Title: Finkler's Field - A Story of School and Baseball
Author: Barbour, Ralph Henry
Language: English
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                            FINKLER’S FIELD



BY RALPH HENRY BARBOUR.

Each Illustrated, 12mo, Cloth, $1.50.


  For Yardley.
  Finkler’s Field. ($1.25.)
  Winning His “Y.”
  The New Boy at Hilltop.
  Double Play.
  Forward Pass!
  The Spirit of the School.
  Four in Camp.
  Four Afoot.
  Four Afloat.
  The Arrival of Jimpson.
  Behind the Line.
  Captain of the Crew.
  For the Honor of the School.
  The Half-Back.
  On Your Mark.
  Weatherby’s Inning.


D. APPLETON & COMPANY, NEW YORK.



[Illustration: “Sam shed his coat ... and walked toward the plate.”]



                            FINKLER’S FIELD

                    A STORY OF SCHOOL AND BASEBALL


                                 _By_

                          RALPH HENRY BARBOUR

           AUTHOR OF “FOR YARDLEY,” “WINNING HIS ‘Y,’” “THE
                    HALF BACK,” “DOUBLE PLAY,” ETC.


                            [Illustration]


                              ILLUSTRATED


                          NEW YORK AND LONDON
                        D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
                                 1911



                          Copyright, 1911, by
                        D. APPLETON AND COMPANY


_Published October, 1911_


                Printed in the United States of America



CONTENTS


 CHAPTER                         PAGE
     I.――ON THE BENCH               1
    II.――“KANSAS”                  17
   III.――SAM IS MISSING            28
    IV.――BOARDERS VS. TOWNERS      48
     V.――KIDNAPPED                 67
    VI.――THREE OUT                 92
   VII.――CHESTER IS PUZZLED       111
  VIII.――THE PEACE EMBASSY        129
    IX.――JACK GETS A LIFT         145
     X.――THE SLUMP                164
    XI.――AN ALARM OF FIRE         176
   XII.――THE BATTING LIST         190
  XIII.――A GARRISON FINISH        205
   XIV.――FINKLER’S FIELD          215



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


                                                            FACING
                                                              PAGE

 “Sam shed his coat ... and walked toward the plate”
                                               _Frontispiece_

 “Tilted against the casing in the sunlight and reading
     a newspaper, was Perkins”                                  90

 “‘Thank you,’ replied Jack stiffly, ‘but I guess I’ll
     stand with my friends, sir.’”                             162

 “Jack met it squarely with a good sharp _crack_!”             212



FINKLER’S FIELD



CHAPTER I

ON THE BENCH


“One out; men on first and third!”

The coach hit a swift grounder toward second, and second baseman,
reaching it with one hand, snapped it quickly to first, from whence,
it sped back to the plate and the outstretched glove of Dolph Jones,
catcher and captain of the Maple Ridge School Nine.

It was snappy work all around. Tom Shay, the coach, nodded approval,
and the boys grouped on the bench and along the top of the stone wall
behind it voiced applause.

Sam Phillips, who had been pitching to “Ducky Drake,” the substitute
catcher, pulled off his glove and squeezed himself into a seat on the
bench. “Gus is playing good ball this spring, isn’t he?” he observed,
his gaze on the second baseman. “I guess, though, he is still wondering
how that ball got into his mitt!”

“Chesty” Harris, the manager, stopped snapping the elastic on his
score-book and smiled. “Turnbull won’t have everything his own way,
Sammy. Steve Grady is going to push him hard for second.”

“Steve’s not so bad,” answered Sam gravely. “The only trouble with
Steve is that he’s a Towner.”

“Huh!” Harris gave the elastic band an indignant snap. “You wait until
next Saturday and see what the Towners will do to you chaps!” Sam
simulated surprise.

“Say, you’re a Towner, too, aren’t you, Chesty? My word, I’d forgotten
that! You seem such a smart, decent sort of chap that one sort of
forgets your――your degradation!”

A murmur of laughter greeted this sally. Repartee not being the
baseball manager’s strong point, he retorted by digging his elbow
forcibly into Sam’s ribs.

“That’s all right, but you wait and see the way we’ll do you Boarders
up! We’ve got the dandy team this year, all right! Turnbull on second,
Mort Prince to pitch, Coolidge at short――――”

“Where are you going to play?” asked Sam innocently.

“Oh, you run away,” muttered Chesty, amid laughter. Harris’s efforts to
make the team and his final acceptance of the managership, proffered
him as a combined reward for his efforts and consolation prize, was
a school joke. Chesty was good-natured and could stand any amount of
“ragging.”

“We’re going to hammer you all over the lot,” announced one of the boys
on the wall, also a Towner, as the day students at Maple Ridge were
called.

“Pound away, Joe,” replied Sam with a laugh. “I’ll give you a quarter
apiece for all the hits you make off me, my lad.”

“Give me a quarter for every time I get my base?” asked Joe Williams
eagerly.

“I will not! You’d get in front of the ball and get hit! I know you,
Joseph!”

Ensued a spirited discussion of the chances of Boarders and Towners
to win the annual baseball game which was to be played the following
Saturday. As many of the group were Towners, the latter had the better
of the argument, however the contest might turn out.

It was half-past four of an afternoon in the latter part of April. The
fellows had been back from Spring Recess but three days, and today’s
practice represented the first real work that had been done out of
doors since the autumn. The first choice men were on the diamond, and
the dozen or so adorning the bench and the stone wall were substitutes,
if we except Sam Phillips. Sam, a thickset, jolly-looking youth
of sixteen, was very little like the popular conception of a good
ball-player. But in spite of his appearance, Sam was, in his way, a
wonder. He was the best pitcher that Maple Ridge had ever known; what
Coach Shay called “a natural-born twirler.” It had been Sam’s effective
and heady work that had wrested the victory from Maple Ridge’s dearly
hated rival, Chase Academy, last year, and when the Towners talked
glibly of winning Saturday’s game they knew all the while that as long
as Sam Phillips was in the box for the Boarders their chance of a
victory was about as big as an under-sized pea.

Maple Ridge School lies a mile and a half from the town of Charlemont,
Massachusetts. The campus overlooks a wide valley of farm and meadow
pricked out with white homesteads, with the river trailing like a
blue ribbon down the centre. Southward the smoky haze shows where
Springfield lies. Back of the school property rises the steep slope of
Maple Ridge. The buildings are five in number; the two dormitories,
North and South; the recitation hall, or School Building as it is
called; the Residence, abode of the Principal, Doctor Benedict――more
familiarly known as “Benny”――and the gymnasium. Behind the gymnasium
the land slopes to a terrace wide enough to accommodate two tennis
courts. Another slope brings one to the level of the playground. Not
very extensive, this latter; not half large enough for its purpose,
in fact, for behind the campus Finkler’s meadow juts in, cutting the
playground down to a width scarcely more than half of that of the
campus itself. The restrictions of the athletic field had long been
a matter for dissatisfaction amongst the students of Maple Ridge.
There wasn’t room for a running-track, the gridiron filled almost
every foot of field, and as a baseball ground the place was decidedly
unsatisfactory, since a very long hit to right field invariably went
over the stone wall into Finkler’s meadow, necessitating a ground
rule to the effect that over the wall was good for but two bases. The
eastward limit of the school property was marked by the brook that
meandered between the edge of the playground and the first slope of
the Ridge. On the other or northern side the playground was limited
by a high iron fence backed with an evergreen hedge. Beyond lay the
big estate of one of Charlemont’s wealthiest mill owners. As seeking
to recover a ball knocked into Caldwell grounds would have been an
almost hopeless effort, the diamond had been slightly skewed until
the foul-line on that side ran clear to the brook. But by securing a
clear left field it had been necessary to sacrifice right field, and
as a result the foul-line past first ended abruptly against Farmer
Finkler’s stone wall but a short distance behind the bag, and during a
game one or more Preparatory Class youngsters were posted nearby for
the sole purpose of jumping or scrambling over the wall and recovering
balls. The wall was well built, but no wall erected without mortar
can withstand such constant assaults and, as may be supposed, Farmer
Finkler’s wall, in spring and fall, was always in need of repairing.
As a matter of fact, no Maple Ridge boy bothered his head much when in
getting over he toppled a stone to the ground, for between the owner of
the meadow and the students existed a feud of long standing.

“Two down and a man on first!” shouted the coach, tossing the ball and
swinging his bat. There was a _crack_ and away arched the sphere. But
Mr. Shay had put too much swing into that hit, for the ball came to
earth in Finkler’s meadow.

“Let it go!” he shouted, as Dolph Jones tossed another ball to him.
“Same play!”

This time the long fly was caught by Watkins and relayed to the plate
in time to cut off the supposititious runner. Meanwhile “Midget” Green,
a “Prep” of twelve years, whose chief ambition outside of school hours
was to chase balls, was scrambling over the wall. “Chesty” Harris
watched morosely.

“Gee,” he muttered, “I wish we had a field big enough to play ball in!”

There was nothing novel in this complaint, and so the hearers made no
reply, unless a grunt by “Ducky” Drake could be called such. Every one
heartily seconded Chesty’s wish, but they did so silently. Concurrence
was a matter of course, just as protest every time a ball went over the
stone wall was a matter of habit.

“I should think they’d move this fence back and give us more room.”
This expression of opinion, uttered in a quiet, serious voice, came
from a boy sitting on Sam’s left, a good-looking, well-built fellow of
fifteen who had hitherto listened to the conversation in silence. The
looks of surprise directed toward him faded as the others recognized
the speaker.

“Oh,” said Joe Williams, “it’s ‘Kansas.’”

A smile went around, and the boy who had spoken echoed it faintly.
“Well, now, couldn’t they?” he persisted.

“Oh, sure!” replied Chesty with a wealth of sarcasm.

But Sam answered seriously.

“Jack,” he said, “if that stone wall could be moved it wouldn’t be
where it is. Benny has been trying to buy or lease that piece of meadow
from old Finkler for years, but the cranky old hayseed won’t listen to
him. The fact of the matter is, Jack, that old Fink doesn’t like us;
hates us like pizen, to be strictly truthful.”

“Oh, does he? Why?”

“We-ell――” Sam squinted thoughtfully across the diamond――“I dare say
we――that is, former generations of Maple Ridgers――have worried him
some. By turning your head slightly, Mr. Borden, you will observe that
up the slope there, behind South, there are trees. In the Fall those
trees bear apples, very, very enticing apples, eh, fellows?”

“Rather!”

“Yum, yum!”

“The best ever, Sammy.”

“Quite so; and you ought to know, Joseph,” Williams grinned. “Well,
Jack, to err is human, and every fall we err; I might say we fall. I’m
told that we used to err more than we do now. One year, so history
hath it, about sixty fellows descended on that orchard between morning
school and dinner time and just about――er――depopulated it of apples.
Nowadays the old codger keeps a dog, a large, ferocious and extremely
suspicious dog; his name is Rowdy, and he is well named. Rowdy spends
all his waking moments――and I am convinced that he never, never really
sleeps――in prowling around looking for Maple Ridge legs. Gathering
Farmer Finkler’s apples is no longer the pleasant, casual recreation
it used to be. If your soul cries for apples now you put on all your
old clothes, bundle up your legs in leg-guards, arm yourself with a
baseball bat and say your prayers as you creep silently over the
wall.” Sam shook his head regretfully. “No, erring isn’t what it used
to be. You have to _work_ for your apples these days!”

“They’re good, though, when you get them,” sighed Chesty with a
reminiscent smile.

“Yes, but ever since Tyler Wicks spent almost two hours up a tree with
Rowdy underneath begging him to come down and be eaten my appetite for
apples isn’t what it used to was.” Sam frowned. “Personally, I think
it’s a mighty mean trick to let a dog hang around an apple orchard.
It――it indicates a lack of confidence in the――er――the integrity of your
neighbors.”

“Very small, I call it,” Joe Williams agreed laughingly.

“It seems too bad, though, he won’t let the school have the use of that
piece of land,” said Jack Borden, turning to look at the clear, level
stretch of meadow beyond the wall. “It would surely make a dandy field,
wouldn’t it?”

“Fine _and_ dandy, Kansas,” agreed Chesty. “Why, if we had that, or
even a good slice off it, we could have a quarter-mile running track!”

“And then, maybe,” muttered Drake, who was a member of the Track Team,
“we wouldn’t get simply snowed under every spring at the Tri-Meet.”

“Considering we haven’t a track of our own,” said Williams, “I think
it’s sort of wonderful we do as well as we do.”

“Of course it is,” Drake admitted. “But it gets monotonous when you’re
licked hard every year. We go over to Chase or Dixon and get ten or
twelve points in field events and then sort of stand around and watch
the other fellows take all the track stunts. It makes me tired!”

“Maybe,” mused Chesty, “Old Fink will up and shuffle off this mortal
coil some day and then we can have the field.”

“Huh! Don’t you believe it,” exclaimed Williams pessimistically. “He
will leave a will forbidding his――whatdoyoucallems――his heirs to let us
have it. He’s the meanest old rascal in the State of Massachusetts!”

“And he hates us fellows like the mischief,” added Drake.

“Hates us _for_ the mischief, I guess,” laughed Sam. “I don’t think he
needs to be so nasty about it, but I will own that he has some cause
for not loving us.”

“We never did anything to him until he acted so pesky mean,” growled
Williams. “Nothing, that is, but swipe a few of his old apples. And
he’s got about a hundred trees over there and wouldn’t miss what we
take, anyway.”

“Well, I don’t know how it started,” replied Sam, “but I do know that
it’s war to the knife now. Remember last Fall when we met him coming
home from town in his buggy and Tyler Wicks walked up to the old horse
and put his arms around his neck?”

“You bet! Say, that _was_ funny, wasn’t it? The horse stopped short in
the road and Old Fink was so astonished he didn’t know what to do or
say for a minute!”

“And all the time Tyler was telling the horse that he was a ‘nice old
plug’ and why didn’t he get a good, kind master.”

“But when Old Fink woke up he had a few things to say, didn’t he?”
laughed Chesty.

“And the way he lashed out with his old busted whip was a caution! He
got Tyler around the legs all right; he showed me the welts next day.”

“Just the same,” said Joe Williams, “he didn’t have any right to say we
burned his haycock last September.”

“No, and he will think we did it as long as he lives. Nothing Benny
could say made any difference with him.”

“Was it really burned?” asked Jack Borden.

“Oh, I guess it was burned all right,” answered Sam, “but none of us
fellows knew anything about it. It was tramps, probably. We might have
a little fun with the old codger, and swipe a few of his apples, but we
don’t do things like that, you know.”

“It’s too bad he thinks that, though,” mused Jack Borden. “It seems to
me that if we want to get the field we’d ought to be decent to him.”

“Huh! It’s too late for that now,” responded Drake gloomily. “He
thinks we’re a pack of thieves and pirates.”

“Still, if we told him we wouldn’t make any more trouble or take any
more apples――――” suggested Jack.

“He wouldn’t believe it,” Chesty laughed. “You might drop around and
see him some day, Borden, and tell him that. Just mention my name and
it will be all right.”

“And if you get a chance at that fool dog,” said Williams, “just give
him a kick for me, will you?”

“And another for me,” added Drake.

Jack was silent for a moment, looking thoughtfully at the meadow over
his shoulder. Finally:

“Just the same,” he said, “I have an idea that Mr. Fink――――”

“Finkler,” corrected Sam.

“Finkler might be brought around if we set out to do it.” Jack smiled
half apologetically. “Of course, I don’t know very much about it,
fellows, but it looks to me like a situation demanding diplomacy.”

“Sort of fancy yourself as a diplomat, Kansas?” asked a boy on the
wall. Jack shook his head.

“No, I don’t. But if you fellows really need that field as badly as you
say you do you’re going the wrong way about it. I know that much.”

“You know a whole lot for a new boy, seems to me,” said Joe Williams
irritably. “I suppose out in Kansas――――”

“Out in Kansas,” interrupted Jack calmly, “we don’t punch a fellow’s
head when we want him to do us a favor.”

No one found anything to say to this, although Williams growled
something to his neighbor regarding “fresh Western kids.” And before
the subject could be proceeded with the Coach called the players in and
turned toward the bench.

“All ready now,” he said. “We’ll try a few innings. Second Team in the
field. Prince and Drake, battery. Wales on third, Borden in left field.
Get out there and throw around, boys!”



CHAPTER II

“KANSAS”


Jack Borden had made the mistake of entering Maple Ridge in January
at the beginning of the Winter Term, for the boy who enters school
after his fellows seldom quite catches up. By the time of his arrival
friendships have been formed, elections have been held and the school
has shaken itself down, and the late arrival finds himself in the
position of a frog in a strange puddle. Jack had meant to enter Maple
Ridge in the autumn, but events had prohibited. One stroke of luck
had, however, befallen him. Sam Phillips’s room-mate, Storey, had been
forced to give up school because of illness, and Sam was in undisputed
possession of Number 12 South when Jack arrived on the scene. Therefore
Jack was put in with Sam, an arrangement that didn’t please Sam at
all. At first Sam, like most every other fellow at Maple Ridge, every
one of whom hailed from the Eastern States, and the most of them from
New England, viewed the Kansan with mingled curiosity and alarm. Jack
was the very first Westerner to invade Maple Ridge, and his coming
seemed revolutionary, a veritable shattering of precedent. There was
absolutely no telling what wild and gruesome things a Westerner might
do!

It wasn’t snobbishness that caused Maple Ridge to at first look askance
at Jack. It was rather a spirit of clannishness, due to the fact the
school was essentially New England, and that in almost every case when
a new student entered the other fellows either knew him personally or
knew who he was. Very likely he was fresh from one of the four or five
lower schools that fed Maple Ridge; quite possibly he was the second
or third or even fourth of his name to enter. Jack was an outsider
whom nobody had ever heard of, who had attended no school that anybody
knew of and who, as though to emphasize his oddity, came not only from
a place outside New England but from the West, a region treated of in
geographies and occasionally briefly visited by adventurous youths,
but a region quite outside the philosophy of Maple Ridge! And so at
first Jack was accorded an uneasy curiosity not unlike that which might
have been displayed toward an Indian or a cowboy.

Eventually, however, as the Kansan neither scalped Doctor Benedict,
indulged in war-whoops or behaved vastly different from themselves,
the others got over their alarm and accepted the newcomer if not
unreservedly at least with toleration and a display of respect. For a
time the name of Kansas had been applied to him, not at all in a sense
of ridicule, however, but that appellation was gradually being dropped.
In a manner Jack was, I fear, something of a disappointment to his
schoolmates. They were quite prepared to be shocked and scandalized by
the Westerner, and when no shocks were forthcoming they doubtless lost
much of their faith in the stories they had read about the Wild West.

Sam Phillips held his new and undesired room-mate at arms’ length for
quite a week. Sam was the third of his line who had attended Maple
Ridge and he was thoroughly imbued with the traditions of the school.
That the West should, as he slangily put it, “butt in” there filled
him with alarm and disgust. But Jack, who had far more tact than is
usually possessed by a boy of his years, refused to show that he was
aware of the school’s doubts and aloofness, went about his work and
play in a quiet, self-possessed manner and made no overtures to any
one, even Sam. He was never fresh, didn’t talk about the West or Kansas
unless questioned, and accepted the customs and manners of the school
without the lifting of an eyelash. In short, he showed himself to be a
thoroughly likeable chap, good-looking, wide-awake, self-respecting,
and not without a certain half-serious sense of humor that made a big
hit with Sam. At the end of the week Sam capitulated and, being a
warm-hearted, good-natured youth, his capitulation was thorough. At the
end of a fortnight the two were fast friends. It was that fact that
helped Jack with the rest of the school. Sam vouched for him and that
went a long way, for Sam was more or less of a school idol. You can’t
pitch your school nine to victory over its rival without being placed
on a pedestal, you see. If Sam liked Kansas and said so, why, Kansas
must be a pretty good sort, after all. Doubtless the wild and woolly
West wasn’t so wild and woolly as it was painted in the story books.
Secretly Jack was at first a trifle angry and later not a little amused
over the attitude of the school toward him. But at no time did he lose
either his temper or his sense of humor; a fact which proves him at the
outset an extremely level-headed, sensible chap!

After practice Jack and Sam returned together to the gymnasium, pausing
a moment on the terrace to watch a game of tennis that was in progress.

“How did you get on?” asked Sam as they continued up the path.

“All right, I think,” replied Jack. “I only had two chances in the
field and got them both.”

“That’s good, but let me tell you something, Jack. When you threw to
the plate on that short fly that time, you sent the ball to the right.
Never do that, my boy. Always put it to the left of the plate; that is,
your left. It’s better to put it yards too far to the left than three
feet too far the other way. You’ve got to consider the catcher, you
see. It’s a heap easier for him to step to his right for a throw-in
than to his left. Get that?”

“Yes. But the trouble is, Sam, that when you’re in a hurry and you’ve
got a long throw you can’t always put the ball just where you want it.”

“No, but the oftener you do the better chance you stand of making the
team. That’s the point, Jack. Every fielder slips up sometimes, but
it’s the fellow that slips up oftenest that sits on the bench when the
real games come along. When you throw in to the plate――which isn’t very
often, of course, since you’ll usually throw to an infielder――just glue
your eye to the catcher’s left and put your mind on getting the ball
there. And, by the way, never take your eye away from where the ball’s
going until it’s left your hand. Some fellows shift their eyes while
they’re throwing, and those chaps are never sure. We had a fellow on
the team last year named Crowder. Shay was trying him at third. He was
a hustling chap, all right, and a good batter; could stop almost any
ball within ten feet of his position, too; and about four times out of
five he threw to first as straight as a die; used to do some of the
prettiest throwing I ever saw. But when the fifth time came along, why,
the ball would go ten feet to one side or the other or six feet over
first baseman’s head; and by the time the ball was found the runner
would be sitting on third! Shay couldn’t make out what the trouble was
at first, but after awhile he found out. It seemed that Crowder would
get the ball, turn and find first and then throw like the mischief, and
always as his arm shot out he’d turn his head away. Ever play golf,
Jack?”

Jack shook his head. “No, but I’ve seen it played.”

“Well, it’s the same idea. You swing your club back and you keep your
eye right on the back of the ball――or just behind it――until you hit
it; and then you keep on looking at it until you’ve finished your
stroke; and then you keep on looking at it until it’s reached the
ground somewhere. You’re thinking two things. First, you’re thinking
that you’re going to bring the head of your club square against the
ball, and you do it. Then you’re thinking that that ball is going to
travel in a certain direction and land in a certain part of the course,
and it does. That’s where mind gets in its work, Jack. But just try
taking your eyes off that ball while you’re making the stroke. Result
is you hit behind it, or you top it, or maybe you just plumb miss it
altogether. Same way with throwing a baseball. Look where you want
the ball to land and then put your mind on it. I’d make a peach of a
pitcher if, every time I sent a ball away, I looked over my shoulder,
eh?”

“I see what you mean, of course,” replied Jack as they entered the
gymnasium. “I hadn’t just thought of that before, though. I’m much
obliged.”

“That’s all right,” responded Sam as they ran down the stairs to the
locker room. “You’ve got the making of a good player, I think, Jack,
and I want to see you get a place on the team. You bat mighty well
for a chap who hasn’t played much, and if you can do a little better
at that and play a good, steady, reliable game in the outfield, why,
I don’t see why Shay shouldn’t take you on. Anyhow, you can be pretty
sure of a place on the second team, for you can bat all around Cook.
Just you buckle down for the next two weeks and work hard, you wild
Westerner, and you’ll make good. Here, you, Ted Warner, move along and
make room for two gentlemen on that bench!”

