The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  By way of variety, the lambasting Canadians commenced to lambast a few over the hills and far away, which chased Deerfoot and me until our tongues lolled out.

  Every time a run crossed the plate the motley crowd howled, roared, danced and threw up their hats. The members of the batting team pranced up and down the side lines, giving a splendid imitation of cannibals celebrating the occasion of a feast.

  Once Snead stooped down to trap the “rabbit,” and it slipped through his legs, for which his comrades jeered him unmercifully. Then a brawny batter sent up a tremendously high fly between short and third.

  “You take it!” yelled Gillinger to Bane.

  “You take it!” replied the Crab, and actually walked backward. That ball went a mile high. The sky was hazy, gray, the most perplexing in which to judge a fly ball. An ordinary fly gave trouble enough in the gauging.

  Gillinger wandered around under the ball for what seemed an age. It dropped as swiftly as a rocket shoots upward. Gillinger went forward in a circle, then sidestepped, and threw up his broad hands. He misjudged the ball, and it hit him fairly on the head and bounced almost to where Doran stood at second.

  Our big captain wilted. Time was called. But Gillinger, when he came to, refused to leave the game and went back to third with a lump on his head as large as a goose egg.

  Every one of his teammates was sorry, yet every one howled in glee. To be hit on the head was the unpardonable sin for a professional.

  Old man Hathaway gradually lost what little speed he had, and with it his nerve. Every time he pitched the “rabbit” he dodged. That was about the funniest and strangest thing ever seen on a ball field. Yet it had an element of tragedy.

  Hathaway’s expert contortions saved his head and body on divers occasions, but presently a low bounder glanced off the grass and manifested an affinity for his leg.

  We all knew from the crack and the way the pitcher went down that the “rabbit” had put him out of the game. The umpire called time, and Merritt came running on the diamond.

  “Hard luck, old man,” said the manager. “That’ll make a green and yellow spot all right. Boys, we’re still two runs to the good. There’s one out, and we can win yet. Deerfoot, you’re as badly crippled as Hathaway. The bench for yours. Hooker will go to center, and I’ll pitch.”

  Merritt’s idea did not strike us as a bad one. He could pitch, and he always kept his arm in prime condition. We welcomed him into the fray for two reasons—because he might win the game, and because he might be overtaken by the baseball Nemesis.

  While Merritt was putting on Hathaway’s baseball shoes, some of us endeavored to get the “rabbit” away from the umpire, but he was too wise.

  Merritt received the innocent-looking ball with a look of mingled disgust and fear, and he summarily ordered us to our positions.

  Not far had we gone, however, when we were electrified by the umpire’s sharp words:

  “Naw! Naw, you don’t. I saw you change the ball I gave you fer one in your pocket! Naw! You don’t come enny of your American dodges on us! Gimmee thet ball, and you use the other, or I’ll stop the game.”

  Wherewith the shrewd umpire took the ball from Merritt’s hand and fished the “rabbit” from his pocket. Our thwarted manager stuttered his wrath. “Y-you be-be-wh-whiskered y-yap! I’ll g-g-give—”

  What dire threat he had in mind never materialized, for he became speechless. He glowered upon the cool little umpire, and then turned grandly toward the plate.

  It may have been imagination, yet I made sure Merritt seemed to shrink and grow smaller before he pitched a ball. For one thing the plate was uphill from the pitcher’s box, and then the fellow standing there loomed up like a hill and swung a bat that would have served as a wagon tongue. No wonder Merritt evinced nervousness. Presently he whirled and delivered the ball.

  Bing!

  A dark streak and a white puff of dust over second base showed how safe that hit was. By dint of manful body work, Hooker contrived to stop the “rabbit” in mid-center. Another run scored. Human nature was proof against this temptation, and Merritt’s players tendered him manifold congratulations and dissertations.

  “Grand, you old skinflint, grand!”

  “There was a two-dollar bill stickin’ on thet hit. Why didn’t you stop it?”

  “Say, Merritt, what little brains you’ve got will presently be ridin’ on the ‘rabbit.’”

  “You will chase up these exhibition games!”

