The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  On the Saturday before the Fourth, Madden’s Hill had a game to play that did not worry Daddy and he left his team in charge of the captain.

  “Fellers, I’m goin’ down to the Round House to see Natchez play. I’ll size up their game,” said Daddy.

  When he returned he was glad to find that his team had won its ninth straight victory, but he was not communicative in regard to the playing of the Natchez club. He appeared more than usually thoughtful.

  The Fourth fell on Tuesday. Daddy had the boys out Monday and he let them take only a short, sharp practice. Then he sent them home. In his own mind, Daddy did not have much hope of beating Natchez. He had been greatly impressed by their playing, and one inning toward the close of the Round House game they had astonished him with the way they suddenly seemed to break loose and deluge their opponents in a flood of hits and runs. He could not understand this streak of theirs—for they did the same thing every time they played—and he was too good a baseball student to call it luck.

  He had never wanted anything in his life, not even to have two good legs, as much as he wanted to beat Natchez. For the Madden’s Hill boys had come to believe him infallible. He was their idol. They imagined they had only to hit and run, to fight and never give up, and Daddy would make them win. There was not a boy on the team who believed that Natchez had a chance. They had grown proud and tenacious of their dearly won reputation. First of all, Daddy thought of his team and their loyalty to him; then he thought of the glory lately come to Madden’s Hill, and lastly of what it meant to him to have risen from a lonely watcher of the game—a cripple who could not even carry a bat—to manager of the famous Hill team. It might go hard with the boys to lose this game, but it would break his heart.

  From time out of mind there had always been rivalry between Madden’s Hill and Natchez. And there is no rivalry so bitter as that between boys. So Daddy, as he lay awake at night planning the system of play he wanted to use, left out of all account any possibility of a peaceful game. It was comforting to think that if it came to a fight Sam and Lane could hold their own with Bo Stranathan and Slugger Blandy.

  In the managing of his players Daddy observed strict discipline. It was no unusual thing for him to fine them. On practice days and off the field they implicitly obeyed him. During actual play, however, they had evinced a tendency to jump over the traces. It had been his order for them not to report at the field Tuesday until two o’clock. He found it extremely difficult to curb his own inclination to start before the set time. And only the stern duty of a man to be an example to his players kept Daddy at home.

  He lived near the ball grounds, yet on this day, as he hobbled along on his crutch, he thought the distance interminably long, and for the first time in weeks the old sickening resentment at his useless leg knocked at his heart. Manfully Daddy refused admittance to that old gloomy visitor. He found comfort and forgetfulness in the thought that no strong and swift-legged boy of his acquaintance could do what he could do.

  Upon arriving at the field Daddy was amazed to see such a large crowd. It appeared that all the boys and girls in the whole town were in attendance, and, besides, there was a sprinkling of grown-up people interspersed here and there around the diamond. Applause greeted Daddy’s appearance and members of his team escorted him to the soap-box bench.

  Daddy cast a sharp eye over the Natchez players practicing on the field. Bo Stranathan had out his strongest team. They were not a prepossessing nine. They wore soiled uniforms that did not match in cut or color. But they pranced and swaggered and strutted! They were boastful and boisterous. It was a trial for any Madden’s Hill boy just to watch them.

  “Wot a swelled bunch!” exclaimed Tom Lindsay.

  “Fellers, if Slugger Blandy tries to pull any stunt on me today he’ll get a swelleder nut,” growled Lane Griffith.

  “T-t-t-t-t-te-te-tell him t-t-t-to keep out of m-m-m-my way and not b-b-b-b-bl-block me,” stuttered Tay-Tay Mohler.

  “We’re a-goin’ to skin ’em,” said Eddie Curtis.

  “Cheese it, you kids, till we git in the game,” ordered Daddy. “Now, Madden’s Hill, hang round and listen. I had to sign articles with Natchez—had to let them have their umpire. So we’re up against it. But we’ll hit this pitcher Muckle Harris. He ain’t got any steam. And he ain’t got much nerve. Now every feller who goes up to bat wants to talk to Muck. Call him a big swelled stiff. Tell him he can’t break a pane of glass—tell him he can’t put one over the pan—tell him it he does you’ll slam it down in the sand bank. Bluff the whole team. Keep scrappy all the time. See! That’s my game today. This Natchez bunch needs to be gone after. Holler at the umpire. Act like you want to fight.”