“Hello, Sammy. How’s the Arm?” (Sam’s pitching arm was always referred
to in a manner of the deepest respect and reverence, and its welfare
was a matter of constant anxiety. The word Arm as Ted Warner pronounced
it began with a capital A.)

“Fine and dandy,” replied Sam. “You know Mr. Borden, don’t you, Ted?”
Ted shook hands with Jack.

“We’ve never been properly introduced yet,” he answered smilingly,
“but we’ve passed the time on the field, I think. How are you getting
on, Borden?”

“He’s doing finely,” replied Sam, saving Jack the trouble of answering.
“We’re going to have him on the first in a week or so.”

“I hope so, I’m sure,” said Ted politely. “I say, Sammy, come over
to the room tonight, will you? We want to fix up a batting-list for
Saturday’s game with the Towners. Dolph told me to tell you. Bring
Borden along if he cares to come.”

Ted slipped out of the last of his togs and, wrapping a bath towel
about him, nodded, smiled and turned toward the showers.

“That’s fine,” said Sam with satisfaction. “I’m glad he asked you over.”

“Why?”

“Because he and Dolph Jones room together, you see, and Dolph’s
captain, as you know. It doesn’t do a fellow any harm to know the
captain if he wants to make the team.” Sam grunted as he pulled his
shirt over his head. “Of course,” he went on as his head reappeared to
sight, “I don’t mean there’s any favoritism here; only that, all other
things being equal, you know, being a friend of Dolph’s might help a
little. Even a baseball captain’s human. See you later, Jack.”

Sam scurried toward the shower baths, leaving his room-mate to finish
his undressing leisurely and thoughtfully. He was quite as anxious to
get on the baseball team as Sam was to have him, but, he reflected with
a rueful smile, with all his inexperience behind him he doubted if even
a personal acquaintance with Captain Dolph Jones would place him there.
Still, if hard work could do the trick――――

He picked up his own towel, draped it about him and strode across the
locker room as resolutely as though baseball practice and not a hot and
cold shower bath awaited him.



CHAPTER III

SAM IS MISSING


Number 4, North Dormitory, was a revelation to Jack. The room he shared
with Sam Phillips in South was comfortable enough and not at all badly
furnished, but Sam “didn’t go in much for fancy gimcracks,” to use his
own expression. The room occupied by Ted Warner and his chum Dolph
Jones was carpeted with a dark red Oriental rug, and all the furniture,
even the wide study desk in the middle, was of black oak. Most of the
chairs held leather cushions that you sank into as softly as into a
feather bed. The drop-light was covered by a big opal glass shade that
threw the light downward and left the upper part of the room in a
pleasant twilight, through which the dozens of pictures and schoolboy
trophies on the walls peered dimly and interestingly to the callers.

Jack was properly introduced to Dolph Jones――a ceremony he considered
rather unnecessary, since he and Dolph in the rôles of candidate and
captain had already spoken to each other on the baseball diamond more
than once――and then sat comfortable and silent in one of the big
leather cushioned chairs while Dolph and Ted and Sam drew up around
the light and discussed the matter of the batting order for Saturday’s
game. Both Dolph and Ted were seniors, and, save in the matter of
complexion, looked to Jack very much alike. Later, however, he realized
that the resemblance was due more to the fact that they were each of
the same type than to any real likeness of feature. Dolph was seventeen
and Ted Warner eighteen, but there was scarcely a fraction of an inch
difference in heights, and each was tall, well-built and lean, with the
leanness of the boy who keeps himself in perfect physical condition.
Dolph was dark of hair and eyes, while Ted was decidedly light, his
hair being pale brown and his eyes something between blue and gray. On
the nine Dolph, who was captain, caught, and Ted played first base.

“Here’s the way; I had it fixed up,” Dolph was saying, referring as he
spoke to a paper in his hand. “Truesdale, Jones, Grady, Warner, Cook,
Smythe, Cassart, Watkins and Phillips. What do you think?”

“I’d have Harry Smythe bat first,” said Sam. “He’s a heap better on the
bases than Truesdale.”

“He’s faster,” said Ted, “but he takes risks at the wrong times.
Truesdale can draw a pass three times out of five, too. Then, with
Dolph up next he’s pretty sure of second on a sacrifice.”

“All right,” agreed Sam. “I see, though, you’ve got Cook down for left
field. Why don’t you give Jack here a chance? He’s every bit as good as
Cook.”

Dolph glanced at Jack and hesitated. Ted smiled, and then went to the
rescue.

“Cook’s had more experience, Sammy, and in a Boarders and Towners game
it’s a good idea to play fellows who have been through it before. You
see, Borden,” he added, turning to Jack, “everything goes in these
games, and it isn’t so much science that wins as it is keeping your
head. When you go to bat you’ll have thirty or forty idiots standing
around and yelling like Indians and doing everything they can to rattle
you. Still, Dolph, you might put Borden in for part of the game. I dare
say it’s a good experience for a fellow. If Borden can get through a
Towner game without getting rattled he can stand anything.”

“Don’t bother about me,” said Jack.

“That’s the ticket,” said Sam. “Put Jack in for the last four innings.
You needn’t be afraid of his getting scared. I’ve never seen anything
feaze him yet. He’s just about as nervous and fidgety as a granite
post!”

“All right,” laughed Dolph, making a memoranda on the sheet of paper.
“Borden goes in in the fifth. Heard anything, Sammy?”

“No, but something’s up; I’m dead sure of that. Gus goes around
grinning like a catfish all the time and Tyler smirks every time he
looks at me. I wonder what sort of a caper they’re up to this time.
Last year,” he went on for Jack’s benefit, “they got a chap named
Riley from somewhere and palmed him off as a Towner. At least, that’s
what they tried to do, but, of course, we got onto the dodge in a
minute.”

“Yes,” said Dolph dryly, “we got onto it after he’d knocked out a
three-bagger in the first inning and scored two runs!”

“I never even looked at him until he got to third,” said Sammy
ruefully, “and I guess you didn’t, Dolph.”

“Well, he puzzled me when he went to bat,” answered Dolph. “I thought I
knew all the fellows in school, but that chap was a total stranger. So,
as there were two men on bases, I signaled you to try him with a high
one, thinking he’d fan. Instead of that he reached up and got it and
sent it over left fielder’s head.”

“And pretty near won the game, too,” added Ted.

“What did you do to him?” asked Jack interestedly.

“Ran him off the field,” replied Dolph grimly. “The umpire called time
and we had a ten minute riot. The last we saw of Riley, though, he was
streaking it for town.”

“One year,” said Sam, “before any of us fellows got here, they moved
the first and second bags about four feet nearer each other than they
should have been, and the Boarders wondered why almost every Towner
that reached first got to second ahead of the throw!”

“It must be a funny sort of a game,” laughed Jack.

“It is,” Ted grinned reminiscently. “Remember last year, Sammy, when
they had men on second and third and needed two runs to tie the score?
And Wicks stood alongside Dolph and every time you pitched a ball he
yelled ‘_Drop it_’?”

“I remember it,” growled Dolph. “I didn’t mind it at first, but after
awhile I got so rattled I didn’t know where I was.”

“And when the ball did get by you finally you couldn’t find it,”
laughed Ted.

“Couldn’t find it! Of course, I couldn’t find it! Some one kicked it
into the crowd!”

“Did they score?” Jack asked.

“Two runs. But we hammered the stuffing out of the ball in the eighth
inning and won. What was the score, Ted?”

“Nine to six.”

“Nine to seven,” corrected Sam.

“Nine to six.”

“I’ll tell you.” Dolph pulled open a drawer in the desk, took out a
score book and found the game. “Nine to seven, Ted.”

“I stand corrected, gentlemen. Anyway, it was a peach of a game, all
right. I hope we’ll have as much fun this time. I suppose Mort Prince
will pitch for them.”

“They haven’t any one else that I know of,” said Sam.

“Well, he’s pitching pretty good ball this Spring so far,” said Dolph.
“But I guess we’ll have the better of the pitching argument with you in
the box.”

“They’ve got some good batters, though,” replied Sam. “Gus Turnbull,
Tyler Wicks, Dick Furst; Prince himself isn’t so bad with the ash.”

“I’m not afraid of what they can do with the bat,” said Ted. “It’s
their schemes for breaking up the game that worry me. They’ll probably
spring something brand new on us this time.”

“Well, we’re going to do a little rough-housing ourselves,” Sam smiled.
“About ten of the fellows will be there with tin horns and a drum and a
broken-winded cornet, and they ought to make some sensation!”

“Bully!” laughed Ted. “Music will be rendered by the Boarders’ Cornet
Band!”

“Executed, you mean,” said Dolph. “Well, then, this batting list is all
right, you think?”

“Sure,” said Sam.

“Don’t see how we can better it,” remarked Ted.

“Then I’m off for a line of study.” Sam arose and Jack followed his
example. “We’d all better keep our ears wide open and our eyes peeled
between now and Saturday. If we can find out what they’re up to maybe
we can get ready for them. I don’t half like the way Gus is grinning!”

“I’ve got a private detective on the job,” answered Dolph. “Young
Green, Midget Green, you know, came to me this afternoon and said he’d
heard that the Towners were going to do something this year that would
just give them the game. He didn’t know what it was, however; he’d just
heard some of the kids boasting. I told him to try and find out what
the Towners were up to and he’s hot on the trail now, I guess.”

“I suppose,” said Ted, “you promised him that if he found out anything
you’d let him chase balls in Finkler’s meadow for the rest of his
natural life!”

“Something of that sort,” agreed Dolph smilingly.

“Isn’t it possible to get hold of some of that field?” asked Jack. “I
heard the fellows talking about it this afternoon, and Sam says Finkler
won’t sell or lease or anything.”

“Wish we could,” said Dolph. “No, the old rascal has it in for us good
and hard. It’s a wonder he doesn’t stand down there with a shotgun and
keep us from getting the balls that go over there!”

“Has he been asked about it lately?” pursued Jack.

“Lately? Why, no, not for a year or so, I suppose. I guess Benny’s
tired of making him offers. The last time he offered old Finkler about
twice what the land was worth, I heard. What the school ought to do is
to get some land across the road and put the athletic field there. We
need a running track pretty bad, Borden.”

“So I should think. I was wondering whether if the fellows sort of got
together and agreed not to――to worry Mr. Finkler, or to trespass any
more, he wouldn’t rent a strip of that meadow to us.”

“You don’t know the old chap,” said Ted. “He simply won’t listen to
reason. I guess we’d all be glad enough to let him alone if he’d hand
over enough of that meadow to give us a decent athletic field.”

“Well, couldn’t we tell him that?” asked Jack earnestly. “It wouldn’t
do any harm to try, would it?”

“N-no, but I don’t believe I’d care to be the fellow to talk to him.”
This from Dolph.

“Oh, we couldn’t do anything,” protested Sam. “Benny would have to make
the offer. And I guess Benny is tired of it by this time. Never mind
about old Finkler now, Jack; come on home and put your nose in your
books.”

Back in Number 12, South, Sam remarked as he pulled his books toward
him: “I’m glad we worked Dolph to let you into the game, Jack. There’s
nothing like getting a start. You can play just as well as Cook if you
have a little more experience.”

“Well, I’m glad of the chance to play,” answered Jack, “but I don’t
like having to ask for it.”

“Huh!” Sam tried his fountain pen on his thumb nail and then wiped his
nail on his dark hair. “Modesty’s all right, Jack, as long as it don’t
interfere with getting what you want. All folks aren’t mind readers and
sometimes you’ve got to speak out.”

Having delivered this bit of philosophy Sam leaned his elbows on the
desk, got a firm grip of his hair with each hand and plunged into
French.

The weather began to warm up toward the last of the week, and Saturday
was like a day in the middle of May. There are no “hours” on Saturday
at Maple Ridge except for the Seniors, who have recitations from nine
to half-past ten. At eleven Dolph Jones got his Boarders team together
for an hour in order that the reconstructed nine might get accustomed
to its new formation. The loss of Gus Turnbull, Jim Curtis and Tyler
Wicks, all Towners, weakened the team not a little. The Towners would
not show up until just before the time set for the game, two o’clock,
and were doubtless holding practice this morning at the Fair Grounds.
Although the Boarders had done their best to discover what particular
brand of torture the enemy had invented for the occasion they had
learned nothing. Midget Green, the amateur sleuth, had utterly failed
in his mission and was much cast down thereby.

“We’ll just have to keep our eyes open,” said Ted Warner as he and
Dolph and some of the others talked it over before practice. “And
we’ll make sure, too, that they don’t monkey with the bases!”

Mr. Shay, the coach, not being on hand, Sam and Harry Smythe, the
shortstop, batted balls for the fielding practice, Hal Morris, a
substitute pitcher, taking Smythe’s place in the infield. Afterwards
there was batting practice, Sam pitching until just before twelve, when
a message called him away.

“It’s up to you, Hal,” said Dolph to Morris. “You’d better let yourself
out a bit. You may have to go in for awhile this afternoon.”

Shortly after twelve the fellows went back to the campus to get ready
for dinner. Sam wasn’t in the room when Jack got there, nor did he
return before dinner time. In the dining hall Sam’s seat was empty
when Jack went in and remained so when the latter had finished his
meal. Jack, however, thought little of it; doubtless Sam’s message
accounted for his tardiness. In the confusion succeeding dinner Jack
forgot all about his room-mate. With others of the players he watched
from the steps of School Building the formation of the line of march
to the field. Leading the procession was Pete Sawyer, a battered cornet
in his hands. Then followed the rest of the “band,” with a decrepit
snare-drum, several tin horns and some assorted instruments of torture
such as watchmen’s rattles, accordions and mouth-organs. A strip of
unbleached muslin with the inscription “Champions” lettered upon it
in fresh and sticky green paint was secured to two poles and borne
aloft. Old clothes were the proper regalia, and many of the fellows
had added to the color and picturesqueness of the occasion by turning
their coats inside out, while those who possessed any eccentric article
of apparel wore it. With a discordant riot of sound from the “band”
the procession, cheering and capering, moved off to the field and the
players followed laughingly to the gymnasium.

While they were changing into baseball togs a burst of noise summoned
them to the windows. The Towners had arrived. The nine marched ahead,
Ducky Drake leading the way in the rôle of drum major, with a bat in
lieu of baton. Then came the non-combatants and their village friends,
a good half-hundred boys all together. They shouted and jeered at the
players at the open windows and passed down the terrace path and out of
sight.

“There’s quite a bunch of them, isn’t there?” observed Jack.

“Yes,” replied Ted. “They bring their friends, you see. Say, where’s
Sammy? Isn’t he here?”

Jack looked around and shook his head.

“I haven’t seen him since he left the field.”

Ted stared.

“Well, some one must find him and tell him to hurry up. Joe, you’re
dressed. Run up to South and find Sam. Tell him to hurry it up, will
you?”

“He wasn’t at dinner,” said Jack, “so maybe he’s in hall now.”

“Yes, Joe, if you don’t find him in his room look in the dining hall,
will you? Only tell him to get a move on. What do you think of Sammy,
Dolph?” Ted continued as Joe Cassart sped away on his errand. “What
time does he think the game begins, I wonder.”

“Sam? Isn’t he here? Where is he? I haven’t seen him since practice.”

“Neither have I. You don’t suppose――――” Ted stopped and stared
incredulously at Dolph.

“Nonsense!” answered the captain impatiently. “He’s around somewhere.
Come on, fellows, and let’s go down.”

Nevertheless, Ted remained uneasy, and so, I suspect, did Dolph in
spite of his seeming confidence. Their appearance on the field was the
signal for a blare of music and cheering from the Boarders and groans
and cat-calls from the enemy. The rival camps were on opposite sides
of the diamond. A few boys were lolling in the grandstand, but the
majority clustered as near the foul lines as they could get in order
that their vocal and instrumental efforts at enlivening the contest
might have full sway. The Towners were at practice and so the Boarders
passed balls until their turn came to get on the diamond. Ted and Dolph
kept an anxious watch for Sam, but he didn’t appear, nor was there any
news of him. The Towners finished their warming-up and yielded the
field. Dolph summoned Midget Green, who, as always, was hovering as
near his hero as he could get, and whispered instructions in his ear.
Midget lit out for the campus, while many of the Towners, guessing his
errand, smiled broadly.

The umpire was Mr. Shay, the coach, and at two he called the Boarders
in. Dolph won the toss and selected the field.

“We’re not ready to start yet, though,” said Dolph. “We’re waiting for
Phillips. I’ve sent for him.” He spoke confidently enough, although his
gaze wandered anxiously toward the terrace path.

“It’s time to play,” said Morton Prince, captain and pitcher of the
Towners. “I insist, Mr. Umpire, that the game begin.”

“We’ll wait five minutes,” responded Mr. Shay.

Prince shrugged his shoulders and turned away.

“They’ve bought the umpire, fellows,” he announced with a laugh. “We
might as well go home.”

Shouts of “play ball!” came from the Towners. At that minute Joe
Cassart appeared breathlessly and drew Dolph aside. It was quite
apparent that something had gone wrong and both Towners and Boarders
ceased their shouting.

“I can’t find him anywhere, Dolph,” reported Joe. “He isn’t in his
room and he hasn’t been in dining hall. I went to the Residence, too;
thought he might have been called to see Benny; but Benny doesn’t know
anything about him. I looked everywhere.”

Dolph shrugged his shoulders hopelessly.

“They’ve got him,” he said. “They probably sent a decoy message and
Sammy walked right into the trap. There’s no use looking for him. We’ll
just have to go ahead without him. Hal, you’re in the box. Sam can’t be
found.”

The news spread instantly and shouts of anger arose from the Boarders.
“Kidnappers! Thieves! Let’s rush ’em!”

“None of that, fellows!” warned Dolph. “We’re here to play ball and
we’ll do it. And we’ll lick ’em in spite of all!”

These sentiments were greeted with a cheer, a loud peal from the cornet
and a frenzied beating of the drum. Good nature was restored. Dolph
sent his team into the field just as Midget Green put in an appearance.

“I――I can’t find him, please, Jones,” he stammered. “I――I looked
everywhere!”

“All right, Midget. Much obliged. We’re going to beat them without Sam.
You look after foul balls, like a good chap.”

“I will,” Midget beamed and ran to his position on the stone wall.
Morris began to pitch to Dolph, and Tyler Wicks, with bat in hand, came
across to the plate to start the game for the Towners.

“Aren’t you going to pitch Sam?” he asked innocently.

“You know mighty well we’re not,” growled Dolph as he tossed the ball
back to Morris. “Where’d you put him?”

“Put him?” Tyler grinned maddeningly. “Dolph, your suspicions wound me.”

“Do, eh? Well, you stand up here and see what happens to you, my
friend.” He stepped forward and launched the ball down to Grady on
second. “We’ll make you wish you hadn’t been so smart before we’re
through with you.”

Mr. Shay pulled his mask on and took up his position behind Dolph.

“Play ball!” he cried.



CHAPTER IV

BOARDERS VS. TOWNERS


Hal Morris, as a pitcher, was not in the same class with Sam Phillips,
nor was he nearly so good as Mort Prince. He had speed and two or three
simple curve balls that weren’t very puzzling, especially as almost
every one of the Towners had stood up to him in front of the batting
net and were well used to his pitching. It was a foregone conclusion
that the Towners would hit Morris good and hard. If the Boarders
were to win the game it must be through tight fielding and an equal
dexterity with the bat. Dolph, pretty sore over the trick that had been
sprung on him, determined grimly that his team should win in spite of
the handicap. And for a time it really looked as though the Boarders
might come through victorious, for Morris, working finely with Dolph,
struck out Tyler Wicks, amidst the cheers and jeers of the Boarders;
disposed of Ducky Drake in the same manner, and threw Coolidge out at
first.

“That’s good work, Hal,” said Dolph as they retired to the bench. “Keep
that up and we’ll put it all over them.”

Truesdale worked Prince for a pass and got to second on Dolph’s neat
sacrifice hit to third. But Grady was an easy out, shortstop to first,
and Ted Warner popped an infield fly to second baseman. Again in the
second inning Morris held the enemy safely, and the opinion became
current that Morris was a better man on the mound than he had been
given credit for being, and that Shay was making a mistake in not using
him more. With one out and men on first and second, Morris himself
started the double play that retired the Towners.

But if Prince’s team was unable to score, so too was Dolph’s. Up to the
beginning of the fourth inning the only hit that had been made was of
a scratch variety by Smythe, and neither side had reached third base.
So far the spectators had remained in what, for a Towner-Boarder game,
was a very orderly condition. But when Gus Turnbull found Morris for
a two-bagger right at the start of the fourth the Towners’ enthusiasm
began to bubble. And it boiled over when Joe Williams followed with a
bunt that advanced Turnbull and left him safe on first. Morris began to
look worried and Dolph strove to steady him down. But Morris had never
faced real trouble before, and with the coachers trying their best to
rattle him and the Towners along the third base line ably seconding
their efforts, he began to lose control. He pitched four balls to
Peters and the bases were filled. Boarders and Towners shouted at the
tops of their lungs, the latter trying to get the rival nine “up in the
air” and the former doing their best to drown out their enemies. Milton
Wales was up and Dolph knew that Milton was a weak batter. He signaled
for a straight ball “in the groove,” but Morris pitched a wild one that
Dolph just barely stopped. At this sign of disintegration the Towners,
highly delighted, redoubled their clamor.

“He’s up in a balloon! He’s up in a balloon!” shouted the coachers.
“He can’t put ’em over, Milt. You’ll walk, you’ll walk!”

And walk he did, for Morris, after registering one strike and having
two balls against him, sent in a wild one that took Wales on the elbow,
giving him his base and forcing in the first run.

Towners cavorted and turned somersaults on the turf, yelled and hooted.
Dolph walked down and had a whispered talk with Morris, and that
delighted the enemy even more.

“Talk it over, Dolph!” “No secrets there!” “That’s right, old chap,
change your signals!”

Ducky Drake, the Towners’ catcher, who followed Wales, should have been
an easy out. And yet, in some mysterious manner, he managed to connect
with a straight ball and drop it over second baseman’s head, scoring
two more runs. Pandemonium broke loose then.

“Here’s where we win it!” was the cry. “Oh, you poor old Boarders!”

“They’re up in the air! They’re up in the air!” chanted the coachers,
leaping ecstatically about at first and third. “Hit it out, Cap! He’s
easy!”

And Prince, smarting perhaps over his first fiasco at the plate, lined
a swift one between shortstop and third, sending in two more tallies
and placing himself on second by a fraction of a foot.

“Five to nothing!” shouted the Towners joyfully. “It’s a cinch! It’s a
picnic! Here’s Richard the First! Oh, you Dicky! Make it a home-run,
old man! Slam it into the brook!”

But Dick Furst was too anxious, for he found the first ball offered and
popped a tiny foul to Dolph. The Boarders, delighted at having at last
something to celebrate, howled lustily and the “band” did its level
best――or worst! That encouragement appeared to have its effect on Hal
Morris, for he steadied down and struck out Tyler Wicks for the second
time! Wicks scowled at the umpire and slammed his bat down angrily. The
Boarders jeered loudly.

“Oh, you wicked Wicks!” “Say, Wicks, your flame’s out!” “Why didn’t you
hit it, Tyler?”

