CHAPTER XI.
THE GREAT BASE-BALL MATCH.
THERE was great excitement at The Pines. Randolph and Tom had practised several times with the Readville Base-Ball Nine, as I have said, Randolph taking the lead, finally, of the whole club. On a certain afternoon, about a week after the mountain tramp, a dozen or more boys were gathered on the little open plot of ground which the Readville people called the “Common,” eagerly discussing a subject which was interesting enough to make their eyes sparkle and their voices all chime in together as they talked.
“Now, hold on, fellows,” exclaimed one of the tallest, raising his hand for silence. “We may as well do this business up squarely on the spot. I’ll read the challenge, if you’ll all keep still.”
The boys threw themselves on the ground, and in various easy attitudes prepared to listen.
Randolph, who was speaker, remained standing, and drawing a paper from his pocket, read as follows:
“The Jamestown High School Nine hereby challenge the Readville Nine to a game of base-ball, to be played on Readville Common, on the afternoon of next Saturday, at three o’clock—”
“Next Saturday!” interjected one of the listeners.
“—five innings to count a game if stopped by rain. League rules to be followed.
“HIRAM BLACK,
“Captain Jamestown B. B. Nine.”
A chorus of cheers and cat-calls broke out immediately on the conclusion of the challenge; but Randolph raised his hand once more.
“The question is, Shall we accept? Those in favor say ‘Aye!’”
A tremendous shout rent the air.
“Those opposed, ‘No!’”
Dead silence.
“It is a vote. Now for positions and players.”
So far, there had been no dispute as to Randolph’s authority. He had such a pleasant way of getting on with the boys that they followed his lead willingly.
When they came to the choice of positions, however, there was a little more feeling. As to first, second and third base, the matter was easy enough. There were two fellows who played shortstop well, but they were warm friends, and each was ready to yield to the other.
Dick Manning was acknowledged to be the best pitcher in town, having a “drop twist” which he had gained by days of practice, at odd moments, behind his father’s barn, and upon which he greatly prided himself in a modest way.
Up to this point all went smoothly.
“Now, as to catcher,” said Randolph. “I know it’s a show place, and I don’t want to put myself forward. But it’s an important game, and I think I understand Dick’s delivery better than the rest of you. Bert Farnum is a tip-top hand behind the bat, I know; but—”
Randolph hesitated as he saw Bert look down and dig his heel into the ground, half sullenly.
Bert was a graceful player, a strong hitter and swift thrower. His chief trouble was uncertainty. You couldn’t depend either on his temper or his nerve in a closely-contested game. Randolph knew this, and now endeavored to smooth over matters by suggesting that Bert should play centre-field at first, and come in for a change during the close of the game, if necessary.
Right and left-fielders were easily appointed, and the boys seized their bats and balls for a couple of hours’ practice.
Bert excused himself gruffly, and wandered down by the river alone. He wanted catcher’s position for that game, and felt defrauded by his captain.
All the girls from the institute would be sure to come and cluster around the in-field, while the centre-fielder would be stationed away off by himself, with, perhaps, not a single chance to win applause.
Bert’s father was one of the wealthiest men in town, and the boy was used to having his own way.
Only yesterday, a fine new catcher’s mask had come up from the city. Of course, he had meant to lend it freely to the nine in all their games; but now he resolved he would say nothing about it. The old mask was nearly worn out, and, if struck at certain points, was sure to hurt the wearer.
If Randolph Percival was so particular about catching, he could wear the old thing, for all Bert cared.
Having gone so far as this, the unhappy boy suddenly hit upon another scheme to obtain his revenge. He stopped short and scowled darkly.
“I’ll do it,” he said to himself; then turned and walked homeward, meditating all the way on the surest means to accomplish his purpose.
It was no less than to bring about the defeat of his own companions. How he succeeded will be seen.