  “Take your medicine now. Ha! Ha! Ha!”

  After these merciless taunts, and particularly after the next slashing hit that tied the score, Merritt looked appreciably smaller and humbler.

  He threw up another ball, and actually shied as it neared the plate.

  The giant who was waiting to slug it evidently thought better of his eagerness as far as that pitch was concerned, for he let it go by.

  Merritt got the next ball higher. With a mighty swing, the batsman hit a terrific liner right at the pitcher.

  Quick as lightning, Merritt wheeled, and the ball struck him with the sound of two boards brought heavily together with a smack.

  Merritt did not fall; he melted to the ground and writhed while the runners scored with more tallies than they needed to win.

  What did we care! Justice had been done us, and we were unutterably happy. Crabe Bane stood on his head; Gillinger began a war dance; old man Hathaway hobbled out to the side lines and whooped like an Indian; Snead rolled over and over in the grass. All of us broke out into typical expressions of baseball frenzy, and individual ones illustrating our particular moods.

  Merritt got up and made a dive for the ball. With face positively flaming he flung it far beyond the merry crowd, over into a swamp. Then he limped for the bench. Which throw ended the most memorable game ever recorded to the credit of the “rabbit.”

  FALSE COLORS (1920)

  “Fate has decreed more bad luck for Salisbury in Saturday’s game with Bellville. It has leaked out that our rivals will come over strengthened by a ‘ringer,’ no less than Yale’s star pitcher, Wayne. We saw him shut Princeton out in June, in the last game of the college year, and we are not optimistic in our predictions as to what Salisbury can do with him. This appears a rather unfair procedure for Bellville to resort to. Why couldn’t they come over with their regular team? They have won a game, and so have we; both games were close and brilliant; the deciding game has roused unusual interest. We are inclined to resent Bellville’s methods as unsportsmanlike. All our players can do is to go into this game on Saturday and try the harder to win.”

  Wayne laid down the Salisbury Gazette, with a little laugh of amusement, yet feeling a vague, disquieting sense of something akin to regret.

  “Pretty decent of that chap not to roast me,” he soliloquized.

  Somewhere he had heard that Salisbury maintained an unsalaried team. It was notorious among college athletes that the Bellville Club paid for the services of distinguished players. And this in itself rather inclined Wayne to sympathize with Salisbury. He knew something of the struggles of a strictly amateur club to cope with its semi-professional rivals.

  As he was sitting there, idly tipped back in a comfortable chair, dreaming over some of the baseball disasters he had survived before his college career, he saw a young man enter the lobby of the hotel, speak to the clerk, and then turn and come directly toward the window where Wayne was sitting.

  “Are yon Mr. Wayne, the Yale pitcher?” he asked eagerly. He was a fair-haired, clean-cut young fellow, and his voice rang pleasantly.

  “Guilty,” replied Wayne.

  “My name’s Huling. I’m captain of the Salisbury nine. Just learned you were in town and are going to pitch against us tomorrow. Won’t you walk out into the grounds with me now? You might want to warm up a little.”

  “Thank you, yes, I will. Guess I won’t need my suit. I’ll just limber up, and give my arm a good rub.”

  It struck Wayne before they had walked far that Hu
ling was an amiable and likable chap. As the captain of the Salisbury nine, he certainly had no reason to be agreeable to the Morristown “ringer,” even though Wayne did happen to be a famous Yale pitcher.

  The field was an oval, green as an emerald, level as a billiard table and had no fences or stands to obstruct the open view of the surrounding wooded country. On each side of the diamond were rows of wooden benches, and at one end of the field stood a little clubhouse.

  Wayne took off his coat, and tossed a ball for a while to an ambitious youngster, and then went into the clubhouse, where Huling introduced him to several of his players. After a good rubdown, Wayne thanked Huling for his courtesy, and started out, intending to go back to town.

  “Why not stay to see us practice?” asked the captain. “We’re not afraid you’ll size up our weaknesses. As a matter of fact, we don’t look forward to any hitting stunts tomorrow, eh, Burns? Burns, here, is our leading hitter, and he’s been unusually noncommittal since he heard who was going to pitch for Bellville.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t give a whole lot for my prospects of a home run tomorrow,” said Burns, with a laugh.