With two out, Tom Coolidge stepped up looking desperately determined,
but Dolph knew Tom’s weakness for high balls and signaled Morris
accordingly. Coolidge was fooled once and then hit a long fly to
Truesdale in centre field and the first half of the fatal inning was
over.

Hal Morris looked pretty miserable as he went to the bench, but the
others cheered him up as best they could. “You’re doing all right, old
man,” said Ted consolingly. “You had a little bit of hard luck; that’s
all. You can hold them down the rest of the game.”

But Morris shook his head doubtfully.

“I don’t know, Ted. My arm’s getting pretty lame. I haven’t pitched
more than five innings for a long time, you see.”

“You’re up, Ted,” said Dolph. “Try a bunt if he gives you a chance, and
when you get to second run on anything. We’ve got to get those fellows
going. They’ll make all sorts of errors if we can only start them.”

Ted went to bat amidst the frenzied tooting of the cornet, the wild
beating of the drum and the mingled strains of rattles, harmonicas and
other instruments. This riot of sound was, of course, aimed at Mort
Prince in the hope that it would affect his pitching, but where there
is a deafening turmoil already a little sound more or less doesn’t make
much difference. Prince tried Ted with a low one that was palpably a
ball, offered him one above his shoulder, and then settled down to
strike him out. But Ted found what he wanted after a strike had been
called, connected with it lightly, loosening his grip on the bat at the
same moment, and streaked for first. It was a slow trickling bunt along
the third base line and both catcher and third baseman ran for it.
Catcher got to it first, scooped it up and threw to first, but Ted beat
out the ball by a narrow margin.

Cook was warned against hitting a long fly, and yet did that very
thing. As it happened, however, it was scored as a sacrifice, for Ted
made second after the catch by right fielder. With one out, Harry
Smythe was up. The shortstop was a good man on bases, but a poor
batsman, and with a hit necessary to score a tally Dolph wished that
some one else was at bat. But Smythe surprised Dolph and himself too,
I fancy, by finding the second ball pitched and placing it between
first baseman and the bag. Ted already had the signal and was streaking
for third before the crack of the bat reached his ears. Dolph, coaching
at third, looked, took a chance and waved him home. Right fielder had
been a little slow in backing-up, but now the ball was hurtling to
the plate. Ted, seeing that his only chance of scoring lay in getting
around the catcher, launched himself toward the back of the bag just
as the ball thumped into the catcher’s mitt. There was a cloud of dust
and catcher and runner were for a moment inextricably mixed up at the
plate. Then Mr. Shay said “Safe!” The Towners howled protests and the
Boarders shrieked their delight. And meanwhile Harry Smythe had reached
third and was all for stealing home in the confusion. But Dolph held
him by main force.

“Stay where you are, Harry. Play it safe. There’s only one out. Run up
the line and rattle Prince all you can, but don’t get caught.”

Mr. Shay refused to reverse his decision at the plate and the game
went on. Joe Cassart tapped his bat on the ground and faced Prince.
The latter was still peevish over the umpire’s decision, and before
he knew it had sent in two balls. He steadied down then and worked a
strike. But the next attempt was also a ball, and unholy glee seized
the Boarders. _Toot-toot_ went the cornet; _thumpity-thump_ went the
drum! Every one realized that here was a psychological moment; that if
the Towners could be rattled for five minutes the score would wear a
totally different aspect. So all voices along the first base line were
raised at Prince.

“Careful now, Mort, careful!” “That’s it, swing your arms up!” “Look
out for your foot! Don’t let it slip!” “A-a-ah! Right over the plate!”
“Wow! What a roast!” “Strike nothing! It was way up!” “Now, then, Mort!
Once more! Heave――――!”

“Four balls,” said Mr. Shay, and Joe trotted to first. Watkins took his
place. Dolph raised his voice above the turmoil.

“On your toes, on your toes! Take a lead!”

Watkins threw a swift glance at him and gripped his bat. The signal
for a double steal on the first ball thrown had been given. At first
Cassart danced a good twelve feet from base. At third Smythe ran up the
base line, shouting and waving his arms. Prince scorned them both and
pitched. It was a wide ball and Watkins swung at it.

“There he goes!” yelled Grady, coaching at first.

But the catcher knew better than to throw to second with a man twenty
feet from third. Instead he recovered quickly and hurled the ball to
the baseman in an endeavor to catch Smythe. As the ball left his hand
Smythe streaked for the plate. Third baseman caught it at arm’s length
and sped it back to the catcher. But Smythe’s lead had been a good one
and he threw himself between the catcher’s legs and reached home in
safety. Meanwhile Joe Cassart was almost at third. Back went the ball
there at a wild throw. Third baseman leaped into the air in a heroic
attempt to get it, but it passed a foot above his hands and Cassart
rounded the base and tallied the third run.

There was still but one man out, and Watkins, profiting by the general
stage-fright, hit an easy one to shortstop, who got it, dropped it,
found it again and then threw wide of first. Watkins went on to second.
A base hit would score him, but Morris was not equal to the emergency
and plumped a short fly into the second baseman’s mitt. The Towners
began to recover their equilibrium then, and, with two strikes and
only one ball, scored against him, Truesdale looked like an easy out.
But Prince, possibly with a desire to end the wretched inning, put one
across “in the groove” and Truesdale met it fairly. It went to right
field, and, although right fielder tried his best to reach it, it fell
to earth, a clean base-hit. Watkins scored easily. Dolph went to bat
next and his supporters howled joyfully, for Dolph was a good man with
the stick. A hot grounder between shortstop and second put Truesdale on
second and Dolph on first. Grady laid one down in front of the plate
and the catcher hurled it to third in an attempt to cut off Truesdale.
But third baseman dropped it and the runner was safe and the bases
filled again.

Ted was up for the second time in the inning. With three on bases it
was necessary to hit the ball outside the infield. That, however,
wasn’t so easy, for Mort Prince had steadied down and was once more
pitching good ball. “Strike!” said Mr. Shay.... “Ball!... Foul! Strike
two!... Ball! Two and two!... Ball three!”

Ted gripped his bat. This one would have to be a good one. And it was,
and ball and bat met. The result was a Texas Leaguer behind first.
Truesdale raced home, tallying the fifth run and tying the score, Dolph
made it 6 to 5. Grady took third on the throw-in and Ted was safe on
second. Time was called while Mr. Shay ordered the spectators back from
the base-lines. Cook went to bat looking like one determined to do or
die. But, when a clean hit would have scored Ted, the best he could do
was to hit a liner to third baseman, who was playing well in. Third
shot the ball to second, putting out Ted and ending the slaughter.

But 6 to 5 looked pretty good to the Boarders and they made the fact
known unmistakably. Dolph patted Morris on the back as that youth
walked to the pitcher’s box and picked up the ball. His arm may have
been tired and lame; undoubtedly it was; but you wouldn’t have guessed
it during the fifth and sixth innings, for only two Towners hit safely
and only once did a man reach second. In the same innings the Boarders
fared no better, for Prince struck out four of the eight men who faced
him.

In the seventh, the lucky seventh, as the Towners hopefully proclaimed
it, Morris began to weaken. Two one-baggers started the trouble, and a
base on balls, with one out, made the situation look rather desperate.
A double-play, however, neatly executed by Smythe, Dolph and Ted caught
a runner at the plate and nipped the batsman at first, awakening loud
jubilation amongst the Boarders.

In the last of the seventh Jack, who had taken Cook’s place at the
beginning of the fifth, had his first try at the bat, being the first
man up for the Boarders. He didn’t feel very hopeful as he faced
Prince, and Prince, recognizing a substitute, put the first two
deliveries over at different heights and scored two strikes. Then came
a ball. Then what looked to Jack like a straight one swerved wide of
the plate, fooling him and causing him to hit at it wildly. He was
prepared to walk back to the bench when shrieks of “Run, you chump!”
sent him speeding for first. Catcher had let the third strike go by,
and to do that today was fatal, for the ball once lost in the crowd
was extremely difficult to locate, it being kicked here and there by
the spectators. Urged on by the coachers, Jack went on to second and
finally to third and would have raced home amidst the urgent appeals of
the Boarders had not Mr. Shay waved him back to first. Dolph objected
to the ruling, but the umpire was firm. Smythe fouled out to third
baseman. Cassart struck out and Jack got his orders to steal. He shot
away for second on the first ball thrown and would have been out had
shortstop, who received the throw-down, held the ball. But he and Jack
collided and the ball trickled away in the dust. But Jack got no
further, for Watkins was an easy third out, pitcher to first.

The Towners started a rally in the eighth that looked very promising.
Morris showed his weariness plainly now, and the balls he pitched
wouldn’t have fooled any intelligent batsman. That he received no worse
punishment than he did only proved the inability of the opponents to
take advantage of the situation. The first man up hit safely for one
base and then was caught off. The next man lined a three-bagger over
center fielder’s head and might have stretched it into a home run had
he used more speed and better judgment. Then came a base on balls,
followed by an easy steal to second. The fourth man hit what looked
like a safe one into left field, but Jack made a fine run and pulled
it down, following that up with a throw to the plate that caught the
runner from third a foot short of base and retired the side.

“What do you think about it?” asked Ted wearily as he sank to the bench
beside Dolph. Dolph wiped his face on his sleeve and shook his head
doubtfully.

“If there was only some one we could put in for Hal,” he said, “we
might hold them. But Hal’s just about all in, and if the game goes to
extra innings he will be plugged all over the lot and they will do
what they like to us. Say, Joe Cassart, you used to pitch, didn’t you?
Couldn’t you hold those chaps down for a couple of innings?”

“Pitch? I never could do anything,” answered Joe. “I used to try it,
but I was no earthly good. I’d do it in a minute, Dolph, if I thought I
could help. But you’d be worse off than you are now, old man.”

“Well, we’ll just have to work hard and shut them out,” said Dolph
resignedly. “If Sam Phillips ever shows up again I’ll have something to
say to him for being such an easy mark!”

In the Boarders’ half of the eighth Morris struck out miserably,
Truesdale sent up a fly to second baseman, and Dolph’s desperate
attempt to beat out a bunt resulted unsuccessfully.

“We must keep them from scoring,” said Dolph to Morris as they went
out again for the first of the ninth. “How’s the arm?”

“Well, I can just about lift it,” answered Morris grimly. “I’ll do the
best I can, Dolph, but I’m afraid they’ll paste me hard this time. Give
me all the high balls you can; they’re easier to pitch. Who’s up!”

“Wicks. Let him hit it out, Hal. We’ll help all we can.”

Morris nodded silently and walked to the box.

“Batter up!” called Mr. Shay.

Wicks let the first delivery go by and scowled indignantly when the
umpire called it a strike. Then Morris sent one across waist-high and
Wicks found it easily. It proved to be a long, arching fly to centre
field, and Truesdale should have got under it without difficulty, but
in some manner that youth got his feet twisted and measured his length
on the turf at the very moment he should have put his hands up. Wicks
went to second. Dolph turned away with a groan, but down at first Ted
clapped his hands and shouted encouragement.

“Never mind that, fellows. Play for the double!”

Coolidge swung at an easy one, popped up three fouls in succession back
of the plate――none of which Dolph could get because of the interference
of the crowd――and then, with two strikes against him, calmly and
deliberately waited and drew a pass! Morris looked dejected as Gus
Turnbull faced him. Coolidge was taking a big lead at first and Dolph
signaled Morris to catch him. Morris swung around quickly and heaved
the ball. But his arm was no longer dependable and the throw went wild,
and before Ted could get it both runners had moved up.

Dolph waved the infield players in. “Play for the plate now, fellows,”
he called.

Turnbull hit a slow grounder toward shortstop and Smythe, smothering it
dexterously, held Wicks at third for a moment and then threw to first.
He had waited an instant too long, however, and Mr. Shay rendered a
close decision in favor of Turnbull. The bases were full and no one
out.

“_Home run! Home run! Home run!_” chanted the Towners in a wild chorus
as Joe Williams walked to the plate. The Boarders, defeat staring them
in the face, were a silent lot.

Morris’s delivery was getting weaker and more uncertain every minute.
One ball.... Two balls.... Foul strike.... Three balls.... Morris
looked wearily to Dolph for the signal, but that youth had turned
his back to the plate. There was a stir in the crowd and then Dolph,
snatching off his mask, stepped in front of the batsman and called to
Mr. Shay:

“I want time, Mr. Umpire.”

“What for?” asked Mr. Shay impatiently.

“To change pitchers, sir!”



CHAPTER V

KIDNAPPED!


The message that had taken Sam away from practice had been brought to
him by one of the younger boys and, scrawled hurriedly on the back of
an envelope, was as follows: “Sam: I’m at the gate in the buggy and
must see you, but can’t leave the nag. Run up for a minute, like a good
chap, Chester. P. S.――_Important!_”

There were one or two things about which Chester Harris might want
to talk, Sam reflected, but, since that matter was uppermost to his
mind at the moment, he believed that Chester had something to confide
regarding the Towners’ plans for the game. So he tossed the ball to Hal
Morris and, without stopping to change at the gymnasium, sought Chester
at the gate. Chester, whose father was the owner of one of the larger
mills in Charlemont and very well off, was fond of driving and riding,
and, since his father’s stable was well filled with horses, was able
to gratify his taste whenever he wished. Today he was seated in a natty
runabout behind a handsome and very restive bay mare.

“Hello, Sammy,” was Chester’s greeting. “I’m glad you came because I’ve
got something to tell you; something you’ll want to hear, too. Whoa,
Judy! Stand still, can’t you. This mare’s the fidgetiest thing I ever
saw. She doesn’t want to stand still a moment, but she can certainly
travel all right!” Chester looked about him cautiously, but there was
no one nearer than the steps of South Dormitory.

“It’s about the game this afternoon, Sammy,” he went on, lowering his
voice. “Of course, I’m a Towner, but there are some things――――”

The horse began to show her impatience again at that moment and Chester
gave her his attention.

“Whoa, you idiot! Say, Sammy, get in here and we’ll drive around a bit.
I can’t talk with Judy dancing a two-step all the time.”

“I’ve got my togs on,” Sam objected, yet looking longingly at the seat
of the runabout.

“Never mind; who cares? Whoa, you pesky brute! Climb in, Sammy. That’s
the ticket. Now go if you want to!”

And Judy went. And for the subsequent minute or two Chester had his
hands full in managing the horse. When she had settled down into a long
swinging trot that simply ate up the Charlemont road Chester returned
to his subject.

“As I was saying, I’m a Towner, of course, and I want to stick with
the other fellows, but there are some things that aren’t fair. I don’t
believe in going too far to win a ball game, Sammy.”

“That’s right,” commented Sam approvingly, trying to suppress any note
of eagerness in his voice.

“So,” continued Chester, “when I heard about it I made up my mind to
sneak up here and see you and let you know what the fellows are up to.
It sounds sort of――of traitorish, though, doesn’t it?”

Chester viewed Sam anxiously.

“Well, I don’t know,” Sam replied judicially. “Of course, it’s
possible to go too far, as you just said, Chesty, and in that case I
guess you’ve got a right to refuse to go in with the others.”

“Yes, I know. But have I any right to give them away, Sammy? That’s
what’s troubling me.”

Sam, who had the right-minded boy’s dislike of anything savoring of
treachery, rather wished that Chester hadn’t put that question to him.
Of course, if Chester was silly enough or weak enough to tell tales he
wasn’t such a fool as to refuse to listen, but, on the other hand, he
didn’t care to endorse any such doings. He tried to beg the question.

“I guess that’s for you to decide, Chesty,” he responded finally.
“After all, it’s only a ball game and it doesn’t much matter who wins
it. But I guess we’re certain enough of getting it, old man.”

“Not if the Towners succeed at what they’re up to,” replied Chester
mysteriously.

“I don’t see what they could do that would affect the real game much,”
said Sam. “Of course, they can rattle us and all that sort of thing,
but we’ve been up against that before and beaten you.”

“Yes, but this is――is something different,” replied Chester darkly.
“And I think it’s sort of a mean trick to play.”

Sam’s curiosity got the better of his scruples then.

“Well, I don’t see that you’re telling me very much,” he said. “All you
are doing is taking me straight toward town at about a mile a minute;
and me in my dirty old baseball togs. Turn the horse around, Chesty.”

Chester looked doubtfully at the road, which was fairly narrow here,
and shook his head slowly.

“I don’t believe I’d better try that,” he answered. “She’s awfully hard
to turn when she’s headed toward home and this road’s pretty narrow,
Sammy. If we were in the cut-under it wouldn’t be so hard. I tell you
what we’ll do. We’ll go on to the stable and hitch up one of the other
horses. I don’t believe I ought to drive Judy much more today. She’s
pretty soft; hasn’t been used much since we got her.”

“I’ll be late for dinner,” Sam objected. “What time is it, anyway?”
He looked at his watch and found that it was only a few minutes past
twelve. “Well, all right, but hurry it up a bit. I’ve got to change
before dinner, you know.”

“It won’t take more than five minutes to change nags,” replied Chester
carelessly. “Here’s the trolley road,” he added, as they turned the
corner, “and I hope we don’t meet a car because Judy hates them like
poison.”

“What do you drive such a fool horse for?” asked Sam uneasily as he
peered forward up the tree-lined avenue. “Think I want to have my neck
broken?”

“You won’t,” laughed Chester. “There isn’t a car in sight and we’re
only two blocks from home. Easy, girl, easy! She wants her dinner, I
guess.”

“And I want mine,” said Sam decisively.

“Oh, you’ll get it right on time,” responded Chester lightly. “Whoa,
Judy! Steady, girl, steady! That’s only a piece of paper and it won’t
hurt you. Here we are.”

The Harris residence was a big square wooden house set in its own
grounds in the residence district of Charlemont. There was a big
lawn and a good deal of shrubbery and many ornamental trees around
the house. The stable, which had been recently built, looked almost
as large as the residence. Judy sped up the smooth gravel drive and
whinnied loudly and impatiently when Chester pulled her down at the
carriage room door.

“All right, Perkins?” called Chester.

A neatly dressed stable man appeared, apparently doing his best to hide
a broad grin behind one of his large hands.

“All clear, sir,” he said.

Chester drove on into the carriage house. “Put one of the other horses
in, Perkins, will you? I’m going to take Mr. Phillips back to school.”

“Yes, sir. Which one, sir? The Governor hasn’t been out today.”

“He will do then. Better get out and stretch your legs, Sammy. And, by
the way, you haven’t seen the room I’ve fixed up upstairs, have you?”

“What sort of a room?” asked Sam.

“Come up and see.” Chester led the way to a door and politely held it
open for Sam to pass through. The door revealed a flight of stairs and
Sam climbed them, Chester at his heels. The upper floor of the stable
was given over at one end to piles of hay in bales and to bins for feed
and at the other was partitioned off into rooms for the stablemen and
coachmen. There were six of these rooms, opening from an entry that ran
through the centre of the building.

“Which way?” asked Sam.

“First door to your left,” replied Chester. “Go ahead in; it’s
unlocked, I guess.”

Sam opened the door and entered. The room was a small bedroom, and,
seated on the bed and on the two chairs which the place contained, were
four boys: Morton Prince, Joe Williams, Milton Wales and Gus Turnbull.
For an instant Sam gazed in surprise. Then realization came to him and
he turned and made a dive for the door. But it was closed and Chester
stood grinning with his back to it.

“Welcome, Sammy,” said Prince.

“Enjoy your drive?” asked Gus Turnbull.

Sam shrugged his shoulders.

“What are you fellows up to?” he asked indifferently. “I suppose it’s
some silly joke. I’m going home.”

He tried to push Chester aside.

“That’s no use, Sammy,” said Chester. “I’ve locked it.”

Sam scowled. “You think you’re going to keep me here?” he demanded
truculently.

“Until the game’s over, Sammy,” said Prince. “We hate to do it, but we
have to. You know yourself it isn’t fair to make us hit your pitching,
Sammy. With you out of the game the thing is sort of evened up. We
stand some slight chance of winning. You’ll be nice and comfortable
here. Dinner’s almost ready, and after the game’s over Chesty will take
you back in the runabout. Of course, you’re a little bit peeved now,
but you’ll get over that. There’s some magazines on the table there
and you ought to spend a very comfy afternoon.”

Sam listened, but his eyes were busy with his surroundings. The room
was some twelve feet by ten in size and lighted by one window, which
looked from the back of the stable into the yard of a house in the
next street. But escape through the window was evidently out of the
question, for the boys had removed a netting of heavy wire from a
ground-floor casement and secured it outside the window here. Over
the door was a narrow transom, but Sam reflected ruefully that it was
scarcely large enough to emit a thin boy, to say nothing of one of
his somewhat generous build. They had him hard and fast. Realizing
this, Sam addressed himself collectively to his captors. What he said
wouldn’t look very well in print; besides, it would take too much space
to render his remarks in full, while to abbreviate them would give but
a very faint idea of Sam’s eloquence. The others listened patiently,
viewing him more in sorrow than in anger. When he was finally out of
breath Gus Turnbull said:

“I don’t blame you, Sammy. That’s the way I’d feel about it. But you’ll
just have to make the best of it, old man. Might as well laugh as cry,
you know. Guess we’d better be going, fellows.”

“Yep,” answered Wales. “Sorry, Sammy, but it’s the fortunes of war, you
know.”

“Perkins will serve your dinner in a few minutes,” said Chester. “Is
there anything you’d like especially, Sammy? We want you to be as happy
as――er――as circumstances will permit.”

“Sure thing,” agreed Williams with a grin.

Sam made no reply. He went over to the bed, which held a mattress but
nothing more, and took the seat vacated by Williams, thrusting his
hands into the pockets of his ball pants and gloomily surveyed his
shoes. He wondered whether it would be worth while to try and rush the
door when they opened it to go out. Four against one, however, was
hopeless odds, and he decided that it would be a useless attempt.

“I wouldn’t try the window,” said Chester, “because, even if you
managed to get through the wire, you’d have a twenty foot drop. You can
make all the noise you like, Sammy; the horses won’t mind and Perkins
is being paid to look after you. By the way, what I started to tell you
was that the Towners had decided to kidnap you, Sammy. It may be wrong
to give them away, but there are some things I just can’t stand for!”

Chester went out grinning and the rest followed. The key turned in the
lock and Sam heard them go shuffling downstairs, talking in low voices
and laughing softly. He ground his teeth and clinched his hands. In a
moment the footsteps died away, the door at the bottom of the stairs
closed and the place was silent. Sam looked at his watch. It was one.
There was almost an hour before the game would begin, he told himself,
and in that hour he meant to get out of there.

But when he had made the rounds of his prison, tried the door,
peered out of the window and measured the transom again he wasn’t so
certain about it. The partitions were of inch boards, but without
something more than his pocket knife he didn’t believe he could cut
his way through them. Besides, even if he succeeded, there was Perkins
to reckon with, and Perkins was a hefty, muscular-looking chap of
something slightly less than six feet! He went back dejectedly to the
bed. A minute or two later sounds reached him and the key turned in the
door. Sam edged toward it, prepared to spring through if he had the
chance. But it opened very cautiously and Perkins put only his head in.

“I’ve got your dinner, sir, out here. Keep over by the window and I’ll
pass it in.”

“Your name’s Perkins, isn’t it?” asked Sam with an amiable smile.
The man smiled back and nodded, pushing the door open and setting a
well-loaded tray on the chair just inside.

“Perkins it is, sir. If there’s anything you’re wantin’ just holler;
I’ll hear you, sir.”

