Freddy and the Baseball Team from Mars

by Walter R. Brooks

  CHAPTER

  9

  The first thing in the morning Freddy put on his disguise and had Riley drive him out to the ball park. He went over to where the flying saucer was parked. He climbed up on the disk and tapped at the door in the turret. After a minute Two-clicks threw it open. The Martian seemed very sleepy; he kept rubbing his eyes, and the third eye wasn’t even open yet.

  “You boys were out pretty late last night,” Freddy said. “I’m not holding you down to regular training rules, but if I were, you’d be in trouble if you were out after ten. But you were flying around at one this morning. That’s too late.”

  Two-clicks opened his third eye and looked at the pig accusingly. “You spy on us,” he said.

  “No,” said Freddy. “I heard you. What were you doing over on the south side of town?”

  “Sometimes,” the Martian replied in his squeaky English, “we no can sleep. Sometime maybe me, maybe Chirp-squeak, no sleep. Take saucer for little fly around. Earth air very thick. We fly up, up—get thin air. Like home. Then we sleep.”

  “Yeah?” Freddy said to himself. “That saucer wasn’t up, up last night. It was down, down, right over the roof and not on the south side of town, either.” But aloud he only said, “O.K. Well, don’t be late today. Mr. Finnerty is bringing over a scratch team from the high school to play us this afternoon.”

  On the way, as Riley was driving him out to the farm, he stopped and bought a bag of peanuts, which he stuffed into the tail pocket of his coat. Jacob was waiting for him with his A.B.I, report. There was nothing very exciting in it. Mr. Anderson had followed the same routine as on previous evenings. The operatives had not seen him leave the house after returning from dinner at the diner. And no one but he had entered the house in the past twenty-four hours.

  Up on the field there was still quite a lot of work to be done before the game that afternoon. The pitcher’s mound had been built up and a square stone had been sunk in the ground for home plate. But the foul lines still had to be marked in white, and the bases, which Mrs. Bean had made of canvas and stuffed with hay, had to be fastened in place. The ground had dried out well, and by noon Freddy, with the help of Leo and Hannibal and some of the farm animals, had the diamond in pretty fair shape.

  At two o’clock the boys from Centerboro High arrived. They were very much excited at the prospect of playing such an oddly assorted team, although by this time they were well acquainted with the Martians, as well as with Mr. Boomschmidt, Mr. Hercules, and the circus animals, many of whom had at various times been guests in their own homes. Freddy of course they knew, but not as Mr. Arquebus, and several of them had a hard time repressing their giggles when they were introduced to this queer old white-whiskered man and told he was the coach.

  The game hadn’t been advertised, but word of it had got out, and there were nearly a hundred spectators hanging on the fence when it began. Freddy didn’t move around much for fear of bumping into people, but by lifting his glasses and taking a quick squint under them, he made out that among the watchers was Mr. Anderson, and beside him, in earnest conversation, Mr. Kurtz, manager of the Tushville town team.

  The visitors came to bat first. Jason Brewer, pitcher for Centerboro High, led off. Chirp-squeak, with four arms, all of which he could throw with, and with seven fingers on each hand, which gave him an amazing number of ways of gripping and releasing the ball, had developed a variety of curves and drops. His famous “skip ball,” which gave a sort of double bounce as it crossed the plate, has never been duplicated. His one fault was that he hadn’t a really fast ball. However, his left-hand pitches were a little faster than the ones with his right hands, so that he managed to control some change of speed.

  His first pitch was with his upper right, and Jason tipped it for a foul. But when he took the ball in his lower left hand and began his wind-up, Jason became puzzled, and just stood and watched the ball as it floated over the plate. “Str-r-r-ike!” Mr. Bean called. Then, thoroughly confused by a lower-left pitch, the boy swung wildly at a high ball, and was out.

  Of the next two boys up, Henry James hit a high fly to left field, but Mr. Hercules caught in with one hand, and Jimmy Witherspoon, confused by the four-arm pitching, struck out with three wild swings.

  Jimmy Witherspoon, confused by the four-arm pitching, struck out with three wild swings.

