brown eyes were plainly sympathetic and the professor'slips held a little reassuring smile at their corners. And Jack,wondering more, found his tongue.

  "Well, that is hard luck," said the professor when he had heard thestory. "And you're going home, you say? How much money will it take?"

  "About ten dollars," answered Jack. The other shook his head.

  "That's not much," he replied, "but I'm sorry to say that it's morethan I've got with me. You see, I'm only going to Hampden, threestations up the line, and so didn't bring much. But wouldn't it do ifyou got off at the next station and went back and got your money? Wouldthe delay matter? How long leave have you got?"

  The conductor came back and smiled questioningly at the pair. Jackshook his head.

  "I've got to go on," he muttered.

  "Well, here now, I'll pay your way to Hampden, anyhow. That will giveus time to consider things. Here you are, conductor."

  When the change had been made and the professor was in possession of anelaborate rebate slip, the conductor went off and the professor removedJack's valise from the seat and sat down at the boy's side.

  "How long are you going to be gone?" he asked pleasantly.

  Jack hesitated. Then--

  "I'm not coming back," he answered defiantly.

  "What? Leaving college?"

  Jack nodded.

  "Why, how's that? What's the trouble?" questioned the professor kindly."Nothing wrong at home, I hope?"

  "No, sir."

  "Then what is it?"

  Jack was silent, looking scowlingly out of the window at the flyinglandscape of freshly green hills and meadows with an occasional glimpseof the sparkling river. He would accept the other's help as far asHampden, he decided; from there he would work his way home somehow;perhaps he could steal a ride now and then on the trains.

  "You don't want to tell me, I see," said Professor White. "And Idare say that's natural, Weatherby. You and I have had a coupleof unpleasant conversations, and I suppose the experience doesn'trecommend me as a confident. But you're in some sort of trouble and Ithink you'd better make a clean breast of it and let me help you if Ican.

  "And while we're speaking of former encount
ers, Weatherby, I want totell you that I made a mistake that day down at the coal wharf. I'vegot lots of faults, and one of the worst of them is an inclination tojudge hastily. I accused you of cowardice that day, and I've regrettedit very often since. I can understand how it might be possible for youto have hesitated about going into the river and yet not be guilty ofcowardice in the strict sense. You see, I've given some thought to thematter, after it was a bit too late. I've been watching you since thatday, and I think I made a mistake; I'm certain I did. And I want you toforgive me for the injustice I did you and for the hurt I inflicted.Will you?"

  "It doesn't matter," answered Jack drearily. "You only said what allthe others thought. I guess it did hurt, but I don't mind now; you see,there's been a lot worse since then."

  "Ah!" said the other comprehendingly. "I understand. Don't you thinkyou might tell me something about it, Weatherby?"

  And after a doubtful glance at the professor's face, in which he readonly sympathy, Jack told him. He spoke bitterly, giving free rein tothe pent-up anger and indignation of the past month; and, perhaps,he may be forgiven if unconsciously he exaggerated the tale of histroubles. When he had finished Professor White nodded gravely, andthen, after a momentary silence, asked:

  "How old are you, Weatherby?"

  "Seventeen. I'll be eighteen in July."

  "Well, I'm not going to tell you that the thing is trivial, nor thatwere you older it would appear less tragic. Nothing is trivial thatinfluences our lives, no matter how small it looks; and it is just thethings that happen to us when we are young and receptive that are mostimportant. I said I would help you if I could, and I'm going to. But inorder to do it I must first convince you that I am your friend, and Ifear that's going to be difficult. And," he added, as the train sloweddown for the second station, "what's more, I haven't much time to doit."

  "Friends," said Jack sagely, "always advise you to do things you don'twant to."

  "Yes, I guess that's so," answered the professor, smiling. "And I thinkwhat I'm going to advise will prove me your friend."

  Jack watched the coming and going on the station platform for a minute,then, as the train began to move again, he asked:

  "Would you mind telling me--what it is, sir?"

  "No; it's this." He laid a hand on the boy's shoulder and spokeearnestly. "Come back, Weatherby, and have another try. Wait," hecontinued, as the other started to speak, "let me finish first. I'mnot going to belittle your trouble; it's a big one and it's hard tobear. But you've borne it for a month and more. You can bear it longer,if you try. Make up your mind to it and you'll do it. From what I cansee, Weatherby, you've given up the fight just on the verge of victory.A while back you had the whole college against you; now there is butone fellow actively opposed to you. From what you have told me I cansee that Tidball believes in you, and Perkins, and King. They are allmen of prominence and their views have weight. Hold on a little whilelonger and you'll find that the college has come around to their wayof thinking. If you give up now you're losing a year of your life thatyou can't catch up with again if you live to be a hundred. Stick it outand you're a year nearer your degree. Besides, there are your parents,Weatherby; what are they going to think about it? Maybe they'll sayyou've done right in leaving, but down in their hearts they are goingto be disappointed over this wasted year."

  Jack stared dumbly at his hands, and presently the other went on.

  "Come back, and I'll do everything I can to help you, my boy. Just whatthat will be or what it will amount to, I can't say at this moment; butwhat assistance I can give you may be certain of having. You won't findit an empty promise."

  He paused, and Jack looked up.

  "I wish I'd--wish I might have talked to you before," he said.

  "So do I, Weatherby; but it isn't too late now. I have a suspicion thatyou've come away without signing off. You needn't tell me whether I'mright or wrong. But you may rest assured that there'll be no troubleabout it. To-morrow you and I'll go back together and try it over."

  "But what--where am I going to go now?" asked Jack dismally.

  "Why, you'll come home with me, of course," replied the professor. "Noone need ever know but that you and I came off together. We'll have totake a pretty early train back in the morning, but I guess you won'tmind that. My mother and sister will be very glad to see you, and--Hello, here we are! Grab your bag, Weatherby, and come along."

  "But--" stammered the boy.

  "All right; you can tell me about that when you get outside. Besides,"he laughed, "you've got to get off here, anyhow; your fare is only paidthis far. Hurry up, or we'll both get left!"

  A moment later Jack found himself out on a sunny platform, dodging abaggage-truck and following his hurrying guide through the throng.