“Perkins, I want to get out of here,” Sam replied ingratiatingly.
Perkins wagged his head.

“Sure, I know,” he answered. “Mr. Chester told me you’d be wanting to
go, but you was to be kept here until he got back.”

“You know you have no right to detain me,” suggested Sam, trying to
speak sternly. Perkins nodded again, but quite untroubledly.

“Orders is orders, though, sir.”

Sam ran a hand in a trousers pocket, pondering bribery. But there was
not so much as a Lincoln penny in his ball togs. He determined to try
intimidation.

“Perkins,” he said gravely and kindly, “I wouldn’t want to make any
trouble for you, because, as you say, you’re just obeying orders. But
in holding me here against my wishes you’re――er――making yourself liable
to prosecution for kidnapping.” Sam paused impressively. Perkins, who
had drawn the door close all save a space broad enough to accommodate
his thin face, listened respectfully and nodded.

“Yes, sir, you may be right, sir. But, begging your pardon, sir,
there’s ice cream on that tray and I’m thinking it’ll be melted pretty
quick, sir.”

“Never mind about the ice cream,” replied Sam irascibly. “What I want
to know is if you’re going to keep me prisoner here against my wishes
and――er――the law?”

Perkins scratched his head reflectively.

“Orders is orders,” he said finally.

“But, of course, you knew that Chester was only joking,” said Sam,
essaying a chuckle of amusement. Perkins smiled responsively.

“Sure, I knew,” he answered.

“Yes, that was just his joke,” said Sam heartily, arising and moving
casually toward the door. “He’s fond of a joke, Perkins.”

“He is, sir,” responded Perkins, drawing the door a little further shut.

“Why, some of the jokes he gets off at school are too funny for
anything,” continued Sam.

“I can believe that, sir.” The door was now closed all but a scant two
inches.

“Yes, I’d tell you about some of them, but I’ve got to be going now. We
have a ball game on this afternoon, Perkins, and I’m going to pitch for
our team. It wouldn’t do for me to be late, you see.”

Sam was at the door now. He laid his hand on the knob, but at the same
instant the door closed and latched and the key turned outside. Sam
lost his temper.

“Perkins!” he cried.

“Yes, sir?”

“If you don’t open this door at once I’ll kick a hole through it! And
what’s more the minute I get out I’ll go to the police and have you
arrested!” To emphasize his threats Sam delivered a kick that cracked a
panel.

“I wouldn’t do that, sir,” said Perkins soothingly from beyond.
“Begging your pardon, sir, if I was you I’d eat my dinner before it
gets cold entirely.”

“Open the door!” cried Sam sternly.

There was no answer. On the stairs Perkins’s boots sounded retreat. Sam
stormed and kicked at the door, but, although it was an easy enough
matter to crack the panels, the lock held firmly. Besides, baseball
shoes aren’t stiff enough at the toes to make good battering-rams. Sam
retreated to the bed again, his foot tingling. Presently philosophy
prompted him to investigate what lay under the big napkin on the tray.
After all, he _was_ hungry, and whether he was to make his escape or
remain a prisoner he might as well eat meanwhile. It was evident that
Chester had intended that he should not suffer for want of food, for on
the big tray were soup and fish and roast lamb and three vegetables,
milk, bread and butter, rhubarb pie, ice cream and cake. Sam’s face
cleared.

“Gee,” he muttered, “this beats school feed!”

He bore the tray across to the bed and placed it on the mattress. Then
he pulled a chair in front of it and began to eat. He did full justice
to that repast. The viands weren’t very hot, and the ice cream _had_
melted somewhat, but Sam wasn’t fussy and everything tasted awfully
good to him. If, he reflected, his absence from the pitcher’s box
wasn’t endangering the success of the team, he would be quite content.
Twenty minutes later the dinner was only a pleasant memory, and Sam,
his hunger amply satisfied, looked longingly at the bed and for a
moment the stern voice of duty grew very dim. But to his credit he
heroically resisted the allurement of the mattress and once more put
his mind on the problem of escape.

The door was out of the question, and so was the transom. To cut his
way through a wall was impracticable, since by the time he had made a
hole large enough to crawl out by the game would be over. Remained,
then, only the window. He examined that carefully. The lower sash was
raised and Sam put out a hand and tentatively tried the wire screen. It
didn’t seem very firm, and, putting all his strength against a lower
corner, he pushed. It gave. Hopefully he looked around for something
with which to batter it. Fortunately the bed, an inexpensive wooden
one, had slats, and in a trice Sam was working with one against the
edge of the screen. Out came a staple. Sam put the end of the slat
between screen and clapboard and pried. It was easy now. In ten minutes
he had the lower part of the wire netting bent out and upward and he
was viewing the situation despondently with his head and shoulders out
of the window. Below him, almost twenty feet distant, was the ground.
To complicate matters, a picket fence ran along behind the stable at a
distance of about eighteen inches. If he could be certain of landing
on the farther side of the fence, in the next yard, the drop might be
feasible, but to land on the pickets didn’t appeal to Sam. If he had a
rope, he reflected, escape would be simple. But there was nothing of
the sort at hand, and there wasn’t even a sheet or blanket on the bed.
He might rip the cover off the mattress, cut it in strips and tie the
strips together, he reflected, and so lower himself to the ground. But
that would take a long time and it was already twenty minutes to two.

He sat down on the bed again and strove to think of some better scheme.
He wondered why Perkins had not heard him knocking off the screen and
concluded that the stableman was in the front of the building. Or
perhaps he was at his dinner! If he could only get out of the room now
it was likely he could escape from the stable without being detected.
There, however, was the rub. There was no way to get out of the
room save by the window, and by the time he had made his rope of the
mattress ticking Perkins would be back. He viewed the door darkly. If
only it opened outward instead of into the room he might batter it down
with the bed slat!

He went to the window again and looked out. To climb down was
impossible, since there was nothing to put hand or foot on. By chance
he looked along the wall to the left. Not three feet away was another
window! If he could reach that, gain the next room and so get out
into the hall, he was sure he could win to freedom! He leaned as far
out as he dared, and, to his joy, saw that the next window was open
at the bottom. In a minute he had laid his plans. Squirming back into
the room, he seized his slat and began a new attack on the screen. It
was necessary to work through the upper part of the window and from a
chair, and he tried to make as little noise as possible. The screen
proved more stubborn than before, and Sam’s efforts to be quiet made it
slow work. But in the end only one staple remained. He had only to get
that out, seize the screen before it fell, and lift it into the room.
He paused to get his breath, and in that moment he heard the sound of
footsteps on the stairs!

He pushed the window sashes back as they had been, slipped the slat
under the bed, removed the chair from in front of the window, put the
tray on it, and threw himself on the bed just as a knock came at the
door. He made no answer until Perkins spoke.

“I’m after the tray, sir.”

“Eh? What?” asked Sam sleepily. “Oh, that you, Perkins? What’s wanted?”

“I’m after the tray, sir.” The key turned and Perkins opened the door
cautiously.

“Oh, all right. Come in and get it.”

“I’d rather you’d hand it to me,” replied Perkins dubiously, realizing
that if he crossed the room for the tray Sam could easily slip out of
the door.

Sam considered. He didn’t want the stableman to notice the screen, now
hanging bent and awry at the window, and so the only thing to do was
to get him out as soon as possible. Sam arose, grumbling.

“You might at least let a fellow sleep, Perkins.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“Here’s your tray.” Sam picked it up and carried it to the door.

“Just set it down, if you please, sir, on the chair. Thank you, sir. I
hope you enjoyed your dinner.”

“So, so,” replied Sam with a yawn, retreating again to the bed. “What
time is it, Perkins?”

“About two, sir.”

“Is that all? Guess I’ll go to sleep again.” Sam pillowed his head
in his arms. Perkins took up the tray, cast a glance about the room
without detecting the condition of the screen, closed and locked the
door and stamped off downstairs. Sam arose with a chuckle and shook his
fist in Perkins’s direction.

“I’ll fool you yet, you old dunderhead!” he murmured.

Discretion prompted him to wait a while before beginning operations
again. When some ten minutes had passed, and there were no sounds
indicating a return on the part of the stableman, Sam went back to his
labors. The final staple was wrenched out and Sam pulled the mutilated
wire screen into the room and hid it under the bed. Then he pulled his
cap down firmly and clambered over the window sashes. Standing on the
ledge outside and holding on to the casement, it was easy enough to
reach across and lower the sashes of the next window. Then, a trifle
uneasy at the thought of that picket fence beneath, he stepped across
to the next ledge, and from there, after some effort, squirmed over the
sashes into the adjoining room.

This room was similar in size to the one he had escaped from, and, like
it, was untenanted. Best of all, however, the door was wide open and
the entry lay before him! That was a relief, for all along Sam had been
haunted by the fear that when he gained this room he would find himself
only out of the frying pan into the fire. For, with this door locked
on the outside, too, he would have been no better off than before. He
tiptoed across the floor, which squeaked alarmingly, and listened at
the doorway. All was silent. He looked out. The dim entry was empty.
Some ten feet distant was the stairway and freedom!

Retreating to a chair, he removed his shoes, for the cleats made too
much noise when he walked. He tied them together with the laces and
again tiptoed to the door. There was no sound to be heard, save an
occasional stamp from one of the horses in the farther end of the
stable. He advanced along the entry cautiously and as he passed the
door of the room from which he had made his escape, the key met his
eyes. With a malicious grin he extracted it and dropped it into his
pocket, leaving a locked door to puzzle Mr. Perkins should that worthy
seek admittance. The stairway was dark, and the door at the foot of it
was tightly closed. That presented difficulties. Supposing, when he had
opened the door, he found himself confronted by the stableman! If only
it were possible to determine Perkins’s whereabouts!

Presently he began the descent of the stairs, trying each step with his
foot before trusting his entire weight to it. Even then one or two of
them creaked ominously and caused Sam to stop and listen. At the bottom
he crouched against the door with his ear close to the keyhole, which,
as it held a key, could not be seen through. He could hear nothing.
At length he made up his mind to risk it, and very softly he turned
the knob. Luckily the latch worked easily and without noise. Then he
pushed the door open the merest crack and peered through. Before him
was the carriage room with several vehicles lined along the further
end. No one, however, was in sight. He opened the door a little more,
increasing his field of vision. Gradually the wide doorway came into
sight, and a flood of sunlight from outside. Sam ventured his head
around the edge of the door, only to pull it quickly back again. For,
sitting at the left of the carriage room door, tilted against the
casing in the sunlight and reading a newspaper, was Perkins!

[Illustration: “Tilted against the casing in the sunlight and reading a
newspaper, was Perkins.”]



CHAPTER VI

THREE OUT


Sam noiselessly closed the stairway door and subsided on the lower
step, a prey to disappointment. To win by Perkins was out of the
question, while to reach the stable end of the building, where the
stalls were, he would have to cross the room diagonally and be in
plain sight of Perkins the whole distance. Of course, he might do it
so quietly as not to be heard, but that was doubtful; and after he had
reached the stalls he might find himself unable to leave the building.
He must try for some other avenue of escape.

Back up the stairs he went and turned toward the loft in which was
stored the hay and grain. From this, at the front, was a gable with
two hinged doors through which the hay was brought from below with
rope and tackle. But the doors were closed and padlocked, and although
Sam searched about for the key it was not to be found. The only other
outlet was a window looking straight down into the service yard of the
house, and here again he would have to have a rope of some sort. That
put a new idea into his head and he started a search for something with
which to lower himself. And in the midst of it there was a noise below;
the sound of wheels and voices, and then the unmistakable entrance of
a carriage into the carriage house. There was an animated conversation
between Perkins and some one else, probably a coachman, and then the
horse was unhitched and led into the stable below. Sam retreated toward
the piled-up bales of hay, and scarcely a minute too soon, for the door
at the foot of the stairs opened and the coachman came up. Sam peeped
from his hiding place and saw the newcomer, a younger man than Perkins,
go along the entry and open the door of one of the rooms on the front
of the building. He left the door open behind him, and Sam could hear
him moving about and whistling a tune. Beneath, Perkins was taking the
harness off the horse. Now was Sam’s opportunity! He crept stealthily
to the stairway, and saw to his delight that the coachman had left the
door ajar. Down he went, step by step, and at the bottom peered out
into the carriage room. It was empty, and from beyond came the sound of
Perkins’s steps and the drag of harness. For a moment Sam hesitated.
Then he left his hiding place and started across toward the door. And
at the same instant Perkins appeared at the opposite corner of the room
with a bridle in his hand.

“Billy!” he shouted.

Sam did the first thing that occurred to him, which was to drop just
where he was. Perhaps had he made a dash for the door he would have got
safely away, but the advent of the stableman had startled him. Perkins
had his gaze fixed on a corner of the ceiling.

“Billy!” he called again.

There was an answering hail from upstairs and Sam seized the
opportunity to creep into the shadow of the brougham that had come in
and still stood in the middle of the floor.

“What time’s the master want the carriage?” asked Perkins.

“Three-thirty,” replied Billy from above. “I’ll take the sorrel, John.”

“All right.” Perkins walked to the door, humming a tune, and looked
out. After a moment he draped the bridle over the back of the chair
and seated himself again, rescuing his newspaper from the floor. Sam’s
heart sank. Perkins had only to look in his direction to see him, for
although his body was hidden by the carriage his legs showed beneath.
Well, if Perkins came for him on one side he would run around the
other. Once out of the stable, Sam believed himself a match for the
stableman, although running in one’s stocking feet was no great fun.

“John!”

It was the coachman’s voice, and he was evidently at his window.

“Hello!” answered Perkins. He left his chair and walked out on to the
drive. Like a flash Sam pulled open the door of the brougham, tumbled
himself in and softly closed it again. Huddled on the floor of the
carriage, he raised his head until he could see from the window.
Perkins was still standing outside talking up at Billy in the window.
As the brougham was tightly closed Sam missed what was said. Finally,
however, Perkins returned to his chair and his newspaper. There was
a clock in the carriage and it said ten minutes to three! Even if
he managed to get away he would miss most of the game, for it was a
good mile and a half back to Maple Ridge. He wondered what Perkins
would do were he to open the brougham door and make a run for it. Of
course the stableman had not the least right in the world to stop him,
but there was something in Perkins’s face that told Sam that Perkins
wasn’t greatly concerned about the rights of the matter. In short,
Perkins looked like a man who would do as he was told, no matter what
the consequences. There was nothing for it but to stay where he was
and await an opportunity to slip out undetected. The minutes passed
laggingly. Perkins finished one page of his paper and turned to the
next. It was very hot and stuffy inside the brougham, with a strong
odor of leather and upholstery. If only Perkins would go upstairs to
have a look for the prisoner! But Perkins apparently entertained no
doubts as to Sam’s whereabouts, congratulating himself, doubtless,
that the latter was causing so little trouble. Sam viewed the clock
again. It was five minutes past three. He changed his cramped position,
wishing he dared to curl himself up on the seat.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs and the coachman appeared, yawning.
Perkins put aside his paper, took up the bridle and went for the
horse. Had Billy followed him Sam was prepared to make his dash for
liberty. But Billy got a big feather duster and went over the brougham.
Sam wondered whether he would open the door and discover him. But he
didn’t. He confined his attentions to the outside of the carriage,
still yawning sleepily, and before he was through Perkins led the
sorrel in.

Sam smiled gleefully. If only he could remain unseen there on the
bottom of the brougham he could ride to the end of the drive, open the
door and jump out!

The sorrel was backed into the shafts and harnessed up. Billy took his
blue coat with the silver buttons from a peg and slipped it on.

“Did you dust the cushions?” asked Perkins. Sam’s heart stood still.

“Sure I did,” responded Billy untruthfully as he climbed to the box.
“Whoa, boy. All right, John.”

The carriage moved, turned and a flood of sunlight reached Sam. They
were outside the stable and moving slowly down the driveway! In the
front of the brougham was a wide pane of glass through which Sam could
see the box and Billy’s blue-clad back, and through which Billy, if
he cared, could see Sam! But Billy never suspected that he had a
passenger. As the drive made a turn Sam glanced back and saw Perkins
once more seated at the carriage house door with his paper in hand. Sam
grinned broadly. Then he untied his shoes and hurriedly thrust his feet
into them. There was no time to lace them up, for the carriage had
reached the gate. As Sam had expected, Billy turned the horse’s head
toward the business centre of town. Opening the door of the brougham
just as Billy clicked to the sorrel and the sorrel started into a trot,
Sam leaped lightly into the road and slammed the door behind him. Billy
turned startledly and pulled up his horse. But Sam was scudding in
the opposite direction as fast as his legs would carry him. At a safe
distance he turned and looked back. The brougham was still motionless
and Billy was gazing after his late passenger with open mouth. Sam
waved him a farewell and trotted on, chuckling enjoyably.

He had hoped that a trolley car would happen along and give him a
lift as far as the Maple Ridge road, but there was none in sight, and
a moment later Sam recollected the fact that he had no money and so
wouldn’t have got very far anyway. It was nearly half-past three now.
He no longer hoped to reach school in time to take part in the game.
All he did hope for was to arrive in time to confront Chesty Harris
and the others and, backed by the indignant Boarders, give them a bad
five minutes!

The sun was still pretty hot and the road was dusty and Sam heartily
wished that Billy had been going in this direction instead of the
other. He turned into the Maple Ridge road, pausing a moment at the
fountain there to have a drink. Then removing his coat and mopping his
face, he went on. He wasn’t trotting now, but he stepped out briskly
and, having found his second-wind presently, made good time. It was
well toward four o’clock when he entered the deserted campus at Maple
Ridge. That none of the fellows were in sight proved that the game was
still in progress, so Sam hurried by the gymnasium and down the terrace
walk. The crowd was too thick about the plate for him to see much,
but Watkins out in right field showed that the Towners were at bat.
So interested were the watchers in the contest that Sam joined them
unseen, and it was only when he pushed his way through the throng about
the plate that his advent was noted.

A wild cheer went up from the Boarders as Sam laid his hand on Dolph’s
arm, and they began to press around him. Questions fell thick, but Sam
waved them aside.

“They caught me this noon and locked me up in Chesty’s stable,” he said
shortly. “I just got away. How’s it going, Dolph?”

“Six to five in our favor,” replied Dolph succinctly. “First of the
ninth. Three on bases, none out, and Morris pitched to a standstill.
Can you go in?”

“Sure!” The light of battle flamed in Sam’s eyes. “Six to five, you
say? Let’s get at it!”

Sam shed his coat, tossed it to Midget Greene and walked toward the
plate. Over on the Towner’s bench the news of Sam’s arrival had
awakened first incredulity and then dismay. The bench emptied as the
fellows crowded up to see for themselves. But there was Sam as large as
life and twice as cheerful.

“How the dickens did he get out?” whispered Mort Prince to Dick Furst.

“Search me,” growled the other. “Where’s Chesty?”

Chesty was nearby, looking very shamefaced and explaining volubly to a
group of Towners that he couldn’t understand it at all!

“Well, he’s here,” said Drake disgustedly. “Seems to me you might have
kept him half an hour longer. I said all along it wasn’t safe to leave
him there with no one to look after him. They’ll beat us now; see if
they don’t. You make me tired, Chesty!”

“It wasn’t my fault,” protested Chester. “We had him locked up so he
_couldn’t_ get out! And Perkins was there watching him!”

“Well, he _is_ out, isn’t he?” demanded Milton Wales angrily. “What
have you got to say to that?”

Chester had nothing to say.

Hal Morris yielded the ball to Sam with a weary smile.

“I’m afraid I’ve got things in a mess, Sammy,” he said. “It’s one
strike and three balls on him. Gee, but I’m glad you’ve come. About one
more up would have completely finished me.”

“Well, you must have done good work, Hal, to keep those Indians down to
five runs. Run along now and don’t worry. I’ve got a score to settle
with these chaps.”

Sam waved Joe Williams out of the batsman’s box and proceeded to warm
up to Dolph. A couple of the balls he sped in were pretty wild, one
going by Dolph into the crowd, and the Towners howled derisively. After
all, Sam had had no chance to limber up, and, clever as he was, it was
well-nigh impossible for him to shut them out with three on bases and
none down! So the Towners took heart and shouted and sang and made all
the hubbub possible.

“Play ball!” commanded Mr. Shay. “One and three, Phillips.”

Back of first base Mort Prince was leaping and waving his arms in his
rôle of coacher, while across the field at third Dick Furst was doing
all he could to worry Sam. Tyler Wicks was on third, Coolidge on second
and Gus Turnbull on first. Sam looked over the field, smiled pleasantly
at Turnbull, who returned the smile in a rather sickly way, and then
gave his attention to Joe Williams at bat. Dolph crouched and gave the
signal.

“Come on now, fellows!” he called as he got into position for the
catch. “Out they go, one, two, three!”

Probably none of his team heard the remark, for Towners and Boarders
were once more engaged in their vocal war. But Williams heard and
his confidence, already disturbed by Sam’s appearance on the mound,
suffered a further relapse. Sam settled his toes in the soil, twirled
his arms and shot the ball away. Williams let it go by, as he should
have with three balls to his credit, and yelled a protest when the
umpire called it a strike. The Boarders yelled gleefully. Williams
gripped his bat tighter and began to swing it nervously over the plate
while he awaited the next delivery. This, he argued, was bound to be a
good one, for if not it would force in a run. Dolph gave the signal,
but Sam shook his head. Dolph gave a new signal and Sam nodded. Sam
knew pretty well what Joe Williams would do in a crisis of this sort.
He knew that Joe would expect a straight ball and would try for it. And
as Joe was a fairly good hitter it was more than likely that he would
connect with it. So Sam sent him a ball that looked very, very good
until it was almost at the plate. Then, as Williams swung at it, it
settled into a drop and the bat went harmlessly over it.

“Strike! He’s out!” called Mr. Shay.

Howls of delight from the Boarders and of disappointment from the
enemy; peevish remarks from Williams as he dragged his bat away to the
bench; redoubled noise and confusion from the coachers.

“One gone!” called Ted at first.

Peters, the Towners’ third baseman, was the next batter, and Peters was
an open book to Sam. Sam put the first one over, and Peters, just as
Sam had expected, let it go by without an offer. Then Sam tried a high
one and Peters scoffed at it. Sam followed this with a slow ball that
cut the corner of the plate. Mr. Shay called it a ball and Sam turned
and regarded him sorrowfully.

“That’s two!” yelled Prince. “Pick out a good one, old man, and just
meet it! Make him pitch to you!”

The next delivery looked like the last, but it swung in at the right
moment and the umpire called: “Strike! Two and two!” Dolph gave the
signal and then held his hands wide apart.

“Now, then, right over the plate, Sammy!” he called. “He can’t hit it!”

Peters smiled craftily. If Dolph asked for one over the plate it meant
that the ball would be a wide one, he argued. He was all ready for it
in case it should be good, of course, only he wasn’t going to be fooled
as easily as that!

“Strike! He’s out!”

“_What?_” Peters stared open-mouthed at Mr. Shay. “It was over my
shoulder! Gee, that’s a roast!”

But the batsman’s protest was drowned by the roar of joy from the
Boarders.

“Two down!” called Dolph.

“Two gone!” yelled Ted.

“Next man!” cried little Smythe, smiting fist into mitt. Sam beckoned
the fielders in as Milton Wales stepped to the plate. Wales was a heavy
hitter and Sam’s show of confidence in calling the fielders in made
Wales scowl. Sam smiled at him sarcastically as he rubbed the ball on
his trousers.