  Jason Brewer had a fast ball, and pretty good control, but the Martians, who had had some experience with Mr. Hercules’s sizzling delivery, weren’t afraid of it. Two-clicks fouled twice and then singled; Chirp-squeak fanned at the first two pitches, which were way outside, but connected with the third one for a two-bagger, and then Leo came up. To his disgust, the lion swung at the first pitch and knocked up a little pop fly that dropped softly into Jason’s glove.

  The next two up in batting order on the Martian team were Click-two-squeaks and Chirp. Freddy watched the former as he swung at the first three pitches—and struck out: one, two, three. He knew that Chirp would do the same. But that was all right. That was what he wanted them to do. He stumbled over to where Mr. Anderson and Mr. Kurtz were now chatting with Mr. Finnerty.

  “Well, Mr. Arquebus,” Mr. Finnerty said, “we’re even so far. Why do you let your Martians bat like that? They swing at everything—good, bad, and indifferent. Have they had much batting practice?”

  Freddy smoothed his long beard, behind which he was grinning happily. “Dad rat ’em!” he said irritably. “Can’t seem to teach ’em to wait for the good ones. They seem to think they ain’t playin’ unless they’re beatin’ the air with them bats.”

  Freddy didn’t see much through his glasses, but he did see Mr. Anderson turn to Mr. Kurtz and wink at him.

  Mr. Finnerty shook his head. “Jason’s getting onto that already,” he said. “It’s too bad; you’ve got some good baseball material there.”

  “Understand you and Boomschmidt want to get some local games before the circus starts on the road this summer,” said Mr. Kurtz. “We’ve got a good little town team over at Tushville. They aren’t big-league stuff—though some of ’em might be some day—but I guess they could give you some competition. How about it?”

  “Well now, mister,” Freddy said, “I ain’t nothing but the coach; you’ll have to talk to Boomschmidt. He owns the team.” He pulled out his bag of peanuts and offered them to the three men. Mr. Finnerty and Mr. Kurtz each took a few, but Mr. Anderson shook his head. “Never touch ’em,” he said.

  There was a sharp crack, and Mr. Finnerty yelled: “Hey, look at that!” The ball was flying high over the second baseman’s head, and Mr. Boomschmidt’s little fat legs were twinkling past first. As he touched second, the right fielder reached for it—and missed. And Mr. Boomschmidt tore on past third and then home.

  There was a burst of applause, which he acknowledged by taking off his hat and waving it at the crowd; then he came across to where Freddy was standing. “Good gracious, coach,” he said, “how did I ever do that? A home run!” He laughed. “I’d better run home with my home run and tell Rose.”

  “You’d better stay here and knock another of those things; you’re going to need it,” said Mr. Finnerty. “Your pitcher has just struck out.” And indeed Chirp-squeak had done what his two team-mates had done; he had struck at the first three balls pitched to him—and missed all three.

  Nevertheless at the end of the second inning the score was one and one.

  The rest of the game was like the first inning. The Martians struck out with rather tiresome regularity. Mr. Boomschmidt didn’t get another hit, but Oscar and Hannibal got three hits apiece, and Mr. Hercules, who had been warned not to swing too hard, got a three-base hit and a homer. But the high-school boys began to get a little used to Chirp-squeak’s quadruple delivery, and by the end of the ninth had piled up eight runs, to the Martians’ six.

  Freddy was well satisfied, however. And he was even more pleased when he walked up to where Mr. Kurtz and Mr. Boomschmidt were standing and heard the latter say: �
��Oh my goodness, oh my gracious, yes! We certainly should be able to charge a dollar admission. That ought to mean at least a thousand tickets. Well now, that’s good money. How’ll we divide the gate receipts? Even?”

  “How about two-thirds to the winner?” said Mr. Kurtz. “Ought to be a little extra incentive to win. Not that I’m at all sure Tushville can beat you. You’ve got some tough competition there. But my boys will play better if they think there’s a little money in winning.”

  “Well, I think that is O.K.,” said Mr. Boomschmidt. “But I want to talk it over with the Martians first, naturally. My, my, what a game that’ll be! We’ll give ’em a good build-up in the newspapers—tell how the Martians are great baseball fans, and how they’ve sent their best team to earth to challenge our teams, and to try to get up an Interplanetary League. My, my, won’t we make the World Series look like baby stuff!” He turned to Freddy. “Hear that, Mr. Arquebus? S’pose you can get these boys in shape to play a couple games with Tushville around May 15th?”