  Wayne went outside, and found a seat in the shade. A number of urchins had trooped upon the green field, and carriages and motors were already in evidence. By the time the players came out of the dressing room, ready for practice, there was quite a little crowd in attendance.

  Despite Wayne’s hesitation, Huling insisted upon introducing him to friends, and finally hauled him up to a big touring car full of girls. Wayne, being a Yale pitcher, had seen several thousand pretty girls, but the group in that automobile fairly dazzled him. And the last one to whom Huling presented him—with the words: “Dorothy, this is Mr. Wayne, the Yale pitcher, who is to play with Bellville tomorrow; Mr. Wayne, my sister”—was the girl he had known he would meet some day.

  “Climb up, Mr. Wayne. We can make room,” invited Miss Huling.

  Wayne thought the awkwardness with which he found a seat beside her was unbecoming to a Yale senior. But, considering she was the girl he had been expecting to discover for years, his clumsiness bespoke the importance of the event. The merry laughter of the girls rang in his ears. Presently, a voice detached itself from the others, and came floating softly to him.

  “Mr. Wayne, so you’re going to wrest our laurels from us?” asked Miss Huling.

  “I don’t know—I’m not infallible—I’ve been beaten.”

  “When? Not this season?” she inquired quickly, betraying a knowledge of his record that surprised and pleased him. “Mr. Wayne, I was at the Polo Grounds on June fifteenth.”

  Her white hand lightly touched the Princeton pin at her neck. Wayne roused suddenly out of his trance. The girl was a Princeton girl! The gleam of her golden hair, the flash of her blue eyes, became clear in sight.

  “I’m very pleased to hear it,” he replied.

  “It was a great game, Mr. Wayne, and you may well be proud of your part in winning it. I shouldn’t be surprised if you treated the Salisbury team to the same coat of whitewash. We girls are up in arms. Our boys stood a fair chance to win this game, but now there’s a doubt. By the way, are you acquainted in Bellville?”

  “No. I met Reed, the Bellville captain, in New York this week. He had already gotten an extra pitcher—another ringer—for this game, but he said he preferred me, if it could be arranged.”

  While conversing, Wayne made note of the fact that the other girls studiously left him to Miss Huling. If the avoidance had not been so marked, he would never have thought of it.

  “Mr. Wayne, if your word is not involved—will you change your mind and pitch tomorrow’s game for us instead of Bellville?”

  Quite amazed, Wayne turned squarely to look at Miss Huling. Instead of disarming his quick suspicion, her cool, sweet voice, and brave, blue eyes confirmed it. The charms of the captain’s sister were to be used to win him away from the Bellville nine. He knew the trick; it had been played upon him before.

  But never had any other such occasion given him a feeling of regret. This case was different. She was the girl. And she meant to flirt with him, to use her eyes for all they were worth to encompass the Waterloo of the rival team.

  No, he had made a mistake, after all—she was not the real girl. Suddenly conscious of a little shock of pain, he dismissed that dream girl from his mind, and determined to meet Miss Huling half way in her game. He could not flirt as well as he could pitch; still, he was no novice.

  “Well, Miss Huling, my word certainly is not involved. But as to pitching for Salisbury—that depends.”

  “Upon what?”

  “Upon what there is in it.”

  “Mr. Wayne, you mean—money? Oh, I know. My brother Rex told me how you college men are paid big sums. Our association will not give a dollar, and, besides, my brother knows nothing of this. But we girls are heart and soul on winning this game. We’ll—”

  “Miss Huling, I didn’t mean remuneration in sordid cash,” interrupted Wayne, in a tone that heightened the color in her cheeks.

  Wayne eyed her keenly with mingled emotions. Was that rose-leaf flush in her cheeks natural? Some girls could blush at will. Were the wistful eyes, the earnest lips, only shamming? It cost him some bitterness to decide that they were. Her beauty fascinated, while it hardened him. Eternally, the beauty of women meant the undoing of men, whether they played the simple, inconsequential game of baseball, or the great, absorbing, mutable game of life.