“Where’ll you have it, Milt?” he asked.

“Anywhere I can reach it,” answered Wales angrily.

“Give him a good one,” called Dolph.

Sam nodded carelessly and shot a high ball that sent the batter
staggering back from the plate.

“Don’t hit him!” begged Dolph.

The next one looked pretty good and Wales swung at it. There was a
crack as bat and ball met and in an instant he was racing to first and
Wicks and Coolidge were streaking for the plate. But the ball, a hard
and low fly, came to earth in Finkler’s meadow, a foul by many yards.

“Foul! Strike!” called Mr. Shay, tossing a new ball to Sam. Sam waited
while Wales walked back to the plate.

“Try again, Milt,” he said as the Towner went past him. Wales scowled.
The tumult had subsided, for both sides were far too excited to shout.
Wales picked up his bat again and stepped into the box. Dolph gave his
signal. Sam wound himself up and pitched a wide one that was nowhere
near the plate. But Wales, angry and nervous, stepped out and almost
struck at it. Sam smiled as he leaned down to rub his hand in the dirt.
He had learned what he wanted to know. Wales was “up in the air.”
Sam had no doubt now of the outcome. He refused Dolph’s next signal,
put his fingers to the brim of his cap, got his reply from Dolph, a
cheerful “Now then, Sammy!” and hurled the ball. Straight as an arrow
it shot, right across the plate, waist-high, as beautiful a strike as
ever was pitched. And Wales knew that it was good and slugged at it,
and missed it clean! What a yell of triumph went up from the Boarders!

“He’s easy, Sammy!” shouted Dolph as he returned the ball. “Give him
another one like that!”

Sam nodded nonchalantly, cast his gaze about the bases, smiled at the
anxious faces of Prince and Furst and then turned and spoke to Mr.
Shay.

“Time!” called the umpire.

“What for?” shrieked Mort Prince.

“I want to tie my shoe,” replied Sam sweetly, as he knelt and went
through the motions.

“He’s delaying the game!” cried Prince. “I protest, Mr. Umpire.”

Sam arose, picked up the ball and nodded.

“Play!” said Mr. Shay.

But still Sam was in no hurry. He put his head on one side and studied
Dolph’s signal intently, thought it over for a moment and then shook
his head. Dolph tried again and again Sam pondered. All this time Wales
was swinging his bat more and more nervously, the Towners were hurling
insults and protests and Prince was dancing with rage. At last Sam
nodded, threw his arms up very slowly and stepped forward and launched
the ball. It was a slow one. Wales leaned forward, his bat poised. An
instant of suspense. Then he swung. There was a thud as the ball struck
Dolph’s mitt and the next moment the crowd was over the diamond. Wales
had struck out!

They caught Sam before he could run, and, high on the shoulders
of three Boarders, he went swaying and bobbing up the hill to the
gymnasium, the rest of the team following in similar fashion amidst
a tumult that made all previous efforts seem weak and futile. The
Boarders had won, 6 to 5, and they meant that the world should know it!



CHAPTER VII

CHESTER IS PUZZLED


Sam was a hero amongst the Boarders for many days. But, as Sam himself
said and as most of the fellows agreed, the real hero of the game was
Hal Morris, who, with very little preparation and small experience, had
held the Towners’ hard batters to a mere half-dozen hits. Poor Morris’s
right arm was so lame for days after the contest that he could scarcely
use it. But when he could Mr. Shay took him in hand, declaring that he
was going to make a pitcher out of him before the season was over.

Of course Sam had to recount the tale of his kidnapping and imprisonment
and escape from beginning to end to a circle of interested Boarders
before he had been off the field ten minutes that afternoon. They
gathered about him in the gymnasium and demanded a full and detailed
account.

“Well,” said Dolph, “they certainly had their nerve to try a trick like
that! And it would have worked, too, if you hadn’t got back here just
when you did. Hal’s arm was getting like a rag.”

“I couldn’t have stood more than one more batter,” said Morris, with
conviction, supporting the weary limb with his left hand. “I was never
any gladder to see any one than I was to see Sam.”

“Well, we beat them, after all,” sighed Ted. “But I wouldn’t have
offered a lead nickel for our chances at the beginning of the ninth
inning!”

“I’d have sold out for a penny with a hole in it just before Sam
arrived,” said Dolph grimly.

“The only regret I have,” announced Sam, “is that I didn’t have a
chance to strike out Mort Prince. I have a feeling that it was he who
got up the scheme.”

“What are you going to do to him, Phillips?” asked Midget Green
eagerly. Sam smiled gently.

“I’m going to bite his head off, kid. Want to see it?”

“I’d do something if it was me,” answered Midget with an appalling
scowl.

“Oh, there’s no use being grouchy about it,” said Smythe. “Everything
goes in a Towner game. And after all, we licked ’em.”

“Shucks,” said Sam, “I don’t hold any grudge. They were too smart for
me and I got what was coming. I ought to have had my eyes open. I don’t
see now why I didn’t suspect something when Chesty insisted on going
home to change nags. I was an idiot, that’s what I was, fellows!”

“On the other hand,” mused Truesdale, “since they tried kidnapping this
time there’s no knowing what they may do next year. Steal the diamond,
like enough!”

Sam didn’t see Chester again until Monday morning. Then he ran into him
in the corridor of School Building. Chester smiled in a doubtful way,
as though he was not at all certain whether Sam was going to cut him
dead or punch his head.

“Hello, Chesty,” said Sam jovially.

“Hello,” answered Chester with vast relief.

“Pretty good game, wasn’t it?”

“Y――yes, pretty fair, Sammy.”

“It was a dandy! And I was glad I got back to see the last of it.”

“If you hadn’t,” said Chester with a grin, “we’d have licked you
fellows good and hard.”

“That’s what I thought. So I concluded I’d better leave my cosy
quarters and hike back to the field of battle. By the way, I had a
dandy dinner, Chesty. Thanks awfully, old man.”

“That’s all right. I say, Sammy, aren’t mad about it, are you?”

“Mad? What for? It was lots of fun. Hope I didn’t do any damage to the
place, though.”

“No. But, say, Sammy, I wish you’d tell me how you got out of there.”
Sam winked and looked mysterious.

“Why, by the window, of course.”

“Well, that’s what I said,” responded Chester, “but Perkins is sure
he didn’t take the key out of the door. And when we went up there
afterwards the door was locked fast. I guess he put the key in his
pocket and forgot it. He can’t find it, though. I gave him fits for
letting you get away.”

“Well, don’t worry about the key, Chesty. Here it is.” Sam dug it out
of his pocket and passed it over.

“H――how did you get it?” gasped Chester.

“Just took it out of the door.”

“But――but you said you got out by the window!”

“I said that? You must be dreaming. I went out by the door, of course.”

“But――but it was locked on the outside!”

“Was it? Funny I didn’t notice that. Are you sure?”

“Of course I am!” responded Chester puzzledly. “How _did_ you get out,
Sammy?”

“Well, you won’t tell any one, Chesty?”

“No,” answered the other eagerly. Sam leaned across and whispered in
his ear.

“I pried the screen off――――”

“Yes, I saw that.”

“Tied my shoe laces together and lowered myself to the ground! Quite
simple, you see.”

“Tied your――――Oh, cut it out, Sammy, and tell me!”

“All right, Chesty. After I ate my dinner I hid myself in the
sugar-bowl, drew the lid on and Perkins carried me out on the tray. He
never suspected, Chesty!”

“Oh, don’t be a fool!” said Chester crossly. “Can’t you tell a fellow?”
Sam shook his head.

“No, Chesty,” he said solemnly, “that’s something you’ll never know.”

And he never did.

That afternoon, the school baseball supremacy settled for the year, the
School Team reassembled, Towners and Boarders together, and settled
down to practice again. On Wednesday the Charlemont High School came
out, and was beaten, 12 to 4, in a six-inning game. Sam pitched four
innings and Prince finished. As Tyler Wicks was back in left field,
Jack spent the afternoon looking on. Cook went in for two innings, but
Jack’s turn didn’t come that day.

Midget Green almost wore himself out during that game, chasing the
fouls that went into Finkler’s meadow, and the visitors had several
sarcastic things to say about Maple Ridge’s baseball field. Four
balls were lost utterly, a circumstance that caused Chester Harris,
as manager, much annoyance. Chester had supplied himself with only a
half dozen balls, and in the fifth inning was forced to send back to
the gymnasium for more. Balls are expensive, too, and after the game
Chester remarked gloomily that if Finkler would only sell his meadow it
would pay them to buy it and quarry it for baseballs.

“It’s a nuisance,” agreed Dolph weariedly. “I think we ought to insist
on Benny supplying the school with a decent field. There’s a perfectly
good piece of land across the road there. Why doesn’t he buy that?”

“Can’t be did,” answered Gus Turnbull. “That land belongs to some one
out west, and he won’t sell. I know, because my father and some other
men tried to buy it a couple of years ago.”

“Well, Benny ought to find us a decent place somewhere,” responded
Dolph.

“What we ought to do,” remarked Jack quietly, “is to get hold of that
meadow.”

“What meadow?” asked Dolph impatiently. “Finkler’s?”

Jack nodded.

“He’s daffy on that subject,” laughed Sam. “Wakes me up at night to
talk about it. I tell him Finkler won’t part with his old land, but
that makes no difference with Jack. He keeps right on talking!”

“How do you know he won’t sell or rent it?” asked Jack with a smile.

“Well, he’s been asked to twenty times, I guess.” This from Ted.
“Anyhow, five or six times.”

“Why not ask him again?” persisted Jack.

“No use,” said Sam with finality, shaking his head.

“How do you know it is no use? Remember what you told me the other day,
Sam? You said that all folks weren’t mind readers, and, sometimes, when
you wanted a thing, you had to speak out. Maybe Finkler’s had a change
of heart since he was asked the last time. Maybe if he knew we wanted
his field, or the use of it, he’d be glad to let us have it.”

“Maybe a cow’s an insect,” scoffed Turnbull. “Old Finkler would never
have a change of heart. His heart’s too tough to change.”

Jack made no reply, but his smile told them that he was not yet
convinced. As he was leaving the gymnasium with Sam, Dolph stopped him.

“Borden, you and Sam run over this evening, will you? I’m not plumb
sure there isn’t something in that idea of yours. Anyway, it won’t hurt
to chew it over a bit. Maybe we can hit on a plan.”

They did hit on a plan at length, but not until they had talked for
the better part of an hour. Sam was very much of a pessimist on the
subject, and threw cold water on the project until the others got tired
and threatened to put him out of the room.

“Oh, very well,” he said then, settling himself comfortably in an easy
chair. “Go ahead without me. I’ll take a nap. Wake me up when you’re
through chinning.”

“I think Borden’s idea is a good one,” said Ted when Sam had subsided.
“As captain of the baseball team, Dolph, you’re just the fellow to
start it. Have a talk with Steve Walker and Thorp Prentiss. If they
agree you’ve got the baseball, football and track interests combined.
And, anything you three captains do the school will stand back of.”

“Yes, but how about Benny?”

“I’d go to him and tell him that you need the field,” said Jack. “Ask
him if he will allow you to go ahead and see what you can do. I think
it would be better to simply ask Finkler for a lease of the meadow, say
for ten years; I guess he’d be more likely to lease it than sell it.”

“I want some one else to make him the offer, though,” said Dolph with a
laugh.

“Let Jack do it,” suggested Sam. “He’s got a grand gift of the gab.”

“Thought you were asleep,” said Ted.

“I am. I’m talking in my sleep.”

“Well, don’t do it,” answered Ted severely. “We’re getting on nicely,
so don’t butt in.”

“Hear him!” murmured Sam, addressing the world at large. “Getting on
nicely! Talking rot, that’s what they’re doing!”

“How much, though, do you suppose the old codger would want to charge
us for the meadow?” asked Dolph.

“More than it’s worth,” replied Ted gloomily.

“I don’t see why,” said Jack. “It isn’t much good to him now except for
pasture, and the amount we’d need wouldn’t make much difference to his
cows and horses.”

“I should say not! Why, Finkler’s got over a hundred acres, I heard.”

“That’s right,” Ted agreed. “And I guess he doesn’t own more than half
a dozen cows and a few horses.”

“Horses!” exclaimed Sam. “He’s got twenty of them, if he’s got one! He
raises them. And they say he cares more for his old nags than anything
else.”

“That so?” asked Jack. “Well, I don’t believe a man who has to do with
horses and likes them can be so bad, after all.”

“Oh, I suppose he has some good points,” allowed Dolph. “I never
heard that he beat his wife. And we all know that he goes to church
regularly. You can see him any day.”

“He hasn’t got any wife,” said Sam. “He’s a widow――I mean a widower.”

“The real trouble with Old Finkler,” observed Ted, “is that he hates
Maple Ridge and everything about it.”

“But why?” asked Jack.

“Oh, I guess we’ve always rubbed him the wrong way.”

“Then let’s rub him the right way; smooth him down,” said Jack.

“H-m; I don’t believe he will let you get near enough to do any
smoothing. He will probably set that old dog on you as soon as you put
foot on his land.”

“If Rowdy bites us,” said Ted comfortingly, “we’ll sue Finkler for
damages.”

“You’ll get your damages beforehand,” answered Dolph, with a laugh.
“Well, that’s settled so far, then, fellows. I’ll talk to Steve and
Thorp Prentiss tomorrow. Then, if they’ll come in on it, we’ll all
three of us talk to Benny. And if Benny will give us a free hand, we’ll
make a formal call on Finkler and put it up to him. After all, he can’t
do any more than chase us off the premises!”

“Tell him,” suggested Jack, “that we want to lease a small part of his
field for five or ten years; that we won’t change it any except to put
part of a running track on it, and that we’ll agree to put it in the
same shape as we found it in at the end of the lease.”

“And tell him we’ll agree not to bother him or his old apples again,”
added Ted. “The apples I got from there last fall weren’t extra good,
anyway!”

“But where’s the money coming from if he should agree?” asked Dolph.

“He oughtn’t to charge much,” answered Jack. “Dr. Benedict could give
half and the school could make up the rest.”

“Benny ought to pay it all,” said Sam.

“Well, maybe he would. Anyway, if he wouldn’t the fellows could make up
the rest, I guess.”

“Maybe,” Ted suggested, “we could interest the graduates in it.”

“Well, let’s find out first whether we can have the land. It will
be time enough then to find a way to pay for it. Just at present,
gentlemen, I am going to study a little.” And Dolph pulled his books
toward him, intimating that the conference was over.

Three days later, on Saturday morning, the three captains called on Dr.
Benedict. The Principal received them in his library, a big, book-lined
room behind the office, with which the students were less acquainted
than with the latter room. Doctor Benedict was a man of medium height
and middle age; clean-shaven, with a pair of keen gray eyes looking
more often over than through the glasses perched perilously on a short
nose. In the interims of conducting Maple Ridge School the Doctor
found time to write text-books on physics that were widely used.
There were those who maintained that the real head of the school was
Mrs. Benedict, the Doctor’s shrewd and energetic wife, whose official
position was that of matron. Both were well liked by the fellows, Mrs.
Benny――as she was called――perhaps a bit more than the Doctor, probably
because her duties brought her into closer touch with the students.

Dolph acted as spokesman, and the Doctor listened attentively to
his presentation of the matter. When Dolph was through, the Doctor
swung around in his swivel desk-chair, placed the tips of his fingers
together and looked out of the window for a minute. It was a favorite
trick of his to apparently seek inspiration from the view.

“Well, boys,” he said finally, “I see nothing wrong with your scheme,
and you have my full consent to try it. I don’t predict success,
however. Mr. Finkler has been approached on numerous occasions and has
always proved a difficult――ah――gentleman to deal with. The fact of
the matter is simply that he has cultivated an unreasoning prejudice
against the school, the faculty and the students. We have offered to
buy his land or to lease it, and we have proffered more money than it
is really worth. He has always refused to even consider the matter.
Whether he has altered his attitude, I can’t say. I doubt it, however.
But there is no harm in talking to him, boys. It may be that he will
listen more patiently to you than he ever has to me. I wish you
success.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Dolph. “And if he should consent to let us have
the land, would you――er――help us pay for it, sir?”

“Certainly. The matter of terms, however, I would advise you to leave
open until we can talk it over again. Had you considered making him a
definite proposition, Jones?”

“We hadn’t decided on any amount, sir.”

“Well, our last offer to him was to lease two acres of the property for
ten years at a yearly rental of, I think it was, three hundred dollars.
For the property outright, our offer was two thousand.”

“That seems a lot, sir,” hazarded Prentiss, the Track Team captain.

“Too much,” replied the Doctor. “The land isn’t worth it; at least,
it isn’t worth it to any one else. But, as you boys have just said,
the athletic field, as it is now, is really inadequate. The school
would be quite willing to buy or lease at those figures, and if you can
persuade him to let us have the land the money will be ready.”

“Much obliged, sir,” said Dolph. “I don’t believe he will do it, but we
_do_ need the land, sir, and I guess there’s no harm in trying.”

“There never is, Jones,” replied the Principal smilingly. “Good luck to
you, boys. Let me hear how the negotiations turn out.”

“Well, we can’t call on the old codger today,” said Dolph, when they
had left the Doctor. There was a ring of relief in his voice, and the
others laughed.

“No, nor tomorrow,” added Steve Walker, the football captain, “for
tomorrow’s Sunday. It’ll have to be Monday, I guess. Who’s going?”

“The three of us,” answered Dolph.

Walker made a grimace of distaste. “I don’t think I agreed to that, did
I?” he laughed.

“Of course you did!”

“Did I? Well, let me tell you one thing, Dolph: I don’t propose to get
bitten by that old dog of Finkler’s. I shall carry a good-sized club.”

“I tell you what, fellows,” Prentiss suggested. “Let’s get a carriage.
That’ll look business-like, and――er――important, and the dog can’t get
us!”

“Not a bad idea,” agreed Dolph. “Not that I’m worrying about the
dog――――”

“Oh, certainly not! Perish the thought!”

“But it will make Finkler realize that we mean business.”

“Maybe we can get Chesty Harris to take us over in one of his turnouts.”

“Sure; he will do it,” said Dolph. “Well, shall we say Monday?”

The others hesitated. Finally――

“I――I expect to be pretty busy Monday,” faltered Prentiss.

“No, you don’t squirm out that way,” replied Dolph firmly. “We’ll go
over on Monday, the three of us.”

“Well,” sighed Walker, “maybe we might as well, and get it over with.
Things don’t get any better for waiting.”



CHAPTER VIII

THE PEACE EMBASSY


Maple Ridge played her second game that afternoon, winning from
Warrenton High School, 11 to 5. Jack played in left field during the
last four innings, and did very well; so well, in fact, that Cook,
who was Jack’s competitor for the position of first substitute, was a
bit worried. Cook was only a fair batsman, and, although he had been
playing ball for three years, seemed unable to improve. Jack, on the
other hand, was beginning to show an ability with the stick that for
an inexperienced player was almost startling. In the Warrenton game
he made two hits, one a clean liner past second and the other of the
scratch variety, and when the game was over had a run to his credit
besides. In the field he had two chances and got them both. Hal Morris
pitched the first three innings, and, while Warrenton touched him up
pretty freely, he was able to hold the opponents down to four hits.
Although Mort Prince didn’t say so, I believe he was secretly regretful
that he had connived at the kidnapping of Sam, since if it hadn’t been
for Sam’s absence from the field the preceding Saturday Morris would,
perhaps, have never proved what he was capable of. Still, there were
many games ahead, and Maple Ridge had full need of all the pitchers she
could find.

After school on Monday, Chester Harris drove the Peace Embassy, as
they called themselves, to Farmer Finkler’s. Chester had provided a
two-seated carriage and a stylish roan, which, it was hoped, would
attract Mr. Finkler’s admiration and perhaps soften his heart. They had
to drive nearly a half-mile, for, although the Finkler property and the
school grounds adjoined, yet the farmer’s residence was at the end of
a long lane, and his entrance was some distance up the road from the
school.

On the way they rehearsed their programme. Chester was to remain
outside. Dolph was to ask to see Mr. Finkler, and he and Prentiss and
Walker were to enter. Dolph was to do the talking, although it was
agreed that the others were to stand by and be ready with their voices
in case of an emergency. The proceedings were to be conducted with much
dignity and politeness. The situation demanded diplomacy.

But, alas for all their preparations! The roan danced stylishly up the
lane, between apple-trees already showing signs of blossoming, and
stopped in front of the doorway. Rowdy, evidently not suspecting that
the carriage held ancient enemies, arose from the lawn and wagged his
tail in welcome. Rowdy was a brown dog. There were various theories as
to his breed. Some declared him to be a collie; others were equally
certain that he was a water spaniel. All, however, agreed that he was
not to be trifled with. Dolph, who descended first from the carriage,
observed him attentively as he lowered his legs within reach. But
Rowdy only stood off across the drive and wagged his tail slowly and
inquiringly.

“Nice dog,” murmured Dolph ingratiatingly, as he turned to the steps.

“Brute!” said Chester.

“Don’t call him names, please,” begged Prentiss, as he prepared to
follow Dolph. “He might understand you. It’s all well enough for you,
Chesty, but kindly remember that we are unprotected.”

The house was a large, rambling affair, immaculately clean and white.
At a little distance were a stable and a barn, and beyond were paddocks
in which a number of horses and colts were ambling about. Big elms
shaded the buildings, a glimpse of fertile fields and meadows showing
beyond, and altogether Farmer Finkler’s place looked prosperous and
attractive. There was an old-fashioned knocker on the front door, and
with the expression of one about to enter a den of lions, Dolph raised
it and beat a faint tattoo. That was the signal for Rowdy to bark, and
the boys looked around nervously. But evidently the dog only meant to
aid them in summoning the inmates, for he still wagged his tail and
kept at a respectful distance. The door was opened by a young girl of
about fourteen or fifteen, a decidedly pretty girl, too, as Dolph, who
was susceptible to feminine attractions, enthusiastically proclaimed
afterwards. She had shimmery brown hair and violet-blue eyes, and a
slightly tip-tilted nose. At present the eyes were politely inquiring,
as she stood in the dimness of the hall holding the door open and
facing the visitors.

“How do you do?” began Dolph, after his first surprise. “Is――is Mr.
Finkler at home, please?”

“No, sir; my father is away just now,” was the answer.

“Oh!” said Dolph vaguely.

As he showed no disposition to add to this clever remark, Prentiss
entered the field.

“Will he be home soon, Miss?” he asked. The girl shook her head.
She had begun to blush a little, which was not to be wondered at,
considering that Dolph was still staring at her.

“He has gone to New York. I don’t expect him back until Thursday.”

“Oh!” said Prentiss. Whereupon Walker took up the burden of
conversation.

“We’re very sorry to have missed him,” he said in relieved tones and
with a broad smile on his face.

“Is there――is there any message I can give him?” asked Miss Finkler.

“N――no, thanks. We――we called to see him about――――”

“About a matter of business,” interrupted Dolph, emerging from his
trance and smiling engagingly at the young lady. “We will call again.”

“Yes, we’ll call again,” echoed Prentiss.

“Sure,” agreed Walker, backing away from the door.

“Much obliged,” said Dolph. “Good――good morning.”

“Good afternoon,” replied the girl. “If it is very important, I can
give you his address in New York.”

“Oh, no, thank you,” said Prentiss. “It――it isn’t that important. It
was only about――――”

“About some business,” said Dolph helpfully. “We’ll come again after he
returns. Good mor――good afternoon.”