There were only four days before the afternoon set for the match, and uncle Will found his young folks so full of the coming game that they could think of nothing else. Tom, who made a lively third base, seemed for the time to have forgotten his troubles, and entered heartily into the sport. Dick Manning came over from the village every afternoon, and tried his favorite “delivery” with Randolph, who practised catching whenever he could get anybody to throw balls at him. He was continually enticing little Bridget out to perform this duty, which she did with such earnestness and energy that he had to fairly beg for mercy.
KITTIE AT WORK.
It was wonderful to see how the little North Street waif expanded and grew, mentally, physically and morally, in this pure air, and under the gentle teaching of aunt Puss, who had received her with open arms. The girl’s sallow cheeks grew plump and wholesome to look at; her dull eyes brightened; she worked, or tried to, all day, and slept soundly all night. She even learned to play a little, which was the hardest of all. When Randolph had gravely suggested that she could make herself useful by throwing a ball at him, out in the orchard, she accepted the proposition in perfect good faith.
“Sure I wull,” said Bridget, taking the ball from Randolph’s hand.
Her throws, he found, were just wild enough to give him practice; while their velocity left nothing to be desired. She flung the ball at him as if she were determined to annihilate him on the spot. It was only when he rolled over in the grass, laughing and crying for mercy, that a bewildered smile came into her face.
“Sure ye tould me fire hard, thin,” she said slowly, tossing back her long hair.
“So I did, Bridget. And if ever I get back to Boston, I’ll propose your name as champion pitcher in the League team!”
The little Irish girl having retired, Pet, who just then came up, offered to take her place; but her services were gratefully declined. Pet’s soft but erratic tosses were already only too familiar to the boys.
Well, the great day came at last. The wagon was filled, immediately after dinner, and the whole party, with uncle Will at the reins, drove over to Readville. They stationed themselves on the edge of the base-ball grounds, where Randolph said they could obtain a good view, and their team would not be in the way of the players. The air was warm, but a gentle westerly breeze, mountain-cooled, prevented discomfort from the heat.
By two o’clock, groups of young people, in twos and threes, began to stroll toward the Common.
Already a number of players were on hand engaged in vigorous practice, their jaunty uniforms showing prettily against the green, closely-cropped ball-field. The Jamestown nine wore blue stockings and gray suits; the “Readvilles,” white, with red stockings.
The crowd increased. At about a quarter before three, two of the players, one from each nine, separated at a distance from the Common, and came to it from different directions.
One of them was the captain of the “Jamestowns,” a rough, black-eyed fellow, whom nobody liked, but who was a fine player. The other was Bert Farnum.
As the hour for the game drew near, the excitement in the Percival wagon was at fever heat. Tom and his cousins were in the field, practising, and the girls watched eagerly every play the two made. Randolph wore the old mask, and worked steadily with Dick, a little to one side. Quite a crowd of Jamestown people had come over to witness the game and cheer for their nine, who were considerably heavier than their opponents. The knowing ones among the spectators gave their opinion that if the “Readvilles” were to win, they would have to do it by spryness in the field; the “Jamestowns” would bat more effectively, and throw well. Bert Farnum was spoken of as a splendid thrower, on whom much depended.
“They say that Boston fellow, Percival, is a master hand,” said one broad-shouldered young farmer who had sauntered up within hearing of the wagon-party. “Jest look at him now, practisin’! He ketches them swift, twisty balls like clockwork!”
Kitty and Bess pinched each other, and their faces glowed with pride.
“I knew it,” whispered Kittie confidentially to Pet, “but I like to hear somebody else say it, just the same.”
Further conversation was suddenly hushed by a movement among the players. Three o’clock had arrived, and in presence of the umpire the two captains tossed up a cent. The “Readvilles” won the toss, and sent their opponents to the bat.
As the red-stockings walked past them into the field, the Jamestown captain winked at Bert, who nodded slightly in return, blushing at the same time and glancing over his shoulder to see if he was observed.
