The Lucky Seventh

by Ralph Henry Barbour

  CHAPTER IV

  THE TEAM ELECTS ITS CAPTAIN

  There was a full attendance at the organization meeting which assembledin the Merricks' front parlor that evening. Besides Gordon himself, DickLovering, Fudge Shaw, Harry Bryan, who had won his father's consent, andTom Haley, all of whom we have met, there was Lansing White, otherwiseknown as "Lanny," Jack Tappen, Pete Robey, Will Scott, and CurtisWayland. Curtis and Will were inseparable companions. Damon and Pythiaswould have been excellent, if hackneyed, nicknames for the pair. Dickhad once remarked in his quiet way, when the two chums had appeared armin arm on the ball field: "Where there's a Will there's a Way."Thereafter Curtis was called Way, and Dick's pun was handed over to anappreciative public in the "Caught-in-the-Corridor" column of _ThePurple_, the High School monthly. Way and Will were both of an age,which was sixteen, both of the same height to a fraction of an inch,and, perhaps by reason of having been together ever since they were inkindergarten, were so much alike in general appearance, manners, andspeech that they were always mistaken for brothers and not infrequentlyfor twins. Way was a little heavier in build than Will, and had darkbrown hair, whereas Will's was light. For the rest they were much thesame, with brown eyes, short noses, and round, freckled faces. Good,healthy, jolly, normal boys both.

  Pete Robey was fifteen, a lank, dark-eyed fellow, rather diffident andquiet. Jack Tappen was only fourteen, but he was big for his years. Hewas not at all diffident. In fact, Jack had a pretty good opinion ofhimself. He was a clever ball player, and, for that matter, did manythings about as well as the older fellows with whom he associated.

  Lansing White, or Lanny, as he was always called, was fifteen. Every onewho knew him would have assured you earnestly that Lansing White wasdestined for great things. Perhaps they were right. At all events, hehad the fine faculty of making friends on the instant and holding them.There wasn't a kinder-hearted fellow in school, nor one more thoughtfulof others. If a ballot had been taken for the most popular student,Lanny would have won, hands-down, over many a fellow far more prominentin school affairs. He caught for the school nine, played a fine game atleft halfback on the football team, and regularly won his five points ineach of the sprints at the track meetings with Springdale High School.

  In appearance he was rather striking by reason of his hair, which was asnear the color of ripe flax as hair ever gets, and his eyes which wereso dark a brown that they looked black. The contrast between light hairand dark eyes was rather startling. He was always a little too lean, hisparents thought, but his leanness was quite healthy and was due,probably, to the fact that he was always in training for something.

  The nine members of the Clearfield Ball Club sat around the parlor,occupying every available chair and couch, and discussed the projectexhaustively and with enthusiasm. They all agreed that it was thebounden duty of someone to humble the pride of those Rutter's Pointchaps, to whom they had long been in the habit of referring as the SilkStocking Brigade; and they didn't see but what the duty could beperformed by them as well as by any others. Jack Tappen thought theycould attend to it a little better than any others, and so declared.That point agreed on, they discussed ways and means. Everyone thereexcept Fudge and Pete Robey had a High School uniform which it would,they decided, be quite permissible to wear. Fudge declared that he wouldbuy a uniform, and Pete was sure he could borrow one. Gordon'sannouncement that Dick had been tendered and had accepted the positionof manager met with acclaim, and Will and Way, in the same breath,demanded a speech. Dick declined to address the meeting, contentinghimself with reminding the turbulent pair that as manager he had thepower to fine them for misconduct. At which Will and Way, pretending tobe much alarmed, subsided. It was agreed that every member was to payhis own car-fares when the team journeyed from home, and that themanager's expenses were to be provided for by an assessment on each ofone-ninth of the necessary amount. Dick claimed the floor, there tostate that it would probably not be necessary for the others to providehis expenses, and that in any case he would pay his own way unless theteam journeyed a long distance.

  The name of the team was decided on--the Clearfield Baseball Club. HarryBryan was in favor of something with more "snap" to it, something likethe Clearfield Pirates or the Clearfield Giants, but he was defeated.Dick, who had taken the proceedings in hand, then announced that theelection of a captain was in order, and Tom Haley, Fudge, and JackTappen nominated Gordon in unison. The others signified approvalnoisily. Gordon, however, insisted on being heard.

  "You fellows don't have to make me captain," he protested, "just becauseI started the thing going. It wasn't my idea, anyhow; it was BertCable's. I'll be captain if you really want me, but I think some of therest of you would be better, and I nominate Tom."

  "Nominate all you like," grunted Tom Haley. "I decline."

  "I nominate Lanny," said Will Scott.

  "Second the nomination!" piped up Way.

  "Much obliged, fellows," said Lanny, "but I'd rather not. Let's makeGordon captain and not be scared out of it. All in favor make a lot ofnoise!"

  There was a lot of noise, a very great deal of noise, and Dicklaughingly declared Gordon elected. "Speech! Speech!" shouted theirrepressible Fudge, beating a tattoo on the hardwood floor with hisheels.