The door closed and the boys returned to the carriage.

“Wasn’t she pretty?” demanded Dolph, as they climbed back to their
seats.

“Stunning!” agreed Prentiss. “I don’t see, though, why it was necessary
for you to break in every time I tried to talk to her.”

“Dolph was trying to make a hit,” said Walker. Dolph stroked an
imaginary mustache and smiled engagingly.

“I shall ask her to the Class Day Dance,” he announced. The others
jeered.

“I see you doing it!” said Chester. “Old Finkler would scalp you!”

“Oh, by that time he and I will be great chums,” replied Dolph. “I
shall cultivate his acquaintance. Might have done it before if I’d
known he had such a pretty daughter.”

“Wonder,” remarked Walker, glancing regretfully back at the house, as
they turned into the road, “why we never knew about her. She’s the
prettiest girl around here!”

“Rather young, though,” said Prentiss superiorly.

“Y-yes,” Walker agreed.

“Young for you chaps,” said Dolph, “but I’m only seventeen. I think she
rather liked me, too. Did you see her blush?”

“Why wouldn’t she, when you were staring her out of countenance?” asked
Prentiss unkindly.

“As a matter of fact,” remarked Chester Harris, “she was looking at me
most of the time.”

“Huh! If she looked your way at all, it was probably the horse she
noticed. The _horse_ is good-looking, Chesty.”

“Oh, well, you’re no Adonis yourself, Dolph,” growled Chester.

“Too bad we couldn’t find Finkler,” said Prentiss in tones expressing
vast relief.

“Yes; I’m broken-hearted,” said Walker. “Hit up that nag of yours,
Chesty, and get us home.”

“We’ll have to go again,” declared Dolph firmly.

“Oh, of course,” Prentiss agreed vaguely. “When did she say he would be
home?”

“Thursday, I think.”

“Wasn’t it a week from Thursday?” inquired Walker innocently.

“It was not.” This from Dolph very sternly. “We’ll call again on
Friday.”

“Not for me,” Prentiss declared. “Friday’s a very unlucky day.”

“Only for journeys.”

“Well, it’s a journey to Finkler’s isn’t it? I might be able to go
Saturday, though.”

“Then we’ll say Saturday morning,” declared Dolph. “Don’t you chaps try
to get out of it.”

The others made no answer and Dolph viewed them suspiciously. “Hear?”
he demanded.

“Oh, yes, we hear. Of course, we haven’t any idea of getting out of it.
I should say not! ‘See your duty and do it,’ is our motto, isn’t it,
Steve?”

Walker agreed that it was, adding that he hoped it wouldn’t rain
Saturday morning. At which Prentiss and Chester laughed, and Dolph
grunted disgustedly.

“You fellows would like me to do this whole thing alone, I guess,” he
observed bitterly.

“Not if you don’t want to,” replied Walker sweetly. “We only thought
that perhaps you’d like to go by yourself. You see, Dolph, you’d make
more of an impression on Miss Finkler if Thorp and I were not present
with our fatal beauty.”

But when Saturday morning came, Steve Walker couldn’t be found, and
Prentiss refused to go without him. On the following Monday it was
Dolph who couldn’t get away, and so the visit was put off and delayed
until a whole fortnight had gone by, by which time Walker and Prentiss
had lost interest in the matter and even Dolph showed a strong
inclination to let things slide. Dolph had sufficient excuse, however,
for the captain of the Baseball Team has plenty of work and plenty
of problems to keep him busy. In that fortnight Maple Ridge played
four games, winning two and tying one. The latter contest, with Dixon
Academy, ran to twelve innings, and then was called, with the score 8
to 8. That was Maple Ridge’s fifth game of the year, and in it the
home team showed a vast improvement over its work in the Charlemont
game. The single defeat was suffered at the hands of Blue Ledge School,
Maple Ridge being shut out without a run, and with only three hits to
her credit. But Blue Ledge was a big school, and its baseball team was
a rattling aggregation of hard-hitting fellows, who averaged two years
more than Maple Ridge in the matter of age. Sam pitched the entire
contest, and was lucky to hold the opponents down to seven hits and
four runs.

It was in the following game, that with Holt School, that Jack finally
ousted Cook from the position of first substitute right fielder. It
was a close game all the way, with the score seesawing back and forth
for six innings, first Holt and then Maple Ridge being in the lead.
The seventh began with Holt one run ahead. It ended with Maple Ridge
leading by two tallies, 9 to 7. Mort Prince, who was pitching, held
the enemy scoreless the first half of the eighth. Maple Ridge was
unable to add to her figures in the last half. In the first of the
ninth, Prince weakened. A pass put a man on first; a sacrifice bunt
advanced him to second. The next batter was out on an infield fly.
With two down, a slow grounder to Cassart at third put a man on first
and advanced the first runner to third. The man on first stole on the
first ball pitched. Holt’s centre fielder, a powerful hitter, was up.
Dolph signaled Prince to pass him, and Mort began to throw wide of the
plate. All went well until three balls had been sent in. Then Prince
slipped up and sent one that cut the edge of the plate. The batter,
who resented being passed, leaned against it, and it went sailing out
to short left field, well over third baseman’s head, and yet so close
behind him that Jack, who had been playing in left since the beginning
of the sixth inning, was unable to reach it, although he came running
in at top speed. As it was, the ball struck the ground two yards in
front of him, just as the man from third crossed the plate. Jack got
the ball on the bound, poised and made a hard, straight throw to the
plate, just in the nick of time to head off the second runner, who
was trying his best to bring in the tying run. It was a nice bit of
fielding, and the Maple Ridge supporters cheered long and loudly as
Jack trotted in, peeling off his glove.

“That was a dandy throw-in you made,” said Sam later. “As straight as
an arrow, Jack, and right into Dolph’s mitt.”

“Well,” replied Jack modestly, “I saw I couldn’t catch that fly, so I
slowed up for the bound. The man from second was just leaving third
then, and I heaved as quick as I knew how. And when I did throw, Sam, I
remembered what you’d told me and I kept my eyes and my mind on Dolph;
and I said to that ball, ‘Get there!’”

“And it got!” laughed Sam. “And I dare say, it saved us a licking, or,
at any rate, another tie game. You keep on improving, Jack, and you’ll
make Tyler hustle to keep his place.”

“I guess I’ll never be as good as Wicks is,” answered Jack. “He seems
to know just where the ball is going the minute it leaves the bat.”

“So will you when you’ve played as long as he has. Study the game,
Jack. Keep at it.”

“Of course. It’s pretty good fun, anyway, even if I don’t get into the
big games.”

“Well, you keep on batting as well as you have been, and you’ll do
that, too. You’ve got Cook settled already, I guess.”

Sam was right, for in the next game but one Jack went in at the start,
Tyler Wicks being on the hospital list for the time, and played such
a good game that Mr. Shay put on his thinking-cap and tried to find a
place for Jack in the regular line-up. A day or two later, in practice,
Jack was surprised to find himself in right field, a position that had
been fairly well filled by Watkins, with Joe Williams as substitute.
After he had grown accustomed to the change of territory, Jack did well
enough there, the only thing that bothered him being the disconcerting
proximity of Farmer Finkler’s stone wall, which lay close at his left.
Once or twice a long fly from Mr. Shay’s bat sent him almost up to the
wall, and any player knows how difficult it is to keep one’s mind on
the ball when one is expecting at any instant to collide with such an
unyielding obstacle as a wall or fence. After that, Jack played in
right and left, and, once or twice, in centre, and it was plain to be
seen that Mr. Shay was training him for an all-around outfielder. This
didn’t please Jack very well, for he preferred having a settled goal
to strive for. Besides, a utility man, which he was fast becoming, was
quite as likely as not to adorn the bench when the important games came
along. But Jack worked away cheerfully enough, and did what he was told
to the best of his ability. Only to Sam did he voice his regret.

“I’d rather he’d left me in left field, Sam. Then I might have got into
a part of a game now and then. As it is, with Wicks ahead of me, and
Watkins and Williams and Truesdale, why, I don’t see where I come in!”

“Don’t you? I do. Shay’s going to use you for a substitute outfielder,
Jack, and a pinch-hitter. That’s why he’s been keeping you at the net
all the afternoon. You’ve got a sort of lucky way of connecting with
the ball that Shay takes a fancy to. Don’t you worry, chum, you’ll get
your show all right. Being a general handy man won’t keep you from
falling into a regular place when the place is ready. Meanwhile, what
you want to do is to bat and bat and then some. You’ve got a good eye,
old man, and you’re going to make a fine old hitter some day. And I’m
glad I discovered you!”

“So am I,” laughed Jack. “I’m a grand discovery.”



CHAPTER IX

JACK GETS A LIFT


It was about a fortnight after the unsuccessful visit to Farmer
Finkler’s that Jack asked permission to cut practice and go to town.
His mission in Charlemont was the purchase of a straw hat, for the
weather, it now being almost the last of May, had become decidedly
warm and cloth caps were no longer comfortable. Coach Shay gave the
desired permission readily enough and Jack set off at three o’clock.
The town was a good mile and a half by road, and as one didn’t strike
the trolley line until he had traversed the first two-thirds of the
distance, going to town was something of an undertaking on a hot day.
There was a nearer route, but it lay over the hill and through pastures
and by devious ways, and Jack had been over it but once and doubted
his ability to reach Charlemont by that trail. So he struck out down
the road, keeping to the shade where there was any, and wishing that
some one would come along and give him a lift. And so when the sound of
wheels did reach his ears he turned around and viewed the approaching
vehicle anxiously. It proved to be a side-bar buggy, dingy and much
in need of a coat of paint or varnish, occupied by a single person.
Jack congratulated himself and stopped to await it. If the buggy
wasn’t much to boast of, the horse, on the contrary, was a beauty, a
young bay with dark points that came swinging along the dusty road
as though he thoroughly enjoyed every movement of his strong supple
muscles. The driver was a man of middle age, a prosperous farmer from
his appearance. Jack stepped out into the road as the buggy came up and
held up his hand.

“Will you give me a lift, sir, please?” he asked.

The buggy went by and for a moment Jack thought that the occupant had
either not heard or didn’t want to comply with the request. But the
horse was finally pulled up some fifty or sixty feet beyond and the
driver turned and beckoned peremptorily to him. Jack hurried down the
road.

“Where you going?” asked the man. He had a deep, gruff voice and for
the first time Jack noticed that he didn’t seem a particularly amiable
sort of person. He had an iron-gray beard and heavy eyebrows of the
same hue, a long thin nose and steely blue eyes that bored into one
like gimlets. The face was deeply wrinkled and darkly tanned. He wore
black clothes that seemed too loose for even his large and rugged body
and a queer broad-brimmed felt hat of snuff color. Jack, with the man’s
impatient and unfriendly gaze on him, wished that he had not asked for
a ride. But the colt was pawing impatiently and, having made the start,
Jack determined to go on with it.

“I’m going to town, sir,” answered Jack. “I thought if you didn’t mind
I’d like a lift. It’s pretty hot walking; dusty, too.”

“Get in,” said the man gruffly.

Jack climbed to the seat, the driver flicked the reins and the horse
whisked them off down the road.

The man gave all his attention to the horse, which, impatient of the
stop, was inclined to be frisky, and for the first few minutes there
was silence in the buggy. Presently, however, the driver, without
turning his head, put a question.

“You one o’ them Maple Ridge boys?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Huh!”

Silence descended again. They reached the main road and turned eastward
with the trolley track.

“Live in this part o’ the country, do you?”

“No, sir, my home’s in Wichita, Kansas.”

The farmer turned for the first time and viewed Jack with a slight
display of interest.

“Want to know,” he said. “Thought you weren’t quite as smug as those
others.”

Jack was uncertain of the meaning of the word smug, but he decided to
put a complimentary interpretation on it and so smiled pleasantly.
Jack’s smile was hard to resist. The farmer saw it said “Huh” again, a
little less unpleasantly and gave his attention to the horse, which
was showing a tendency to bolt at the approach of a car.

“That’s a mighty pretty horse,” said Jack after quiet was restored. The
farmer nodded.

“Know anything about horses?” he asked.

“Not much, sir. We used to have two or three when I was a kid, but when
my father died we sold them.”

“Father’s dead, eh! Mother still with you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Got any brothers or sisters?”

“I’ve got a kid brother about eight and two sisters. One’s three years
older than I and the other’s twelve.”

“How’d you happen to come here to school? Haven’t you got schools out
West?”

“Y-yes, sir, but father came from this part of the country and he
always wanted me to go to school hereabouts.”

“Like it?”

“Very much. The fellows are a fine lot, I think.”

“Fine lot! Fine lot of scallywags!” said the farmer disgustedly.
“Seems like you had some sense, but I guess you’ll be just like the
rest of ’em after you’ve been there awhile. Mean, sneaky lot of young
varmints, I call ’em!”

“I’m sorry you don’t like them, sir,” replied Jack coldly. “Perhaps you
haven’t met the best of them.”

“Met ’em? Only place I ever met ’em was in my apple orchard.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Jack. “You――you’re Mr. Finkler, then?”

“That’s my name. Didn’t you know who I was?”

“No, sir, or I wouldn’t have――――” Jack stopped.

“Wouldn’t have what?” demanded Mr. Finkler. “Wouldn’t have asked me for
a ride, I suppose.”

“No, sir――I mean yes, sir.”

“Huh! Guess you’re the first Maple Ridge boy ever got a lift from me.
And the last, likely. Young rascals!”

“I guess if you’ll stop, sir, I’ll get out,” said Jack.

“Here? Thought you were going to town?”

“I am, but as you don’t like Maple Ridge boys and as I’m one of them I
won’t trouble you any longer, Mr. Finkler.”

The farmer shot a glance at him and flapped the reins lightly. “Huh,”
he grunted, “sort of high an’ mighty, ain’t you? ’D rather walk than
ride with me, eh?”

“I don’t care to stay where I’m not wanted,” replied Jack haughtily.

“Who said you weren’t wanted?” demanded the farmer gruffly. “Guess you
wouldn’t be here if you weren’t wanted. What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t say, but it’s Jack Borden.”

“Christened Jack, were you?”

“John.”

“Why don’t you call it John then? Ain’t that a good enough name? John
was my father’s name and his father’s name, too; and it’s mine. Good
sensible name, I call it.”

“My mother called me Jack, sir.”

“Oh, she did, eh? Well, mothers have that right, I guess. How you going
to get home?”

“Back to school, do you mean, sir? I guess I’ll walk. I don’t mind,
because it will be cooler by that time, I guess.”

“Going to be in town long?”

“Not very,” replied Jack, undecided whether to be resentful or amused
at the farmer’s questioning. “I’m just going to get a straw hat.”

“What do you want a straw hat for? I never wore one in my life. They’re
hot things.”

Jack glanced at the heavy felt on Farmer Finkler’s head and smiled.

“I don’t find them so, sir.”

“Don’t eh? Well, you be around Worden’s drug store in about half an
hour and I’ll give you a lift back to school; that is, if you aren’t
too high an’ mighty to accept a seat in my humble equipage.”

“I’m not high and mighty at all,” replied Jack with heat. “I’m much
obliged, sir, but I guess I’d rather walk.”

“All right; suit yourself. Thought you were kind of a sensible boy, but
I guess you’re a regular Maple Ridger after all. Where do you want to
get out?”

“This will do, right here, thank you,” replied Jack, as the buggy swung
into Main street, where the stores began. Mr. Finkler pulled the horse
down and drew the buggy in toward the curb. Jack descended.

“I’m very much obliged to you for my ride, Mr. Finkler,” he said
stiffly.

“You are, eh? Well, don’t tell your friends up there to school that I
gave you a lift.”

“Why not, sir?” asked Jack.

“Because,” responded the farmer with a grim smile, “they’d think you
were lying. Huh! Get ap!”

Jack’s shopping took him only about ten minutes. After that, with the
new straw hat on his head and his cap stuffed into his pocket, he
strolled about in front of the stores for awhile, looking in at the
windows and jingling the remaining coins in his possession tentatively.
But he saw nothing that particularly appealed to him and so finally
turned off of Main street and headed back toward Maple Ridge. Perhaps
the thermometer had dropped a degree or two since he had left school,
but the change wasn’t apparent and it was still uncomfortably warm. He
wished he had not quarreled with Farmer Finkler. After all, the latter
had not said nor done anything that Jack need have taken umbrage about.
If the farmer didn’t like the Maple Ridgers, as he called them, and
said so, why, the boys themselves frankly acknowledged that they had
given him plenty of cause for that dislike. There was still time to
retrace his steps to the drug store and save himself a long, hot walk
to school. But after thinking it over Jack decided that he would rather
walk than humble himself to the school’s hereditary enemy. Besides,
there was the chance that some one else would be going his way and
would give him a lift. He looked back in the hope that a trolley car
would appear and help him over the first stage of his journey, but none
was in sight and rather than stand there on the sun-smitten pavement
and wait for one he walked on.

Ten minutes later he was wondering whether, after all, Farmer Finkler
might not be right in his theory regarding straw hats, for the one
on Jack’s head _was_ decidedly hot! He took it off and wiped the
perspiration from the leather band. Then he wiped his forehead. Then he
put the hat on again, tilting it toward the back of his head to relieve
his forehead. So absorbed in these proceedings was he that he didn’t
hear Farmer Finkler until that gentleman had pulled the horse down to a
walk and spoke.

“Nice and cool, ain’t it?” There was a gleam of amusement in the
farmer’s eyes. Jack turned in surprise.

“Not very,” replied Jack, with a smile.

“Whoa!” The farmer stopped his horse. “Climb in,” he said. “I waited
for you awhile at the drug store, but you didn’t come.”

Jack hesitated a moment. Then he swallowed his pride and got into the
buggy. “It’s pretty warm walking,” he murmured apologetically.

“Yep, it’s hot weather for the time o’ year,” Farmer Finkler allowed.
“Good growing weather, though. Hay’s coming along nicely. Guess if we
have a week or two like this I can begin cutting pretty early.”

“I suppose you have a lot of land, sir,” inquired Jack.

“’Bout a hundred and fifteen acres altogether. Most of it’s in grass.
I use a heap o’ feed at my place. Eighteen or twenty head o’ horses
and half a dozen cows eat a lot. Hay and grain’s about the only crop I
raise nowadays.”

Jack was silent a minute, debating. Here was an opportunity to sound
Mr. Finkler on the subject of the land they wanted to get, but whether
it was advisable to mention the matter was a question. In the end he
decided to take the risk.

“I suppose, sir,” he began, “you could get along pretty well with two
or three acres less, couldn’t you?”

“Maybe I could,” replied Mr. Finkler cautiously. “Want to buy a piece,
do you?”

“Yes, sir; at least the school wants to.”

“Huh! Wants a slice o’ my west meadow; I know all about that, young
man! They’ve been wanting it a long time and they’ll keep on wanting
it, I guess.”

“Then you――won’t consider selling a little of it?”

“No, sir! Why should I? Benedict wants me to cut a slice right off
that meadow there so’s his boys can play ball on it. Ball! Huh! I’m
not saying that if he wanted it for a building or something useful I
wouldn’t consider selling to him. I guess I could get on without that
corner of land. But why should I cut up that meadow just so’s a lot of
worthless rascals can throw a ball around over it? Ain’t they got room
enough as it is, I’d like to know?”

“No, sir, that’s just it,” replied Jack quietly. “They haven’t got
nearly room enough. I’d like to explain it to you if you’ll let me.”

“Don’t want to hear it,” grunted the farmer. “It’s all been explained
time and time again.”

“Not very well, then, I guess,” said Jack with some asperity, “or you
wouldn’t persist in saying that we have land enough.”

“Wouldn’t, eh? Well, you explain it, then. Not that it’s going to make
a mite o’ difference, though, young man.”

“Then I don’t see that there’s much use in my wasting my breath,”
answered Jack with a frown. “However, here’s just how it is, Mr.
Finkler. You see, baseball and football and the other games we play on
our field require a certain amount of room. I dare say, sir, you’ve
noticed that on a baseball field the outfielders are pretty well spread
out.”

“Are they? Well, young man, I never saw a game of baseball, but I’ll
take your word for what you say.”

“Didn’t you ever play it when you were a boy?” asked Jack in genuine
surprise.

“No, I never did,” replied the farmer grimly. “I got my exercise
chopping wood or hanging on to the tail end of a plow. Never felt
any desire to chase a ball around a field, neither. Long about eight
o’clock I’d had all the exercise I wanted and I was good and ready for
bed. Go on.”

“Well, what I was saying was that the outfield of a baseball ground has
to be pretty wide. Our field isn’t nearly big enough, sir. If you knock
a foul into right field it goes over your wall and we have to chase
over for it.”

“And knock my wall down while you’re doing it,” added the farmer.

“We don’t mean to, sir.”

“Huh! I suppose you don’t mean to steal my apples! I suppose you didn’t
mean to set fire to my hay cocks!”

“We didn’t do that, Mr. Finkler!” declared Jack earnestly. “I wasn’t
here then, but I’ve heard the fellows say over and over again that they
had nothing to do with it.”

“Lies!”

“No, sir, they’re not lies! Fellows like Ted Warner and Dolph Jones
don’t tell lies!”

“Don’t, eh? Didn’t ever steal my apples I suppose?”

“I think they have done that, sir, but――but swiping a few apples isn’t
exactly stealing――”

“Huh!”

“I mean, Mr. Finkler, boys don’t consider it stealing. It’s a――a sort
of a lark, sir. Why, didn’t you ever steal apples when you were a boy?”

Mr. Finkler turned a somewhat startled look at Jack and quickly
shifted his gaze back to the horse.

“Don’t know as I ever did,” he said cautiously. Adding, after a moment,
“Maybe――once or twice.”

“Well, you didn’t consider it stealing, did you?” demanded Jack
triumphantly.

“Huh! You ought to be a lawyer, young man. So you think those boys
didn’t fire my hay, do you?”

“I’m sure of it, sir,” answered Jack earnestly. “And if you want to
know something, Mr. Finkler, I guess when you accused us of doing that
and refused to believe us when we told you we knew nothing about it
you――you sort of made things worse. I mean that it made the fellows
sort of angry to be accused of such a mean thing, and so they――they
kind of set out to annoy you, I guess.”

“Succeeded, too,” said Mr. Finkler dryly.

“The fellows are willing to promise never to swipe any more apples or
do anything to annoy you, sir, if you’ll let us have that piece of
land. We do need it awfully, Mr. Finkler.”

“Huh!”

“You see, sir, if we had it we’d have a decent baseball field and a
better football field and we could build a running track so that we
wouldn’t always get beaten at the track and field meets.”

“Want to build a road, you mean, through my meadow?”

Jack explained. “And if you didn’t want to sell the land to us
outright, sir, you could lease it for ten years or so. And if you did
that we’d agree to put the land back in just the shape we found it when
the lease ran out. Wouldn’t that be all right?”

“Maybe. Well, here’s where you live. Whoa, Dick!”

“You’ll think it over, won’t you, Mr. Finkler?” asked Jack as he got
out of the buggy. The farmer shook his head.

“Don’t need to,” he answered.

“You mean that you――that you won’t do it?” asked Jack disappointedly.

“Exactly. Tell those friends of yours that they can get all the
exercise they need with a saw and a pile o’ cord wood. And they won’t
need any more land than they’ve got now.”

“I think――you’re a little bit unreasonable,” replied Jack, stifling his
exasperation.