  The shame of the situation for him was increasingly annoying, inasmuch as this lovely girl should stoop to flirtation with a stranger, and the same time draw him, allure him, despite the apparent insincerity.

  “Miss Huling, I’ll pitch your game for two things,” he continued.

  “Name them.”

  “Wear Yale blue in place of that orange-and-black Princeton pin.”

  “I will.” She said it with a shyness, a look in her eyes that made Wayne wince. What a perfect little actress! But there seemed just a chance that this was not deceit. For an instant he wavered, held back by subtle, finer intuition; then he beat down the mounting influence of truth in those dark-blue eyes, and spoke deliberately:

  “The other thing is—if I win the game—a kiss.”

  Dorothy Huling’s face flamed scarlet. But this did not affect Wayne so deeply, though it showed him his mistake, as the darkening shadow of disappointment in her eyes. If she had been a flirt, she would have been prepared for rudeness. He began casting about in his mind for some apology, some mitigation of his offense; but as he was about to speak, the sudden fading of her color, leaving her pale, and the look in her proud, dark eyes disconcerted him out of utterance.

  “Certainly, Mr. Wayne. I agree to your price if you win the game.”

  But how immeasurable was the distance between the shy consent to wear Yale blue, and the pale, surprised agreement to his second proposal! Wayne experienced a strange sensation of personal loss.

  While he endeavored to find his tongue, Miss Huling spoke to one of the boys standing near, and he started off on a run for the field. Presently Huling and the other players broke for the car, soon surrounding it in breathless anticipation.

  “Wayne, is it straight? You’ll pitch for us tomorrow?” demanded the captain, with shining eyes.

  “Surely I will. Bellville don’t need me. They’ve got Mackay, of Georgetown,” replied Wayne.

  Accustomed as he was to being mobbed by enthusiastic students and admiring friends, Wayne could not but feel extreme embarrassment at the reception accorded him now. He felt that he was sailing under false colors. The boys mauled him, the girls fluttered about him with glad laughter. He had to tear himself away; and when he finally reached his hotel, he went to his room, with his mind in a tumult.

  Wayne cursed himself roundly; then he fell into deep thought. He began to hope he could retrieve the blunder. He would win the game; he would explain to her the truth; he would ask for an opportunity to prove he was worthy of her friendshi
p; he would not mention the kiss. This last thought called up the soft curve of her red lips and that it was possible for him to kiss her made the temptation strong.

  His sleep that night was not peaceful and dreamless. He awakened late, had breakfast sent to his room, and then took a long walk out into the country. After lunch he dodged the crowd in the hotel lobby, and hurried upstairs, where he put on his baseball suit. The first person he met upon going down was Reed, the Bellville man.

  “What’s this I hear, Wayne, about your pitching for Salisbury today? I got your telegram.”

  “Straight goods,” replied Wayne.

  “But I thought you intended to pitch for us?”

  “I didn’t promise, did I?”

  “No. Still, it looks fishy to me.”

  “You’ve got Mackay, haven’t you?”

  “Yes. The truth is, I intended to use you both.”

  “Well, I’ll try to win for Salisbury. Hope there’s no hard feeling.”

  “Not at all. Only if I didn’t have the Georgetown crack, I’d yell murder. As it is, we’ll trim Salisbury anyway.”

  “Maybe,” answered Wayne, laughing. “It’s a hot day, and my arm feels good.”

  When Wayne reached the ball grounds, he thought he had never seen a more inspiring sight. The bright green oval was surrounded by a glittering mass of white and blue and black. Out along the foul lines were carriages, motors, and tally-hos, brilliant with waving fans and flags. Over the field murmured the low hum of many voices.

  “Here you are!” cried Huling, making a grab for Wayne. “Where were you this morning? We couldn’t find you. Come! We’ve got a minute before the practice whistle blows, and I promised to exhibit you.”

  He hustled Wayne down the first-base line, past the cheering crowd, out among the motors, to the same touring car that he remembered. A bevy of white-gowned girls rose like a covey of ptarmigans, and whirled flags of maroon and gray.