  "Shut up, Fudge! And stop denting the floor with those hob-nailed shoesof yours. I saw Mr. Brent this morning, and asked him if we could usethe field as long as it wasn't wanted for anything else, and he said wecould. So I propose that if the Point plays us a return game we play onour own grounds. Now, about practice. You fellows know we've got to gettogether and have a good lot of real work before we run up against thosePoint fellows. So I say let's have practice every afternoon next week atfour-thirty. Maybe after next week every other day will do, but we don'twant to let those silk-sox chaps beat us, and so we've got to practicehard. Will all you fellows agree to come to practice every afternoon?That doesn't mean Tom, because he's got a lot of work to do, and,besides, we don't need him so much. He will come as often as he can. Butthe rest of us ought to get out every day."

  "That's right," agreed Jack Tappen. "If we're going into this thing,let's go into it with both feet. There's no reason I can see why weshouldn't have as good a baseball team as there is in this part of thestate. We all know the game pretty well----"

  "Oh, you right-fielder!" exclaimed Fudge.

  "----And most of us have played together this Spring. And with Gordonfor captain we ought to just everlastingly wipe up the county!"

  Loud applause greeted this enthusiastic statement, and Fudge began histattoo again, but was cautioned by a well-aimed pillow which, narrowlyavoiding a vase on a side table, eclipsed his joyous countenance for aninstant.

  "I guess," said Lanny, "that we can all get out and practice; can't we,fellows? In fact, Gordie, it might be a good plan to have it understoodthat any fellow not turning up, without a real, genuine excuse, is topay a fine."

  "How much?" demanded Fudge anxiously.

  "Half a dollar," suggested Will.

  "A quarter," said Jack.

  "A quarter's enough, I guess," said Dick. "How about it? Everyoneagree?"

  "Who's going to decide whether the excuse is a good one?" inquiredFudge.

  "Dick," said Gordon.

  Fudge sighed with relief. "All right. Dick's a friend of mine."

  "Then Wednesday at four-thirty, fellows," said Gordon, "and bring yourbats. By the way, there's one thing we've forgotten: We'll have to buyballs. Suppose we all chip in a half to start with?"

  That was agreed to, and the meeting was served with lemonade and cakesand adjourned, everyone departing save Dick, Lanny, and Fudge. These,with Gordon, went out to the porch and took possession of the frontsteps. There was a fine big moon riding in the sky, and, sinceClearfield was economical and did not illuminate the streets in theresidence districts when the moon was on duty, it had no competition.The leafy shadows of the big elm fell across the porch, blue-black,trembling as a tiny breeze moved the branches above. Dick lean
ed againsta pillar and laid his crutches between his knees, and the others groupedabout him. Perhaps the refreshments had worked a somnolent effect onthem, or perhaps the great lopsided moon stared them into silence. Atall events, nothing was said for a minute or two, even Fudge, usually anextremely chatty youth, having for once no observations to offer. It wasGordon who finally broke the stillness.

  "Some moon," he said dreamily.

  "Great!" agreed Lanny. "You can see the man in it plainly to-night."

  "Supposing," said Fudge thoughtfully, "supposing you were terribly big,miles and miles high, and you had a frightfully huge bat, couldn't youget a d-d-dandy swipe at it!"

  "You could make a home run, Fudge!" laughed Lanny. "Only you'd have tohit pretty quick. Why, if you were tall enough to reach the moon, itwould be going past you faster than one of Tom's straight ones, Fudge!"

  "Quite a bit faster," agreed Gordon. "Still, it would be 'in thegroove,' and if you took a good swing and got your eye on it you couldeverlastingly bust up the game!"

  "I think," replied Fudge, who had literary yearnings, "I'll write astory about a giant who did that."

  "Well, there are some pretty good hitters among the 'Giants,'" commentedDick gravely. Fudge snorted.

  "You know wh-wh-what I mean!" he said severely.

  "Of course he does," agreed Lanny. "Dick, you oughtn't to poke fun atFudge's great thoughts. Fudge is a budding genius, Fudge is, and ifyou're not careful you'll discourage him. Remember his story about thefellow who won the mile race in two minutes and forty-one seconds, Dick?That was a peach of a----"

  "I didn't!" declared Fudge passionately. "The p-p-printer made amistake! I've told you that a th-th-th-thousand t-t-times! I wroteit----"

  "Don't spoil it," begged Dick. "It was a much better story the way _ThePurple_ printed it. Any fellow might run the mile in four-something, butto do it under three shows real ability, Fudge. Besides, what's a minuteor two in a story?"

  "Aw, cu-cu-cut it out!" grumbled Fudge. "You f-f-fellows m-m-m-m----"

  "You'll never do it, Fudge," said Gordon sympathetically. "I've noticedthat if you don't make it the first two or three times you----"

  "----M-make me tired!" concluded Fudge breathlessly but triumphantly.

  "Snappy work!" approved Lanny. "If at first you don't succeed----"

  "T-t-try, try again," assisted Gordon. Fudge muttered something bothunintelligible and uncomplimentary, and Gordon turned to Dick: "How didyou get on with Mrs. Thingamabob at the Point, Dick?" he asked. "What'sthe kid like?"