“Low ball—play!” called the umpire.
Dick Manning drew himself up, looking carelessly about the field; then suddenly, with a swift movement, sent the white ball whizzing directly over the plate, about two feet from the ground.
“One strike!” shouted the umpire.
The Jamestowner looked surprised, and before he had gathered himself for the next ball it was past him again and in the hands of Randolph, who waited till the umpire called “Strike, two!” and then ran up behind the bat, adjusting the old mask over his face.
The next two balls delivered were wide. The third was just right, and the Jamestowner hit with all his force. It soared far up in the air, toward the centre-field.
“Bert! Bert Farnum!” cried Randolph as two or three of the fielders started for the ball.
Bert ran, and stretched out his hands—a little awkwardly, his friends thought. The next moment the ball struck the ground six feet away, and the striker was safe on second base.
A prolonged “Oh-h-h!” came involuntarily from the crowd, and Bert returned with a sullen air to his station, after fielding the ball.
The Jamestowns now succeeded in getting the striker and another man round the bases. Randolph put out the third, by running a long distance under a foul fly, almost reaching the wagon before he secured it.
The “Readvilles” were retired without making a run. Score, 2 to 0, in favor of Jamestown. The girls clenched their hands in silence, while the Jamestown people on the other side of the grounds cheered lustily.
The game proceeded, and was contested hotly at every point. The visitors seemed possessed with but one ambition, and that was to knock the ball down to centre. Time and again it started in that direction, but dropped short, or into the hands of one of the other fielders.
At last the ninth inning was reached. The score was a tie—eight to eight. “Jamestown” came to the bat, and two men went out in quick succession, one on afoul fly, the other at first base. The third striker got the ball just where he wanted it, and sent it high up in Bert’s direction.
Now, Bert had already begun to repent of the treacherous part he was playing. Here was a chance to redeem himself. He made a desperate run backward for the ball, but tripped and fell just as it was coming to his hands. Again he heard that long note of dismay from his friends. The sound nerved him. Leaping to his feet, he darted after the ball like a deer, and, picking it up lightly, as it rolled, faced about. The runner was making the round of the bases, amid the shouts and jeers of the Jamestown people who had come over to see the game.
Bert gathered himself for a mighty effort, and, drawing back his arm, threw the ball with all his strength. Randolph was waiting for it eagerly, with his foot on the home-plate. It seemed impossible that the ball could get there in time, and the Jamestowners cheered more lustily than ever, as the blue stockings went flying along the base-line toward home; but still more swiftly came the ball, sent with unerring aim from Bert’s far-away arm.
Just a wee fraction of a second before the runner touched the plate the ball settled into Randolph’s hands, which swung round like lightning, and Jamestown was out—score, 8 to 8.
On coming in with his side for their last turn at the bat, Bert found himself all at once a hero.
“Never was such a throw seen on the grounds!” they said; and poor Bert hung his head, and answered not a word.
The spectators were now fairly breathless with excitement. The score tied, and Readville at the bat for the last time.
Tom, whose turn it was, took his place amid encouraging shouts from his side. After a nervous “strike,” he made a good hit that carried him to second, where he seemed likely to be left, as the next two at the bat struck easy flies, and went out. It was Bert’s turn. Heretofore he had purposely struck out every time he came to the bat. Now his hands clenched the stick firmly, and he braced his feet as if he meant business. The crowd saw the slight movement, and cheered to encourage him.
“Strike one!” called the umpire, as the ball flew over the plate a little higher than Bert wanted it.
“Strike two!”
Still not just right. Bert waited calmly. The crowd were silent, and looked downcast. Suddenly they gave a wild cheer. Hats were flung into the air, and handkerchiefs waved. Bert had made a terrific hit, sending the ball far beyond the rightfielder. In another moment Tom had reached home, and scored the winning run—score, Readvilles, 9; Jamestowns, 8.
The great match was finished.