“Do, eh? Well, maybe, maybe. We’re all likely to think that of another
person who won’t do what we want him to.”

“I wish you’d think it over, sir,” said Jack wistfully.

Farmer Finkler gazed thoughtfully between Dick’s ears.

“Don’t know but what I’d be willing to do it if those young rascals
were all like you, boy. But they’ve been making my life miserable for
five or six years and I guess I ain’t ready to cry quits yet. Sometime
when you ain’t got anything better to do you come over and see me and
I’ll show you some good horses. Guess you and me can be friends anyway,
eh!”

“Thank you,” replied Jack stiffly, “but I guess I’ll stand with my
friends, sir. Perhaps some day you’ll find out that we aren’t quite as
bad as you think us. I’m very much obliged for the ride, Mr. Finkler.”

[Illustration: “‘Thank you,’ replied Jack stiffly, ‘but I guess I’ll
stand with my friends, sir.’”]

“Huh!” The farmer touched Dick with the whip and the buggy whisked away
up the road. Jack stood a moment at the gate and looked after it.

“I wonder,” he said to himself, “if I didn’t make a mistake then. Maybe
I’d have done better if I’d stayed friends with him. But he certainly
is――is――exasperating!”



CHAPTER X

THE SLUMP


That settled the Peace Embassy.

When Jack narrated his talk with Farmer Finkler to Dolph and Ted they
agreed unanimously that any further efforts at securing the land would
be wasted. Perhaps Dolph was a little bit relieved at not having to
face the enemy. Certainly Prentiss and Walker were when the news
reached them. Steve Walker even cut a caper.

“That’s a load off my mind,” he laughed. “I’ve been dodging you for
two weeks, Dolph, for fear you’d grab me and lug me over there to that
ogre’s castle.”

“It was a wild dream from the start,” declared Thorp Prentiss. “He’d
have turned us down, anyway. Probably set the dog on us!”

“I guess we’ll just have to struggle along with the field we’ve got,”
mused Dolph.

“I suppose so,” agreed Prentiss gloomily. “If we only had a track
we could have the Tri-Meet next Spring for the asking. Well, this
is my last year. I’ve done the best I could and if we get beaten as
usual――which we naturally will――it isn’t my fault. Only thing is,
though, that in another year or two we won’t have any Track Team at
all; fellows will get tired of always being licked.”

“Benny ought to do something,” said Dolph vaguely.

“I’d like to do something to old Finkler!” growled Walker savagely.
“Stubborn old mule!”

“Think of his giving Borden a ride, though!” marveled Prentiss. “That’s
the wildest yarn I ever heard. You don’t suppose he dreamed it, do you?”

“Who? Jack Borden? No, he didn’t dream it. Well, I’m off to practice.
The Peace Embassy is dissolved, fellows.”

June came in and the Tri-Meet was duly held at Dixon Academy. As
usual, Maple Ridge ran a bad third, being totally eclipsed by both
her competitors in the track events, although she made an excellent
showing on the turf. Chase won the meet, with Dixon a close second and
Maple Ridge last. Maple Ridge was not disappointed or cast down for the
simple reason that she never expected to get better than third place.
A new captain was elected and Thorp Prentiss handed over the reins of
government with a sigh of relief.

Meanwhile the Baseball Team had been coming strongly. Sam was pitching
better and better every time he was put in the box and his support was
steadying down wonderfully. Jack was still spending much of his time
on the bench during the contests, although he usually got in for two
or three innings in right field or left. His batting was getting more
certain all the time and as a pinch-hitter he was making something of a
reputation for himself. Mr. Shay kept him at the net for half an hour
at a time every practice and Jack could not help but profit by the
work. In the field he was gradually acquiring that ability to judge
flies that he had envied Tyler Wicks the possession of. He learned
to “size up” the batter; to know what to expect from a left-handed
hitter; to judge direction by the batter’s stand at the plate; to tell
by the sound of bat against ball whether the hit was a long, hard one
or one to be handled by the infield. In short, he began to develop
very rapidly what Mr. Shay, the coach, called “baseball sense.” But
all this didn’t give him the coveted position with the “regulars.” He
was still a utility man; substitute outfielder and pinch-hitter. The
difficulty was that Jack had three good players in front of him, all
hard to displace. There was Tyler Wicks in left field, and Tyler was a
very good man, not brilliant, but steady and dependable. In right field
Watkins was almost as good, though more valuable as a batter than a
fielder. In centre Truesdale was all that could be desired. As for the
other substitutes, Jack was already on an even footing with them; in
fact, he stood a little better in the estimation of Mr. Shay and Dolph
than any of them, possibly excepting Joe Williams. And even Joe might
find himself out-distanced if Jack’s batting continued to improve.
Already the latter was hitting close to .300, with only Ted and Dolph
and Truesdale ahead of him.

Maple Ridge lost the game with Mayport Academy, on the latter’s
grounds, the second Saturday in June owing to what Sam called “one
grand slump.” Mort Prince, who started the game for Maple Ridge, was
batted out of the box in the fourth inning when Mayport through a
combination of four safe hits and two errors in the visitors’ infield
tallied six runs. After that Maple Ridge went to pieces. Hal Morris
took Prince’s place and was fairly effective until the seventh. Then
the enemy landed on him fiercely, and when the dust of battle had
cleared away the score stood 14 to 4 in Mayport’s favor, and Maple
Ridge departed homewards with their green banners trailing. There were
some who criticised Mr. Shay for not putting Sam in instead of Morris.
The more knowing ones, however, pointed out that with the whole team
playing like a lot of children the game was lost after the fourth and
that it would have been useless to put in Sam, especially as he would
be needed on Wednesday for the contest with Springfield Preparatory,
the last game before the final one with Chase. Jack vindicated his
reputation as a pinch-hitter in the Mayport fracas, batting for Prince
in the fifth inning and lining out a two-bagger. Unfortunately,
however, he was the first man up and his hit brought no runs; and he
never got beyond third himself. In the seventh inning he took Watkins’s
place in right field, and although he did no worse than any one else
that day he certainly failed to distinguish himself. No errors were
scored against him, but that was due more to good luck than aught else,
for twice flies that he might have captured fell safely to earth before
he reached them. Once he and Truesdale got into a mix-up where their
territories overlapped and the ball struck the turf between them and
Mayport tore off two tallies.

Mr. Shay had very little to say either on the way back to Charlemont
or later. A slump is something that is almost certain to happen to the
best regulated ball teams, and scolding seldom helps much. The players
had a lay-off on Monday and a short, if sharp, practice on Tuesday.
The contest with Springfield Preparatory School was not considered
important, although as Springfield had given Maple Ridge several good
drubbings in the past the Light Green was naturally not averse to a
victory. Whether the team had recovered from its slump was a matter
of conjecture on Wednesday, and the school was divided in prophecy,
many predicting an overwhelming defeat for Maple Ridge and others
foretelling a close victory.

The game was played at Springfield. Sam was in the box for the
visitors. From the second inning the contest was a batting-fest, with
honors about even. Sam’s slants struck no terror to the hearts of the
home team and they landed on them unerringly. On the other hand, the
Springfield pitcher fared no better, and with two on bases in the third
inning Gus Turnbull brought the Maple Ridge supporters to their feet by
knocking out a home run that put the Light Green in the lead. This lead
was held until the eighth, when Watkins muffed a long fly and let in
two runners. Shortly after that Watkins pulled off his second error,
allowing a ball which he had been unable to reach in time to catch
to bound by him. It was clear that Maple Ridge was still feeling the
effects of the slump, although convalescence had set in. The infield
made four errors, of which only one proved costly, and Dolph had two
passed balls chalked against him when the game was over. But in spite
of this Maple Ridge triumphed by inaugurating a batting rally in the
first of the ninth, tying the score with Truesdale’s sacrifice fly that
brought in Sam, and taking a two run lead later, when, with two out,
Ted, Dolph and Cassart all hit safely. In the last of the inning Maple
Ridge tightened up and, although Springfield got two men on bases, no
runs were scored, and Maple Ridge traveled home with a 10 to 8 victory
tucked away.

Jack adorned the bench during the whole of that game and it required
all of Sam’s eloquence to comfort and encourage him.

“Don’t you worry, chum,” said Sam. “You’ll get into the Chase game
all right. I wouldn’t be surprised if Shay put you in at right. Will
certainly played like a lobster this afternoon. Maybe we all did. I
know I didn’t have much on those chaps, and that’s a fact. But Will was
absolutely woozy; didn’t make a single hit either, did he?”

“One,” replied Jack grudgingly.

“Did he? Well, anyway, I guess he’s dished. I’m sorry, too, for I like
Will, and he can play good ball sometimes. I dare say Shay will put you
in right field on Monday. Then all you’ve got to do is to play the game
you can play and you’ve got the position cinched for Saturday.”

“Sounds easy the way you tell it,” replied Jack with a smile, “but
suppose I don’t play the game I can play?”

Sam shrugged his broad shoulders. “Then it’s a toss-up, I guess,
between you and Will. Anyway, you’ll get into the Chase game long
enough to get your letters.”

“I don’t care so much about my letters,” answered Jack.

“You don’t? Why not? That’s what every fellow wants, you goop! Think
how swell you’ll look on Class Day with your M. R. on your cap.”

“Maybe it will be too hot for caps,” laughed Jack. “Can I put the
letters on my straw?”

“It’s never too hot for caps that have M. R. on them,” replied Sam.
“Reminds me of a story my dad tells. There used to be a man in our town
who was the glummest, sourest old codger you ever saw. Never smiled in
his life, they say, until one day he got mixed up with a street car and
had two teeth knocked out. The dentist put in two gold ones. After that
the old chap grinned all the time, just to show his gold teeth, and
grinning seemed to improve his disposition wonderfully. He got quite
cheerful and sunny and folks got to liking him. The only trouble was
that he never got asked to funerals because he couldn’t stop grinning!”

“That means, I suppose,” laughed Jack, “that I’ve got to wear my cap
all summer. Not much, letters or no letters! I’d rather be comfortable
than stylish.”

“That’s what they all say,” responded Sam knowingly, “until they get
something to be stylish about. I dare say you’ll be like Pete Bates.
Pete won his football letters in his Junior year. He got so fond of his
sweater that he wore it all the time. Some fellows say he even slept
in it! Anyway, he came into Talcott’s class one morning with it on and
Talcott got so mad he reported him to Benny.”

Sam proved his ability as a prophet when on Monday Jack went into right
field in place of Watkins, benched. For the rest of that week, or as
long as practice lasted, which was until Thursday, Jack and Watkins
fought for that position like two bulldogs over a bone. On Tuesday
Watkins was given a chance to make good again, but failed in a measure,
probably because he was too eager. On Wednesday Jack went back and made
a lamentable muff that doubtless brought joy to the heart of Watkins.
On Thursday, the last day of work, Jack played at right on the second
team and Watkins came into his own again. The other players and the
school at large watched the struggle with interest and amusement and
Jack and Watkins each had his coterie of supporters. One thing that
made Jack hopeful of ultimate success was the fact that at the bat
he could more than hold his own against his rival. Meanwhile the two
boys watched each other like duelists, maintained the most courteous
relations and waited anxiously for coach and captain to give out the
line-up for the big game. Not until then would they know who had won.
But the line-up wasn’t made public until the morning of the game, and
before that other things happened which, if they had little bearing on
the Chase game, at least produced important results.



CHAPTER XI

AN ALARM OF FIRE


Maple Ridge and Chase were natural rivals. The schools were similar
in character and size and had been founded within five years of each
other, whatever advantage pertained to seniority belonging to Chase.
The rivalry was keen and healthy, being founded on mutual respect and
governed by a spirit of justice. Each school struggled hard every year
to wrest from the other the football, baseball and hockey supremacy,
but the best of feeling always prevailed. Some of the other schools
thereabouts, notably Dixon, poked sly fun at the brotherly attitude
displayed by the rivals and told funny stories about them, one being
that when in their football contests it became necessary for a Chase
man to tackle a Maple Ridge player, or vice versa, the tackler
invariably apologized profusely beforehand for the liberty he was about
to take!

When an athletic team from Chase visited Maple Ridge it was entertained
at dinner before the contest, and the same thing happened when Maple
Ridge went to Chase. But in spite of such amenities no two school teams
battled more determinedly for victory year after year. And because
Chase thought the Maple Ridge students a fine lot of fellows and
because Maple Ridge respected Chase in the same way, a victory over
its rival was something for either to be proud of and to celebrate
gloriously. Save in the matter of track and field sports, Chase and
Maple Ridge had always been pretty evenly matched. During the period
of athletic relationship, which had begun almost with the beginning
of Maple Ridge School, Chase had captured a majority of the football
contests and Maple Ridge had had the better of the baseball arguments.
Last year the Light Green had defeated Chase on the diamond without
much difficulty, and, since it seldom happened that either school won
twice in succession, precedent pointed now to a victory for the Brown.
But Dolph and his team weren’t bowing to precedent. Dolph believed
that this year’s Maple Ridge team was better than last year’s. Besides
which Maple Ridge had the advantage of playing on her own diamond. So
Maple Ridge went to bed on Friday night feeling hopeful and cheerful,
all thoughts fixed on the morrow.

But it is one thing to go to bed and another to sleep. So Jack
discovered that night. There had been no practice in the afternoon,
which, while it may have saved the players from becoming tired or
overtrained, left them at a loss for occupation. Jack had found the
time dragging sadly. He and Sam and Chester Harris had gone for a walk
along the Ridge, but it had been hot and close in the woods and they
had soon returned to school. For one he was heartily glad when supper
time arrived. Afterwards some of the fellows had visited Number 12 for
awhile and the next day’s game had been threshed out most thoroughly
until nine o’clock. Mr. Shay had prescribed bed at half-past for all
players and substitutes, and Sam and Jack obeyed the injunction. Sam
had fallen off into a sound slumber almost as soon as his head had
touched the pillow, for Sam had lived through other nights before the
battle and wasn’t troubled much with nerves, anyway. But with Jack it
had been different. For the first hour he had lain in bed with his eyes
wide open and his thoughts very busy with the morrow’s contest and
his chances of getting into it. His race with Will Watkins for right
field position had got on his nerves until now it seemed that to lose
the prize would be a bigger disappointment than he could stand. In the
morning he would have a saner view of it, but to-night, as he threshed
about on the bed, sleepless and flustered, the one thing in life was to
beat out Watkins.

Eleven o’clock sounded. By now he had worked himself into a condition
that made slumber quite impossible. It was a warm night, too, and his
constant tossing about had made him hot and uncomfortable. Near at
hand was the wide-open window. Disentangling himself from the single
sheet, which in his restlessness had become wound around him like the
wrappings of a mummy, he crept out of bed as quietly as possible, so
as not to disturb Sam, drew a chair to the window and, putting his
elbows on the ledge, leaned out into the cooler night air. That was
better. There was no moon, but the stars were bright and he could see
the strip of lawn that stretched between the back of South and the
stone wall, beyond which lay the Finkler orchard. The apple trees
had long since showered the ground with their pink petals and now
the leaves were well out and the trees massed themselves darkly. Yet
between them, in the direction of the Finkler house, a light shone,
and Jack wondered idly if any one were sick there or if the gruff old
farmer regularly kept such late hours.

There wasn’t a sound to be heard save at a distance the incessant
barking of a dog. The night air cooled Jack’s hot head and his busy
brain quieted down. He was pondering the idea of returning to bed when
his attention was attracted again to the light between the trees. It
had brightened and reddened and now it showed above the orchard in
an orange colored glow. Could it be a fire? He looked intently and
listened. Once he thought he heard the sound of shouting, but the
barking of the dog drowned all other sounds. Suddenly the glow above
the trees changed from orange to a dull, ugly red and Jack could
discern smoke and sparks. With a bound he reached Sam’s bed and shook
that youth into waking.

“Sam, there’s a fire over here. Looks like Finkler’s house. Come and
look.”

Sam was out of bed in a second and leaning across the sill at Jack’s
side, rubbed his sleepy eyes into service.

“Fire! I should say so! And that’s Finkler’s place, sure as pop.
There’s no other house in that direction for a mile. Hoopla! Me for the
fire!”

Jack made a dash for his clothes, overturning a chair.

“But can we go?” asked Jack excitedly.

“Sure! Get your things on. I’ll run down and tell Talcott and he will
give the alarm.” Sam was hustling into his shirt and trousers as he
spoke, and the next instant he was out of the room and hurrying down
the stairs to the Physical Director’s room on the first floor. Jack
found his clothes and got into them hastily, watching meanwhile the
glow above the orchard. Every moment it grew and brightened. Sam came
running back.

“Where are my shoes?” he gasped. “Talcott says we can go ahead, Jack.
Are you dressed? There goes the alarm!”

At the head of the staircase the big fire gong was pealing lustily and
doors were being thrown open up and down the corridor.

“Come on!” shouted Sam. “Grab a bucket in the lower hall. The others
will follow. Talcott says he will send the extinguishers around by the
road. That’s Finkler’s as sure as fighting!”

The next moment, evading the excited questions flung at them from open
doorways, the two boys dashed downstairs, seized each a red bucket
from the rack and sped across the lawn toward the orchard. Shoes and
trousers and shirts constituted their attire, and getting through the
barberry hedge that lined the wall was a painful operation. But once
over and in the orchard the way was easy. They headed straight for the
glow of the fire, dodging the trees, but stumbling over an occasional
root. They didn’t try to talk, but saved their breath for running.
Jack could have outdistanced Sam, who had a good deal more weight to
carry, but he resisted his impatience and kept with his chum. Presently
the orchard thinned and then they were out of it, with only a little
expanse of turf and garden between them and the fire.

“It isn’t the house,” gasped Jack. “It’s beyond. See?”

“Stable or something,” answered Sam, plodding breathlessly along.
“We’ve beat the other fellows, all right!”

The scene was as light as day. The big white house stood out stark
against a glow of flame and a welter of smoke. Upward ascended a stream
of sparks that floated a moment in the still air high up against the
tops of the big elms. In the glare several persons were visible; Farmer
Finkler himself, two of his men, and, near the door of the house, his
daughter. Beside her, Rowdy, the dog, his nose in air, was protesting
loudly at the unaccustomed proceedings. The farmer and his men were
plainly in a condition of panic, for, although a garden hose lay on the
ground spouting water no one made any attempt to direct it against the
flames. The farmer held a bucket, but the fire had grown so hot that
buckets were no longer practical, since it was impossible to get near
enough to the flames to throw water on them. As Jack and Sam ran up the
farmer saw them.

“Seen the engines?” he shouted hoarsely above the roar and crackle of
the flames. “Are they coming?”

“I don’t know, sir,” answered Sam. “We ran across from school. The rest
will be here in a minute with buckets. Guess all you can do, though, is
to keep the house from going.”

“Buckets don’t do any good,” replied Mr. Finkler, tossing his aside as
he spoke. “I telephoned for the engines ten minutes ago. Why don’t they
come?”

“It’s two miles,” said Jack, “and I guess it will take them some time.
I hope you have insurance, sir?”

“Insurance? On the buildings, of course, I have! But there ain’t any on
my horses. Why don’t the engines come?”

Beyond the house, at the side, was an open woodshed some thirty feet
long which connected with a small stable. This was nowadays used only
as a carriage house. Beyond that again, with only a narrow cart-way
between, stood the big barn that was the farmer’s pride and delight.
The land sloped here and the lower floor of the structure, reached
from the back, was used for the cows and for storage. The main floor,
with entrances from the front and further end, held the horse stalls,
harness room, grain bins and farming implements and machinery. Above
were lofts for hay. It was the small carriage house that was in flames,
and even as the boys looked the roof crashed in with a mighty spouting
of sparks. On one side the roof of the woodshed was ablaze and on the
other the end of the big barn was blistering and here and there little
tongues of flame were already working in and out. Jack seized the hose
and pulling it toward the shed played the water on the roof. By that
time the rest of the boys from school began to arrive, and with them
Mr. Talcott. The latter took command of the situation in a minute. A
ladder was found and three boys were sent to the woodshed roof. Others
formed a bucket line from the hydrant in front of the house and water
was passed to the boys on the roof. The hose was directed against the
end of the barn in an endeavor to keep that wet until the engines
arrived. Luckily there was a good water supply from a tower tank a
little distance back of the stable which was filled by means of a
gasoline engine from the brook at the foot of the Ridge. Farmer Finkler
was induced to send one of his men across to the engine house and start
the pump up. The two chemical extinguishers arrived by way of the road
and streams from those were directed against the barn. Meanwhile the
cows on the lower level were being got out by a number of the boys
working under the direction of a farm hand.

To remove the horses, however, was more of a problem, for the main door
to the stable floor was at the corner next to the burning carriage
house and the flames rendered entrance there well-nigh impossible.
Had the big swinging door been open, or even unlocked, it would have
been possible to dash through, but it was secured with a padlock and
no one could have stayed there long enough to use the key. So far,
however, Mr. Talcott’s fire brigade had kept the barn from catching,
and if the engines from Charlemont arrived soon it was probable that
the big building could be saved. But the chemical extinguishers were
soon exhausted and only the hose was left. As by that time the woodshed
roof was pretty well wet down, Mr. Talcott ordered some of the boys to
the high sloping roof of the stable. It was risky work, but there were
plenty of volunteers, and the big ladder was placed against the side
of the barn and half a dozen boys swarmed up it. A new bucket line was
formed and the red pails were passed from hand to hand up the ladder
and along the sloping roof and the water was thrown on the smoking
shingles. Luckily most of the boys wore rubber-soled “sneakers,” which
helped them to keep their feet. Detailing a number of boys to keep
watch on the woodshed and the house, Mr. Talcott found Mr. Finkler.

“This is most unfortunate, sir,” he said. “But I think we can keep
things safe until the fire department arrives. At least, I don’t think
you need worry about the house, Mr. Finkler.”

“The house!” shouted the farmer. “Let it go! It’s the barn we’ve got to
save, sir! I’ve got nineteen horses in there, some of the finest horses
in this state, sir! Why don’t those engines come?”

“They must get here pretty soon now,” answered Mr. Talcott. “Meanwhile
I think we can hold our own. That small building will burn itself out
pretty soon.” He shielded his eyes from the heat and glare and looked
toward it. “The second floor is about ready to tumble in now. Don’t you
think, however, it would be best to get your horses out of the barn?”

“I would if I knew a way,” cried the farmer. “But that’s the only door
except the hay door at the other end, and Joe has the key, and he’s
away to-night. And if we break open the hay door we can’t get the
horses out there. There’s a wall between.”

“This door here is locked?”

“Tight. Here’s the key.” Mr. Finkler opened his hand and displayed it.
“I tried to get to it, but the heat beat me back.”

“Yes, that’s out of the question. Even if it was open I doubt if any
one could get in now. I’ll have a look at the other door you speak of.
You have axes handy?”

“Will’s got one. The others are in the barn.”

At that moment there came cries of alarm from the boys on the roof and
Mr. Talcott hurried toward the ladder.

“What’s the matter?” he called.

“It’s on fire inside, sir! The flames are coming up through the roof on
the back!”



CHAPTER XII

THE BATTING LIST


Mr. Talcott stooped, unlaced his shoes and kicked them off. Then he
sprang up the ladder and joined the boys on the barn roof. Sure enough,
the flames were pouring through venomously. Doubtless a stray spark had
found lodgment there and had eaten its way through to the hay inside.
Mr. Talcott watched a moment. Then he shook his head.

“All down from here, fellows,” he said. “We can’t stop that.”