  Then Daddy sent his men out for practice.

  “Boss, enny ground rules?” inquired Bo Stranathan. He was a big, bushy-haired boy with a grin and protruding teeth. “How many bases on wild throws over first base and hits over the sand bank?”

  “All you can get,” replied Daddy, with a magnanimous wave of hand.

  “Huh! Lemmee see your ball?”

  Daddy produced the ball that he had Lane had made for the game.

  “Huh! Watcher think? We ain’t goin’ to play with no mush ball like thet,” protested Bo. “We play with a hard ball. Looka here! We’ll trow up the ball.”

  Daddy remembered what he had heard about the singular generosity of the Natchez team to supply the balls for the games they played.

  “We don’t hev to pay nothin’ fer them balls. A man down at the Round House makes them for us. They ain’t no balls as good,” explained Bo, with pride.

  However, as Bo did not appear eager to pass over the balls for examination Daddy simply reached out and took them. They were small, perfectly round and as hard as bullets. They had no covers. The yarn had been closely and tightly wrapped and then stitched over with fine bees-waxed thread. Daddy fancied he detected a difference in the weight of the ball, but Bo took them back before Daddy could be sure of that point.

  “You don’t have to fan about it. I know a ball when I see one,” observed Daddy. “But we’re on our own grounds and we’ll use our own ball. Thanks all the same to you, Stranathan.”

  “Huh! All I gotta say is we’ll play with my ball er there won’t be no game,” said Bo suddenly.

  Daddy shrewdly eyed the Natchez captain. Bo did not look like a fellow wearing himself thin from generosity. It struck Daddy that Bo’s habit of supplying the ball for the game might have some relation to the fact that he always carried along his own umpire. There was a strange feature about this umpire business and it was that Bo’s man had earned a reputation for being particularly fair. No boy ever had any real reason to object to Umpire Gale’s decisions. When Gale umpired away from the Natchez grounds his close decisions always favored the other team, rather than his own. It all made Daddy keen and thoughtful.

  “Stranathan, up here on Madden’s Hill we know how to treat visitors. We’ll play with your ball.… Now keep your gang of rooters from crowdin’ on the diamond.”

  “Boss, it’s your grounds. Fire ’em off if they don’t suit you.… Come on, let’s git in the game. Watcher want—field er bat?”

  “Field,” replied Daddy briefly.

  Billy Gale called “Play,” and the game began with Slugger Blandy at bat. The formidable way in which he swung his club did not appear to have any effect on Frank Price or the player back of him. Frank’s most successful pitch was a slow, tantalizing curve, and he used it. Blandy lunged at the ball, missed it and grunted.

  “Frank, you got his alley,” called Lane.

  Slugger fouled the next one high in the air back of the plate. Sam Wickhart, the stocky bowlegged catcher, was a fiend for running after foul flies, and now he plunged into the crowd of boys, knocking them right and left, and he caught the ball. Whisner came up and hit safely over Griffith, whereupon the Natchez supporters began to howl. Kelly sent a grounder to Grace at short stop. Daddy’s weak player made a poor throw to first base, so the r
unner was safe. Then Bo Stranathan batted a stinging ball through the infield, scoring Whisner.

  “Play the batter! Play the batter!” sharply called Daddy from the bench.

  Then Frank struck out Molloy and retired Dundon on an easy fly.

  “Fellers, git in the game now,” ordered Daddy, as his players eagerly trotted in. “Say things to that Muckle Harris! We’ll walk through this game like sand through a sieve.”

  Bob Irvin ran to the plate waving his bat at Harris.

  “Put one over, you freckleface! I’ve been dyin’ fer this chanst. You’re on Madden’s Hill now.”

  Muckle evidently was not the kind of pitcher to stand coolly under such bantering. Obviously he was not used to it. His face grew red and his hair waved up. Swinging hard, he threw the ball straight at Bob’s head. Quick as a cat, Bob dropped flat.

  “Never touched me!” he chirped, jumping up and pounding the plate with his bat. “You couldn’t hit a barn door. Come on. I’ll paste one a mile!”

  Bob did not get an opportunity to hit, for Harris could not locate the plate and passed him to first on four balls.