  "All right. The name is Townsend. They're at the hotel. The boy isthirteen and he's--he's a bit spoiled, I guess. There's an olderbrother, too, a fellow about seventeen. He confided to me that I'd havea beast of a time with the youngster. His name--the brother's--is LoringTownsend. Anybody know him?"

  There was no response, and Dick continued:

  "He seemed rather a nice chap, big brother did. As for the kid--his nameis Harold, by the way----"

  "Fancy names, what?" said Gordon. "Loring and Harold."

  "No fancier than your own," commented Fudge, still a trifle disgruntled."Gordon! Gee, that's a sweet name for a grown-up fellow!"

  "Not as sweet as Fudge, though," answered Gordon.

  "That's not my n-n-name!"

  "There, you're getting him excited again," said Lanny soothingly. "Moveout of the moonlight, Fudge. It's affecting your disposition. What aboutthe kid, Dick? Is he the one you're going to tutor?"

  "Yes; he's entered for Rifle Point in the Autumn, and he's way behind ontwo or three things. The worst of it is that he doesn't seem veryenthusiastic about catching up. I guess I'll have my work cut out forme. The big brother told me that I was to take no nonsense from youngHarold, and that he'd back me up, but--I don't know. I guess Mrs.Townsend wouldn't approve of harsh measures. She's trying her best tospoil the kid, I'd say. I'm to go over five mornings a week, beginningMonday."

  "I'm glad I don't have to do it," commented Gordon. "I'll bet the kid isa young terror, Dick."

  Dick smiled. "He is--something of the sort. But I guess he and I willget on all right after a while. And if he's got it in him to learn, hewill learn," Dick added grimly. "That is, unless his mother----"

  "She's bound to," said Lanny. "They all do. Inside of a week she'll betelling you that you're working her darling too hard."

  "How do you know so much about it?" challenged Fudge. "Anyone wouldthink you were a hundred years old!"

  Lanny laughed. "I've kept my eyes open, Fudge, sweet child. Mothers arepretty fine institutions; no fellow should be without one; but they aremost of them much too easy on us. And you know that as well as I do."

  "Mine isn't," murmured Fudge regretfully. "She's worse than my father atmaking me do things!"

  "Oh, well, you're an exceptional case," said Gordon gently. "When afellow shows criminal tendencies like yours, Fudge----"

  "Yes, writing stories at your age! You ought to be ashamed!" Lanny spokewith deep severity. Fudge only chuckled.

  "Some day," he announced gleefully, "I'm going to write a story and putyou fellows all into it. Then you'll wish you hadn't been so fresh. Theonly thing is"--and his voice fell disconsolately--"I don't suppose, ifI told what I know about you, I could get it published!"

  "Deal gently with us, Fudge," begged Dick humbly. "Remember, we used tobe friends. I must be getting along, fellows. Coming over to-morrow,Gordie?"

  "Yes, I'll drop around in the morning. We've got to get busy and sendout some challenges. Who can we get to play with us, Lanny, besidesLesterville and, maybe, Plymouth?"

  "I don't know. I think there are plenty of teams, though, if we can findthem."

  "They have a team at Logan," said Fudge, "but I guess they're older thanwe are."

  "What do we care?" asked Gordon. "Logan's a good way off, though, and Isuppose it would cost like the dickens to get there."

  "Make them come over here," suggested Lanny.

  "'Good-night,' responded Gordon and Fudge"]

  "Yes, but then they'd want their expenses guaranteed."

  "Look here," observed Dick, "why couldn't we charge admission to some ofthe games after we got started? I dare say quite a lot of folks wouldpay a quarter to see a good game."

  "They might," conceded Lanny. "We could try it, anyway. If we could get,say, a hundred admissions, we'd have twenty-five dollars, and then wecould pay the expenses of any team around here. That's a bully idea,Dick. As a manager you're all to the good."

  "I thank you," replied Dick, setting his crutches under his arms. "We'lltalk it over to-morrow. You come over, too, Lanny; and Fudge if he isnot in the throes of literary composition."

  "I'll walk around with you," said Lanny. "It's too bully a night to goto bed, anyway. Good-night, fellows."

  "Good-night," responded Gordon and Fudge. "Good-night, Dick."

  They watched the two as long as they were in sight in the white radianceof the moon, and then:

  "They're two of the finest fellows in the world," said Fudge warmly."And wouldn't Dick be a wonder if he was like the rest of us, Gordie?"

  "Y--yes," replied Gordon thoughtfully, "only--sometimes I think thatmaybe if Dick was like the rest of us, Fudge, he might not be thesplendid chap he is."

  Fudge objected to that, but afterward, returning home by way of the backfence, he thought it over. "I suppose," he told himself, as he paused onhis porch for a final look at the moon, "what Gordie means is thattribulations ennoble our characters." That struck him as a fine phrase,and he made a mental note of it. Still later, as he lay in bed with themoonlight illumining his room, he began to plan a perfectly corkingstory around the phrase, with Dick as the hero. Unfortunately, perhaps,for American literature, sleep claimed him before he had completed it.