  “Play ’em tomorrow if you say so,” Freddy replied. “This here Tushville team—I’ve heard about ’em. They ain’t very hot stuff, but I guess it’ll be good practice for the boys.”

  Through his glasses Freddy saw Mr. Kurtz’s face turn from a pale blur to a pink one. “I made him mad,” he thought.

  But Mr. Kurtz only said mildly: “Why, that’s so, I guess. My boys have only got two hands apiece and there ain’t any of ’em can bat with his nose like that elephant. But it’ll be good practice for them, too. Now where’ll we have the first game—Centerboro or Tushville?”

  “You’d better decide that, Mr. Boom,” Freddy said, and turned away. He wanted to think. Mr. Kurtz was known to be hot-tempered; telling him his team wasn’t much good had made him angry; then why had he given such a mild answer? And why had he practically agreed that Tushville couldn’t win? Centerboro had just beaten the Martians, and the Tushville town team could certainly lick Centerboro High.

  Suddenly Freddy laughed. It had come to him what Mr. Kurtz was up to. He wanted to pretend that his team wasn’t any good so that he could coax Mr. Boom into letting the winner take the biggest part of the gate receipts. Well, that was all right, too. Certainly, judging by this game today, Tushville would have an easy win. But he had a trick up his sleeve for that.

  CHAPTER

  10

  Freddy and Mr. Boomschmidt were well pleased with the outcome of the game, even though they had lost. When Mr. Finnerty suggested that the Martians play a few regular games with the high-school team, with charged admissions, on the town diamond, they agreed.

  “But we ain’t going to play you until we’ve cleaned up these Tushville sports,” Freddy said. “They’re our first official games.”

  “You know,” Mr. Finnerty said, “I think maybe I can figure out why you want to get those Tushville games off the calendar before you play anybody else. I’ve been watching your practice closely, and while Kurtz may know the game pretty well, he hasn’t been in baseball as long as I have. Or as long as you have, Mr. Arquebus. Well, I don’t like that gang of Tushville rowdies. They haven’t a high school team over there, so we don’t even have to go there at all. We had trouble enough last year with one football game, so you can count on my keeping my mouth shut. But in the meantime, we can have a few unofficial games, can’t we?”

  “Anytime, mister; anytime,” said Freddy.

  “Well, well, Henry; congratulations!” said a voice behind him, and Mr. Anderson gave him a slap on the back that nearly knocked the wind out of him. “Your boys certainly put up a fine game. By the way,” he said, lowering his voice, “how did you come out at the bank? Did they take care of you all right?”

  “Oh, them?” said Freddy. “Stuck-up lot of critters, I thought ’em. No sir, they’re too nosey. Asked more questions than you could shake a stick at. Why I wouldn’t leave my money in that place no more’n I’d toss it in the gutter. No sir, it’s where I know where it is, and it’s going to stay there.” And he tapped his breast pocket significantly.

  “Very wise of you,” said Mr. Anderson. “But I’ve got a little real estate proposition coming up—well, in a day or two I’ll drop round. I promise you it’ll interest you.”

  Early that evening, Freddy, having left his disguise in the pig pen, went to Centerboro to see Mrs. Church. He was just in time, she told him; Mr. Anderson had just telephoned and asked if he might come round in half an hour, he had something important to tell her. “What do you suppose he wants?” she said. “I haven’t said anything yet about the house being haunted.”

  Freddy said he couldn’t imagine.

  There was a small closet or coatroom off the hall right outside the parlor. When the doorbell rang, Freddy went inside and pulled the door nearly shut. When Mrs. Church had taken Mr. Anderson into the parlor, he heard the latter say: “I suppose you’re wondering why I wanted to see you, ma’am. Well, I’ll come to the point right away. I was having my breakfast this morning when the phone rang, and a strange voice wanted to know if I’d seen your ad in the Centerboro paper about the reward for the return of your necklace. I said yes, I was just reading the paper.

  “‘Well,’ says this fellow, ‘I’ve got that necklace, and I want you to act as go-between and collect the reward. I’ll give you a third.’