  “Dump the first one,” whispered Daddy in Grace’s ear. Then he gave Bob a signal to run on the first pitch.

  Grace tried to bunt the first ball, but he missed it. His attempt, however, was so violent that he fell over in front of the catcher, who could not recover in time to throw, and Bob got to second base. At this juncture, the Madden’s Hill band of loyal supporters opened up with a mingling of shrill yells and whistles and jangling of tin cans filled with pebbles. Grace hit the next ball into second base and, while he was being thrown out, Bob raced to third. With Sam Wickhart up it looked good for a score, and the crowd yelled louder. Sam was awkward yet efficient, and he batted a long fly to right field. The fielder muffed the ball. Bob scored, Sam reached second base, and the crowd yelled still louder. Then Lane struck out and Mohler hit to shortstop, retiring the side.

  Natchez scored a run on a hit, a base on balls, and another error by Grace. Every time a ball went toward Grace at short Daddy groaned. In their half of the inning Madden’s Hill made two runs, increasing the score 3 to 2.

  The Madden’s Hill boys began to show the strain of such a close contest. If Daddy had voiced aloud his fear it would have been: “They’ll blow up in a minnit!” Frank Price alone was slow and cool, and he pitched in masterly style. Natchez could not beat him. On the other hand, Madden’s Hill hit Muck Harris hard, but superb fielding kept runners off the bases. As Daddy’s team became more tense and excited Bo Stranathan’s players grew steadier and more arrogantly confident. Daddy saw it with distress, and he could not realize just where Natchez had license for such confidence. Daddy watched the game with the eyes of a hawk.

  As the Natchez players trooped in for their sixth inning at bat, Daddy observed a marked change in their demeanor. Suddenly they seemed to have been let loose; they were like a band of Indians. Daddy saw everything. He did not miss seeing Umpire Gale take a ball from his pocket and toss it to Frank, and Daddy wondered if that was the ball which had been in the play. Straightway, however, he forgot that in the interest of the game.

  Bo Stranathan bawled: “Wull, Injuns, hyar’s were we do ’em. We’ve jest ben loafin’ along. Git ready to tear the air, you rooters!”

  Kelly hit a wonderfully swift ball through the infield. Bo batted out a single. Malloy got up in the way of one of Frank’s pitches, and was passed to first base. Then, as the Natchez crowd opened up in shrill clamor, the impending disaster fell. Dundon hit a bounder down into the infield. The ball appeared to be endowed with life. It bounded low, then high and, cracking into Grace’s hands, bounced out and rolled away. The runners raced around the bases.

  Pickens sent up a tremendous fly, the highest ever batted on Madden’s Hill. It went over Tom Lindsay in center field, and Tom ran and ran. The ball went so far up that Tom had time to cover the ground, but he could not judge it. He ran round in a little circle, with hands up in bewilderment. And when the ball dropped it hit him on the head and bounded away.

  “Run, you Injun, run!” bawled Bo. “What’d I tell you? We ain’t got ’em goin’, oh, no! Hittin’ ’em on the head!”

  Bill dropped a slow, teasing ball down the third-base line. Jake Thomas ran desperately for it, and the ball appeared to strike his hands and run up his arms and caress his nose and wrap itself round his neck and then roll gently away. All the while, the Natchez runners tore wildly about the bases and the Natchez supporters screamed and whistled. Muck Harris could not bat, yet he hit the first ball and it shot like a bullet over the infield. Then Slugger Blandy came to the plate.

  The ball he sent out knocked Grace’s leg from under him as if it were a ten-pin. Whisner popped a fly over Tay Tay Mohler’s head. Now Tay Tay was fat and slow, but he was a sure catch. He got under the ball. It struck his hands and jumped back twenty feet up into the air. It was a strangely live ball. Kelly again hit to shortstop, and the ball appeared to start slow, to gather speed with every bound and at last to dart low and shoot between Grace’s legs.

  “Haw! Haw!” roared Bo. “They’ve got a hole at short. Hit fer the hole, fellers. Watch me! Jest watch me!”

  And he swung hard on the first pitch. The ball glanced like a streak straight at Grace, took a vicious jump, and seemed to flirt with the infielder’s hands, only to evade them.

  Malloy fouled a pitch and the ball hit Sam Wickhart square over the eye. Sam’s eye popped out and assumed the proportions and color of a huge plum.

