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

by Ralph Henry Barbour

  CHAPTER XVIII

  JACK AT SECOND

  Half a mile beyond Warrener's Grove, the wooded bluff at the end ofMurdoch Street, the river makes in the shore an indentation which isknown as the Cove. It is not an attractive body of water. At some timein the past there was a brick-yard there, and even yet the remains oftwo weather-beaten sheds and a couple of high troughs in which the claywas mixed may be seen. During a spring freshet the river went over itsbanks and flowed into the pits left by the excavations. Later, thewater and the frost connected the stagnant pond with the river; rushesgained foothold in the clay bottom and the old quarry took on theappearance of a natural cove. Save in one or two places the depth isbut slight, and, in consequence, the Cove offers warmer bathing in thespring than does the river. On the side nearest the railroad there is astretch of gradually shallowing water that answers all the purposes ofa beach. It was here, then, that Anthony and Jack, during the latterpart of May, came almost every morning, and, exchanging their clothesfor gymnasium trunks, played the parts of teacher and pupil.

  The first time that Jack found the cold water lapping his knees he wentpale with terror, and would have fled ignominiously had not Anthonyseized and encouraged him. In the end, he allowed the other to persuadehim to remain where he was and, after gingerly splashing himself withwater, watch his teacher a few yards beyond illustrate the method ofswimming. Anthony realized that he had a task before him that requireda deal of diplomacy, and he carefully avoided saying or doing anythingto 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 andlegs. Anthony strove to teach confidence first of all, and it was notuntil Jack could allow him away from his side that Anthony set aboutthe easier part of his task. As soon as Jack could struggle for a fewstrokes through the water Anthony taught him to float. And it was notuntil Jack could float in every possible position that the swimminglessons were resumed. Then progress was rapid. By the middle of JuneJack could swim out to a rush-covered raft which had been anchoredabout a hundred feet from shore by enterprising duck-hunters. At firstAnthony kept beside him; later, they had races in which Anthony leftJack half-way to the goal; in the end, Jack found courage to swim tothe raft and back by himself. But, as I have said, that was not untilJune was half over, and before that other things had happened.

  It was on the fourth of the month, a Wednesday, that Jack, for thefirst time, played a game through as second-baseman. Erskine'sopponents were the Dexter nine, a hard-hitting aggregation ofpreparatory schoolboys, and to meet them Hanson and Perkins put in ateam largely composed of substitutes. This team, in batting order, wasas 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 beforethe game was over Lowe, too, had been replaced, Showell going in forhim. Jack's playing that afternoon raised his stock fully a hundredper cent. He was in fine fettle--he had never felt better in his lifethan he had since he began his morning dips in the cold waters of theCove--and covered the second of what Anthony had called the salt-bagsin 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 exceptionof Perkins, who knocked out a home run in the sixth, able to hitthe Dexter pitcher for more than one base. In the fifth inning histhree-bagger was clean and timely, bringing in two runs and placing himwhere he was able to score a minute after on a passed ball.

  Dexter made things extremely interesting for a while in the seventhinning, getting in two runs and filling the bases again directlyafterward. It was Jack, then, who, in a measure, saved the day. Withthe bags all occupied, Dexter's catcher went to bat and lined out a hotball just to the right of King. There was one out. King got one handon the ball, but failed to stop it. Jack, who had run forward to backhim up, found the ball in the air and threw quickly and true to theplate in time to put out the runner. Then Perkins, without more than asecond's pause, returned it to Jack, who was again covering second, andJack found the Dexter catcher two feet off base.

  The game ended with the score 5 to 2, and of those five tallies twowere opposite Jack's name. The other three belonged to Perkins andNorthup. Jack's record that day included four put-outs and fiveassists, and held no errors. Perhaps it was the consciousness of havingdone a good afternoon's work that put him in such a state of elationthat composing verse alone seemed to satisfy him. When half pastseven arrived and he had not appeared in Anthony's room, Anthony wentin 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 hehad his back against the wall. Then he waved his pad triumphantly overhis head. "It goes to the tune of 'John Brown's Body'; you suggestedthat, you know; and I didn't have any trouble at all; and the rhymesare all right, too, I think! Now, then!" And Jack, beating time withhis 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 grave Of 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." Hetook the paper and, turning it to the light, began to hum, then singthe words to the old marching song, nodding his head in time to themusic. Anthony had about as much melody in his voice as a raven, butJack, watching and listening eagerly from the bed, thought he sangbeautifully, and was enormously pleased with the production. When thefinal refrain was reached he joined his own voice, rocking back andforth in ecstasy, and the concert ended in a final triumphant burst ofmel-- Well, no, not melody; let us say sound.

  "Do you like it?" Jack asked, as eager for praise of his lines as anypoet.

  "Great!" Anthony answered. "And I should think it would do for afootball song, too, wouldn't it?"

  "Would it?" cried Jack. "Yes, I believe it would! That's fine, isn'tit? Of course, I don't want you to think I'm stuck up, Anthony, but Ireally 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 mindcopying it off for me? I write such an awful fist, you know."

  So they adjourned to Anthony's room, and Jack leaned anxiously overhis friend's shoulder while the lines were copied in the most carefulof copperplate chirography, folded, sealed, and addressed. Then Jackbought a one-cent stamp from Anthony and took the letter to thepost-office, marching back through the warm June evening humming "Gloryto the Purple," and in imagination leading the cheering section at theRobinson game.

  After he had gone to sleep he dreamed that he had been appointedpoet-laureate of Erskine College, and was being driven along MainStreet in Gilberth's automobile between serried ranks of applaudingstudents and townfolk, his brow adorned with a golden fillet oflaurel-leaves. The automobile was extremely spa
cious, since it heldbesides himself not only the faculty, but Anthony and Joe Perkins andthe entire baseball team. When he acknowledged the plaudits of themultitude he had to hold his laurel wreath on with one hand, whichannoyed him a great deal. In the end the president solved the problemby tying it on with a red silk handkerchief. Then, at the moment of hisgreatest triumph, Showell arose from somewhere and shouted in a voicethat drowned the cheers: "He didn't compose it! The writing was AnthonyTidball's! I saw it!" Jack tried to deny the awful slander, but nonewould listen to him, and he awoke breathless and despairing, to findthe sunlight streaming in the end window and the robins singing matinsto the early day.