  “Well, I laughed and said: ‘Why pick on me? Why not do it yourself?’

  “So he said no, you’d get the police in on it—set a trap for him. ‘But I can trust you,’ he says. ‘I know all about you,’ he says. ‘You’re an honest man, and you’ll keep your mouth shut if you promise to.’

  “Well, I thought about you, ma’am, and how if I didn’t collect the reward for him, you’d probably never see that necklace again. He’d break it up and peddle the diamonds around and get what he could for ’em. So I said: ‘O.K., bring it over here right now.’

  “Well, he brought it, and here it is.” Freddy could hear the click of the beads as they were handed over. “Of course I don’t want any part of the reward. I’m glad to be of service.”

  “Who was the thief? What did he look like?” Mrs. Church asked.

  “I’m sorry; I gave my word not to say anything about that. He’s waiting now for the reward, so if it’s all right—”

  “Of course,” said Mrs. Church. “I’ll get the reward. But first, there’s something I want to speak to you about. I intended to call you up this morning. It’s this house. I—Well, it sounds very silly to say it in broad daylight, but it’s haunted.”

  “Oh now, my dear Mrs. Church!” he protested. “Of course, as a real estate man, in the business for thirty years, I have run across two or three houses that were unquestionably haunted. One, I remember, was infested with ghouls—dreadful tall white creatures that glided about screeching and gnashing their teeth. Did you ever hear anyone gnash his teeth, Mrs. Church? A truly awful sound, and of course makes it quite impossible to sleep. And another house—there were giant spiders in the attic. They used to come down and race up and down the upper hall after dark, squeaking. That house, I remember, had to be burned. And yet—Are you quite sure, Mrs. Church, that what you may have seen and heard wasn’t just, say, the wind, and a blowing curtain?”

  So then Mrs. Church described the slithering and the whuffling outside her bedroom door, and Mr. Anderson kept saying: “Dear, dear!” and “Mercy gracious!” and when she had finished he said: “Well, ma’am, that does sound serious. But I don’t quite see how I can be of help to you. Of course I’m glad to do anything I can—”

  “You can sell the house for me. That’s what I shall have to do. I got rid of my servants because they were more bother than they were worth—always in the way and giving me no privacy. But if I can’t live in a house with servants, I certainly can’t live with ghosts. At least the servants stayed in bed at night. What do you think this house would bring?”

  “Well,” said Mr. Anderson thoughtfully, “of course if it gets out that the place is haunted—”
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br />   “I won’t conceal that fact,” she said. “I’m not going to have the buyer come back and say that I sold him the house without telling him honestly what was wrong with it.”

  “Well, you have told me,” said Mr. Anderson. “Suppose I buy it?”

  “How much would you give?” she asked.

  “I’ll be frank with you, ma’am,” he said. “I’d expect to resell it, and for that I’d have to find a family that didn’t mind ghosts. Perhaps I couldn’t, and then I’d be stuck with it. That house with the ghouls in it—I sold it to some people that thought it would be fun. They thought maybe one of the ghouls would make a fourth at bridge. But they only stayed there a week and I had to give their money back. Finally I sold it for a hundred dollars to a carpenter who tore it down for the lumber in it. And then the lumber was haunted. He built himself a back porch with some of it, and one ghoul sat out there every night and screamed.”

  “So you couldn’t give me much for the house?” Mrs. Church said.

  “I could only give you a fraction of what it’s worth,” he said, “and if you know anything about fractions—well, it won’t be much. I’m sorry. If I were buying it for myself it would be different. I am not afraid of ghosts; in fact—”

  At that moment Freddy, who was getting stiff and wanted to change his position slightly, got his feet entangled in some rubbers and overshoes on the floor of the closet. He grabbed at one of the coats that was hanging on a pole that ran lengthwise through the closet, and the coat came rustling down over his head, while the hanger fell with a rattle to the floor.

  He froze as he heard Mr. Anderson say sharply: “What’s that? I thought we were alone in the house.”

  “We are. What’s the matter?” There was calm surprise in Mrs. Church’s voice. Freddy heard Mr. Anderson get up. Quickly he draped the cloak which had fallen over him about his head and shoulders. It was a huge plum-colored cape with a hood.