  “Hey!” yelled Blandy, the rival catcher. “Air you ketchin’ with yer mug?”

  Sam would not delay the game nor would he don the mask.

  Daddy sat hunched on his soap-box, and, as in a hateful dream, he saw his famous team go to pieces. He put his hands over his ears to shut out some of the uproar. And he watched that little yarn ball fly and shoot and bound and roll to crush his fondest hopes. Not one of his players appeared able to hold it. And Grace had holes in his hands and legs and body. The ball went right through him. He might as well have been so much water. Instead of being a shortstop he was simply a hole. After every hit Daddy saw that ball more and more as something alive. It sported with his infielders. It bounded like a huge jack-rabbit, and went swifter and higher at every bound. It was here, there, everywhere.

  And it became an infernal ball. It became endowed with a fiendish propensity to run up a player’s leg and all about him, as if trying to hide in his pocket. Grace’s efforts to find it were heartbreaking to watch. Every time it bounded out to center field, which was of frequent occurrence, Tom would fall on it and hug it as if he were trying to capture a fleeing squirrel. Tay Tay Mohler could stop the ball, but that was no great credit to him, for his hands took no part in the achievement. Tay Tay was fat and the ball seemed to like him. It boomed into his stomach and banged against his stout legs. When Tay saw it coming he dropped on his knees and valorously sacrificed his anatomy to the cause of the game.

  Daddy tried not to notice the scoring of runs by his opponents. But he had to see them and he had to count. Ten runs were as ten blows! After that each run scored was like a stab in his heart. The play went on, a terrible fusilade of wicked ground balls that baffled any attempt to field them. Then, with nineteen runs scored, Natchez appeared to tire. Sam caught a foul fly, and Tay Tay, by obtruding his wide person to the path of infield hits, managed to stop them, and throw out the runners.

  Score—Natchez, 21; Madden Hill, 3.

  Daddy’s boys slouched and limped wearily in.

  “Wot kind of a ball’s that?” panted Tom, as he showed his head with a bruise as large as a goose-egg.

  “T-t-t-t-ta-ta-tay-tay-tay-tay—” began Mohler, in great excitement, but as he could not finish what he wanted to say no one caught his meaning.

  Daddy’s watchful eye had never left that wonderful, infernal little yarn ball. Daddy was crushed under defeat, but his baseball brains still continued to work. He saw Umpire Gale leisurely step i
nto the pitcher’s box, and leisurely pick up the ball and start to make a motion to put it in his pocket.

  Suddenly fire flashed all over Daddy.

  “Hyar! Don’t hide that ball!” he yelled, in his piercing tenor.

  He jumped up quickly, forgetting his crutch, and fell headlong. Lane and Sam got him upright and handed the crutch to him. Daddy began to hobble out to the pitcher’s box.

  “Don’t you hide that ball. See! I’ve got my eye on this game. That ball was in play, and you can’t use the other.”

  Umpire Gale looked sheepish, and his eyes did not meet Daddy’s. Then Bo came trotting up.

  “What’s wrong, boss?” he asked.

  “Aw, nuthin’. You’re tryin’ to switch balls on me. That’s all. You can’t pull off any stunts on Madden’s Hill.”

  “Why, boss, thet ball’s all right. What you hollerin’ about?”

  “Sure that ball’s all right,” replied Daddy. “It’s a fine ball. And we want a chanst to hit it! See?”

  Bo flared up and tried to bluster, but Daddy cut him short.

  “Give us our innin’—let us git a whack at that ball, or I’ll run you off Madden’s Hill.”

  Bo suddenly looked a little pale and sick.

  “Course youse can git a whack at it,” he said, in a weak attempt to be natural and dignified.

  Daddy tossed the ball to Harris, and as he hobbled off the field he heard Bo calling out low and cautiously to his players. Then Daddy was certain he had discovered a trick. He called his players around him.

  “This game ain’t over yet. It ain’t any more’n begun. I’ll tell you what. Last innin’ Bo’s umpire switched balls on us. That ball was lively. And they tried to switch back on me. But nix! We’re goin’ to git a chanst to hit that lively ball, And they’re goin’ to git a dose of their own medicine. Now, you dead ones—come back to life! Show me some hittin’ and runnin’.”