“With a hose, sir, we might hold it,” said Joe Cassart.

“We haven’t one long enough. Get down the ladder in a hurry, boys; the
hay is probably on fire underneath us this minute.”

When they reached the ground Mr. Finkler was acting like a madman. Once
he made a dash at the door, but the heat sent him reeling back, gasping
and blinded.

“My horses!” he shouted wildly. “My horses! Get them out! Why don’t the
engines come?”

Mr. Talcott gathered a dozen of the boys together and hurried to the
door at the end of the barn. This was reached by a sloping drive and
was big enough to admit a loaded hay-rick. The two big sliding doors
were tightly secured from inside and a hunt for the axe was begun.
Will, the farm hand, was soon found, but what he had done with the axe
he couldn’t remember. Finally it was discovered outside the cow door
and Mr. Talcott set to work with it. Those doors were strongly built,
though, and it was some time before an entrance was effected. When the
shattered doors were pushed back the interior was already foul with
smoke, while above them the flames were licking greedily at the great
piles of hay.

“Look for some way into the stable end,” shouted Mr. Talcott as they
rushed in. The middle of the floor was clear, but on either side stood
hay-ricks, wagons, mowing machines and such. A wooden partition divided
this end of the barn from the stable beyond and never a door was to be
found.

“The man that designed this barn must have been an idiot,” muttered Mr.
Talcott as he searched about in the smoke and dim glare. “See anything,
Phillips?”

“There’s a small window here, sir.”

“That’s no good to us. How do you suppose they get hay to the horses?”
he asked disgustedly.

“Probably shove it down through chutes from above, sir,” suggested
Jack. “Give me a leg-up, Sam, and I’ll have a peek through the window.”

Sam obeyed.

“All dark the other side, sir,” Jack reported. He pulled his elbow back
and sent it crashing against the window. There was a shower of glass
and Jack pressed his face to the opening. “The horses are there, sir. I
can see them; hear them, too; the poor things are frightened to death.”

“What’s under the window?” asked Mr. Talcott.

“I can’t see, sir.”

“All right; down with you. Look out!”

The axe bit into the planks. In the physical director’s hands an axe
was a very business-like instrument and in a moment he had cleared an
opening through which it was possible to crawl.

“May I go, sir?” asked Jack eagerly.

“All right. See where you――――”

“Whoa, boy! It’s a stall, sir. Be careful of the horse. He’s kicking up
a bit.”

“Stay in there and keep out of the way, Borden, while I make this hole
bigger. We may have to come back this way.”

The axe got to work again and then Mr. Talcott, followed by nearly a
dozen boys, crept through. The stalls were arranged in two rows across
the width of the big building. Between them was a space some twelve
feet wide. The horses were in a panic, snorting with fear, tugging at
their halters and plunging from side to side in the stalls.

“Keep out of the way of hoofs, boys!” sang out Mr. Talcott as he groped
his way to the door at the front. The acrid smoke was less thick here,
but it was bad enough, and it got into their eyes and throats until
they wept and choked. Outside they could hear the roar and crackle of
the flames and inside the heat was becoming almost unbearable. Mr.
Talcott reached the door and once more the axe swung. About him the
boys clustered, holding arms before their faces or wiping their eyes of
the tears that streamed out. Suddenly there was a flash of red light as
the door gave and the next moment Mr. Talcott had thrown it wide open,
retreating quickly before the blast of heat that entered.

“Now for the horses!” he shouted. “Climb over the sides from stall
to stall. If you have knives, cut the halters and drive them out.
Phillips, you stand here and hustle them along. But look out for hoofs.
Now then, quick’s the word, boys!”

With a cheer they began their work. Most of the fellows had knives in
their pockets and as fast as a halter rope was slashed the halter was
seized and the horse was forced out into the runway. It was wild work,
for the poor animals, maddened by fright, refused in some cases to do
anything but stand in the stalls and plunge about. In the midst of it
there was a terrific crash overhead.

“There comes some of the roof,” said Mr. Talcott cheerfully. “Come on,
fellows! Get busy! Get up, there! Out you go! Send him along, Phillips.”

Sam had found a pitchfork and with the handle of it he belabored the
horses as they reached the corner. And it took plenty of urging to get
them to face that glare and heat at the doorway. But, with Sam showing
no mercy behind, they all went through, and in scarcely more time than
it has taken to tell it the stalls were empty and Farmer Finkler’s
horses were galloping off into the darkness.

“That’s all, sir!” shouted Jack from the end of the line of stalls.

“Good work! Come on now! Cover your faces, boys, and make a dash for
it. There’s no use trying to get out where we came in. Ready? Now run!”

The heat smote them like a blow from some giant hand as with closed
eyes and covered faces they dashed through the doorway, but they got
out safely and reached the shelter of the trees across the driveway.
Cheers from the others met them as they gained safety. And when from
there they looked back at the barn they realized that they had left
it none too soon, for it was in flames from end to end and the great
crimson and orange tongues were leaping ten feet high along the
ridge-pole. A sudden clanging of gongs sounded from down the drive and
an engine, hose-cart and hook-and-ladder swung into view. At the same
instant the carriage-house subsided in a wreck of charred and flaming
timbers and the nearer end of the barn roof disappeared with a loud
crash.

An hour later Maple Ridge went home to bed, if not to sleep. By that
time the fire was under control. The carriage-house and barn were
total losses, but the woodshed and residence were safe, as well as the
water-tower and several smaller structures near it. As the boys trooped
down the lane, their extinguishers in tow, the light from the fire
followed them, casting grotesque shadows ahead. And above the jarring
of the engine and the hiss of water came the incessant barking of Rowdy!

       *       *       *       *       *

I have said that Maple Ridge went home to bed, if not to sleep.
Naturally, after such a night of adventure and excitement sleep was
very far from the thoughts of most of the boys, and both North and
South Dormitories discussed the events for a long time after the
last light was out. But there was one boy who spent little time in
conversation, and that was Jack. It seemed as though an hour of a
fireman’s life was just what he needed to quiet his nerves! By the time
he and Sam were back in their room Jack was nodding, and, although Sam
would gladly have talked for a long time, Jack fell asleep quickly and
soundly, in spite of the fact that his right hand, surreptitiously
wrapped in a dampened handkerchief, was smarting and throbbing under
the pillow.

Saturday dawned clear and hot, with scarcely any breeze stirring the
leaves of the trees on the campus. It was a morning when hot coffee
looked supremely distasteful, when appetites proved capricious and the
clink of ice in the big water pitchers was music to the ear. As Gus
Turnbull remarked when, breakfast over, a number of the fellows made
themselves comfortable in the shade in front of North, it “only needed
a silly locust up there somewhere to make it August.”

“It’s going to be some hot for the game this afternoon,” observed Steve
Walker, plucking a particularly juicy grass-blade and inserting it
between his teeth.

“Lucky if it doesn’t rain,” said Tyler Wicks, casting a knowing look at
the dazzling blue sky above the tree-tops.

“There’s sure to be a thunder-storm.” This from Midget Green,
cross-legged at the edge of the group and as near Ted Warner as he
could get.

“What do you know about it, kid?” asked Milton Wales, tossing a pebble
at him.

Midget caught the missile deftly and shook it between closed hands. “I
do know,” he answered. “You always have a thunder-storm on a day like
this. You――you can feel it in the air.”

“Midget’s rheumatism is troubling him,” suggested Ted gravely. “Any one
seen Dolph since breakfast?”

“Yes, he and Shay are up there; I guess they’re making out the batting
list,” answered Harry Smythe, nodding his head in the general direction
of the upper floor of North.

A silence followed this announcement. Jack and Watkins each strove to
look indifferent and only succeeded in appearing very self-conscious.

“Guess we won’t know it until just before the game, will we, Ted?”
asked Smythe with a yawn. He had not gone to sleep until after three in
the morning and was feeling the effects of his dissipation.

“I suppose not,” replied Ted. “Who’s got a ball?”

Midget made a convulsive sound, threw himself back until his feet
were in air and produced one from his trousers pocket after much
struggling. “Take mine,” he said breathlessly.

“Thanks. Want to pass, Harry?”

Harry shook his head. “Not much. I’m going to sleep.”

“I will,” said Will Watkins. The two moved over to the gravel and began
throwing the ball back and forth.

“Who wants some tennis?” asked Gus Turnbull.

“I’ll play you, Gus,” said Tyler Wicks.

But Ted overheard and interposed sternly. “You’ll do nothing of the
kind, you idiots. Shay told us to keep quiet this morning. You’ll be
all done up if you play tennis in this heat.”

“Well, gee,” grumbled Gus. “I can’t sit around like this all the
morning.”

“Get a book and read,” Ted suggested.

“It’s too hot to read,” grunted Gus. The others laughed. Wicks sat up
and fished in his pocket for his knife.

“I’ll amuse you, Gus,” he said. “Crawl over here and we’ll play
stick-knife.”

“Stick-knife!” jeered Gus. “Why not jack-stones?” But nevertheless he
joined Tyler and the two were soon hard at it. One by one the fellows
left and the group lessened until only the players, Jack and Steve
Walker remained.

“Think you’ll play?” asked Walker, lowering his voice.

Jack shook his head. “I don’t believe so,” he replied. “Not start the
game, that is.”

“What’s the matter with your hand?”

“Nothing; just scorched it a bit last night.”

“Let’s see.”

But Jack didn’t disturb the handkerchief around it. Instead he thrust
it into his pocket, where he had been keeping it most of the time.
“There isn’t anything to see,” he answered. “It’s just――sort of red.”

Walker eyed him narrowly and shrugged his shoulders. “Better get it
attended to if you expect to play,” he said. “Too bad it isn’t the
other hand. Then you could have padded your glove a bit. How’d you do
it?”

“Took hold of a piece of hot iron,” replied Jack.

“Guess you dropped it in a hurry,” said Walker with a grin. “Say,
Borden, I think we were pretty good to that old rascal last night.
Seems to me after what we did for him he ought to come off his high
horse and be decent about that piece of land we want.”

“I think so, too, but Sam says he’s more likely to prosecute us for
trespassing!”

“That’s not bad,” laughed Walker, “and I dare say that’s what he will
do. Well, I’m off. Hope you get into the game, Borden.”

After he was gone Jack drew his hand from his pocket, unwrapped the
handkerchief and examined his wound. It looked pretty ugly, for the
blisters had broken and the flesh underneath was red and inflamed. The
only thing Jack had found to apply was peroxide of hydrogen. Sam had a
bottle of that and Jack had filched a little before breakfast when Sam
wasn’t looking. Jack didn’t want even Sam to know about his burn; it
was best to be on the safe side. If it got to Dolph’s ears or to Shay’s
they might make a lot of it and not let him play. Of course it _did_
hurt, but then it wasn’t anything to interfere with his catching or
batting. Meanwhile, he concluded, he would go back to the room and if
Sam wasn’t there put some more peroxide on it.

Dinner for the nine and substitutes that day was a half-hour earlier
than usual, for the game was to start at two-fifteen. Every fellow made
a good pretence of eating heartily, but few of them really consumed
enough food to satisfy a healthy baby. The heat continued, although
there seemed a little more breeze stirring than earlier in the day, and
many anxious looks were cast at the sky. But the thunder clouds didn’t
materialize. At a little after one the Towners and their friends began
to arrive and at half-past the nine went to the gymnasium to get into
their togs. Dolph was looking a bit pale and acting fidgety, and Mr.
Shay was very quiet and earnest. When the fellows were ready for the
field he called them around him and made a little speech. It was quite
the usual thing, only it sounded a deal more important to-day, and the
fellows listened very quietly to it. And when he had finished he took
his little red memorandum book from his pocket.

“Here’s the batting-list for the game, boys,” he announced. “Warner,
first base; Smythe, shortstop; Jones, catcher; Truesdale, center field;
Borden, right field; Turnbull, second base; Cassart, third base; Wicks,
left field; Phillips, pitcher. All right now; come on!”

As they made for the door Sam thumped Jack on the back.

“O you Kansas!” he chuckled.



CHAPTER XIII

A GARRISON FINISH


It was not until the beginning of the second inning that anything
happened, although in the first Chase got a runner to first on a
single. But Ted threw him out at second when he tried to steal, and the
next two went out easily. Maple Ridge retired in order. In the second
inning Brothers, Chase’s second baseman, singled to right, went to
second on a neat sacrifice and got third when Sam made his only error
of the game, a poor throw to second in the hope of catching the runner
off base. The next batter went out on an infield fly, and with two down
Maple Ridge breathed easier. Out in right field Jack pulled his cap
further over his face to keep the broiling sun out of his eyes, shifted
a few steps to the left as the next batsman faced the pitcher, and
waited. Two balls went by and then there was a hard, solid _crack_ and
the ball was arching out toward him, high against the glaring sky. He
ran back a few yards, turned, faced and waited. Down came the ball and
up went Jack’s hands.

Then there was a groan from the Maple Ridge partisans and a yell of joy
from the enemy, and Jack was picking the ball from the turf and heaving
it despairingly to second, while the man from third was trotting across
the plate with the first tally. Jack had forgotten his injured hand,
and when the ball had struck the involuntary flinch that followed had
let it trickle out of his grasp. How he hated himself! He had had his
chance to make good and lost it! How they must be reviling him up there
on the stand. Gus Turnbull, though, was calling to him hearteningly:

“Never mind that, Kansas! Cheer up!”

But there was no cheering up for Jack just then. It had been the worst
muff he had ever made. Even in the first days of learning he had never
done anything quite so atrocious. He glowered at his raw palm and
deliberately struck it with his clenched mitt. The pain was bad for a
moment, and almost brought the tears to his eyes, but he told himself
he deserved far more than that. Of course they would pull him out now
and put Watkins back. Well, it was his own fault. To drop an easy fly
like that!

Meanwhile the next batsman was up and the man on second was dancing up
and down and back and forth, daring Sam to throw to the base. But Sam
refused to pay any attention to him. Instead he set to work to strike
out Clifford, the Chase pitcher, and soon succeeded.

Jack trotted back to the bench feeling like a murderer, but strangely
enough he met only amused smiles or sympathetic grins as he squeezed
into retirement between Sam and Tyler Wicks, and if Shay meant to take
him out he said nothing about it then nor later. But Will Watkins,
seated further along amongst the substitutes, looked hopeful.

That one run lead Chase maintained for inning after inning. Maple
Ridge got men on bases several times, and only Ted got to third, but
always the hit needed to bring in a run was lacking. Clifford was
pitching good ball, for, although Maple Ridge got as many hits as
her adversary, they were scattered, and the Chase fielders refused to
make errors. In the fourth inning Chase again looked dangerous when
Gibson singled to right, took second on a sacrifice hit and third on an
infield out. But he died there, for Sam fanned the next batsman. Again,
in the eighth, Chase threatened to add to that single tally of hers.
Sam passed the first man up, the second was safe when Smythe fumbled a
fast grounder, and both moved up on a sacrifice. But again Sam settled
down and pitched perfect ball and Gibson and Brothers struck out.

And all this time Maple Ridge was doing her best to slip in a run to
tie the score, and always fate was against her. Clifford grew stronger
as the game progressed and in the seventh and eighth innings not a
Maple Ridge player saw first. The gloom thickened fast. In the first of
the ninth Chase was all for starting a batting rally and the coaches
made more noise than two steam calliopes, but Sam was still going
strong. The first man was an easy out, Smythe to Ted, the second flied
out to Truesdale and the third never left the plate, falling victim to
Sam’s elusive slants.

“Come on, fellows!” cried Dolph as they trotted to the bench. “Last
chance, you know. Here’s where we pull in a couple.” But in spite of
his hopeful words Dolph looked pretty tired and nervous and dispirited.
The Maple Ridge supporters were on their feet, cheering loudly as Ted,
the head of the list, stepped to bat. Down at first Truesdale danced
around in the coacher’s box and shouted encouragement, and back of
third Joe Williams, who had a voice like a fog-horn, was waving and
yelling.

Ted struck twice and missed, waited and got the benefit of three balls
and then let go at a high, straight one. The ball trickled erratically
half-way to the pitcher’s box. Pitcher and catcher ran for it, jostled
confusedly and allowed Ted to reach first in safety. Then the cheering
began in earnest! Midget Green was seen standing on his head in front
of the stand, and they say it took him almost all of Sunday afternoon
to recover the treasures that dropped from his pockets. Smythe, whose
batting had been poor all the afternoon, was taken out and Dick Furst
went in to bat for him. Furst managed to connect with the second offer
and sent Ted to second, going out himself at first. When Dolph stepped
up to the plate surely even Rome never heard such howling! Now was the
time for Dolph to make good with one of his three-baggers. But alas
for reputation! Dolph, nervous and over-anxious, struck at some of the
worst balls Clifford had in his repertoire and finally fanned himself
out.

Two gone and the score still one to nothing against them! It was all
over! Maple Ridge stuffed its score-cards in its pockets, settled its
hats and prepared for the exodus. But perhaps Truesdale didn’t share
the general pessimism as he selected his bat and strode to the rubber,
for he faced Clifford confidently and smilingly.

“Last man!” shouted Brothers, the Chase second baseman. “Two gone, Bob;
let him hit it!”

Had Brothers, who had fielded his position in masterly style all the
afternoon without an error, known what was about to happen, he wouldn’t
have spoken so cheerfully. For Truesdale, after having a strike and
two balls called on him, picked out something he liked and slammed it
hard toward second baseman. In streaked Ted and down the line flew
Truesdale. Brothers took the grounder on the bound, dropped it, kicked
it and finally, when he had it safe in hand again, Truesdale was on
first, the score was tied and the Maple Ridgers were howling and
shouting like lunatics, dancing over the grass and thumping each other
anywhere and everywhere. The light green flags waved frantically, and
the spectators threatened to put an end to the game then and there by
overflowing the diamond and carrying off the Maple Ridge players.

Meanwhile consternation had seized the visiting team, consternation
and fright. Brothers, after slamming his glove to the ground and
begging shortstop to kick him――something shortstop looked very willing
to do――joined the pitcher and third baseman in a consultation at
the mound. What they said or planned I can’t say. Certainly, though,
Clifford was no longer the same fellow who had held Maple Ridge
scoreless and helpless for eight innings. He was palpably nervous as
the others went back to their positions.

“Pick out a good one, Borden,” said Mr. Shay calmly as Jack selected
his bat. “It only takes one, you know.”

And Jack, his hand paining him badly, gripped that bat and made up his
mind to retrieve himself.

Clifford sent a high ball and the crowd yelled its delight. He followed
that with a wild one that the catcher just managed to get. “Two balls,”
said the umpire. Maple Ridge danced with glee. Then Clifford and the
catcher talked it over half-way between mound and plate, and the
catcher patted him on the shoulder and the pitcher worked a very pretty
drop on Jack at the next delivery.

In the meantime Truesdale, at first, was anxious to get down to second,
and on the next pitch he started. Luckily for him the ball was a low
drop and by the time the catcher had straightened out for the throw he
was sliding for the bag. More cheers from the home team’s friends. The
score was one strike and three balls. Jack made up his mind to give
Clifford an opportunity of passing him, but Clifford didn’t intend
to do anything of the sort. The next delivery, at which Jack made no
motion, was another strike, and it was now or never. Jack took a fresh
grip at the bat and glued his eyes to the ball.

Clifford, fighting against nervousness, was very deliberate, eyeing
batsman and base-runner alternately. At last he wound up, straightened
out and the ball sped toward the plate. It looked straight and good,
and, since it was the crucial delivery, Jack believed it would prove
such when it reached him. And it did. And Jack met it squarely with a
good, sharp _crack_ and raced for first!

[Illustration: “Jack met it squarely with a good, sharp _crack_!”]

Three feet from the ground sped the ball, two feet inside the third
base line, four feet from the fielder’s frantic effort to reach it, a
fine straight base hit that rolled clear to the outfield. Truesdale,
taking no chances, slid the last ten feet of his journey to the plate,
was caught up by frenzied admirers and borne off the field. For the
game was over, with the final score 2 to 1! Maple Ridge, in a garrison
finish, had won out in the ninth!



CHAPTER XIV

FINKLER’S FIELD


That evening, according to custom, the nine banqueted in the New Dining
Hall behind tightly closed doors. The New Dining Hall was not as grand
as its name sounded, being only a smaller room opening from the main
hall and used chiefly at graduation time to accommodate the overflow
of visiting relatives and friends. The banquet was the regular school
supper, with the substitution of steak for cold meats and the addition
of ice cream and cake. But it isn’t food alone that constitutes a
banquet; without companionship and good spirits the most elaborate
repast in the world fails to deserve that title. To-night good spirits
were rampant, and companionship was a drug on the market, for hadn’t
they all worked together for three months with just one end in view,
and hadn’t that end been attained? Dolph said something to that effect
in his speech and the affirmative answer was so loud and enthusiastic
that the boys in the main dining hall laughed in sympathy and cheered
joyously, an infraction of the regulations which the instructors
forebore to notice.

The banquet was practically over; only Sam and Joe Williams still
nibbled with fast failing courage at their third helpings of ice
cream; the speeches had been made and the only formality remaining
was the election of a new captain. But there was no hurry about that.
Every one of the twenty-two boys who lined the two long tables were
supremely contented. I was going to say supremely comfortable, but
Sam’s countenance was assuming an expression rendering the selection
of that word inadvisable. At the head of one of the tables sat Dolph,
at the head of the other Mr. Shay. The coach leaned back in his chair
resisting nobly, in deference to a rule of deportment which he knew of
but was not in the habit of heeding, a desire to bring into use the
toothpick reposing in his vest pocket. Mr. Shay was not in sympathy
with the ban on the public display of that useful implement, but he
believed in the wisdom of the advice, “When in Rome do as the Romans
do.” As Rome wasn’t using toothpicks this evening, he sighed and
heroically removed his fingers from tempting contact. Sam finally laid
down his spoon, gazed wistfully at the remaining portion of ice cream
and gave his attention to the conversation going on around him.

“Three errors was all we made,” Milton Wales was declaring emphatically.
“And Chase made four.”

“We each made four,” corrected Gus Turnbull. “I don’t think that’s so
bad, though, do you, Mr. Shay?”

“No, but it’s four too many.”

“Where do you get four?” asked Wales impatiently. “You made one and
Harry made one――――”

“I sure did,” groaned Smythe.

“And Jack Borden made one. Where’s your fourth?”

“Sam’s wild throw to second,” answered Gus.

“Call that an error?” asked Tyler Wicks.

“Sure. It advanced the runner, didn’t it? How about it, Chesty?”

“Four errors,” answered Manager Harris, speaking from the authority of
official scorer. “We won just the same, so what’s the difference?”

“Of course, mine was an error,” said Sam. “And a bum one, too. But
there was one error made that hardly ought to be called an error.”

“Which was that?” asked Mr. Shay curiously.

“Jack Borden’s, sir; when he dropped that fly.”

“Well, I’d call that an error,” said the coach, “especially since it
let in a run.”

“I know, but what I mean is that Jack had a good reason for not
catching it. Show Mr. Shay your hand, Jack.”

But Jack shook his head, smiling shamefacedly.

“Go on,” said the others. “What’s the matter, Borden? Hurt it?”

“A little,” owned Jack. “I――I burned it at the fire last night.”

“Let’s see!”

So Jack held it up for inspection and a murmur of surprise and sympathy
went around the table. Dolph opened his eyes very wide. Mr. Shay
frowned.

“I should say you had burned it,” said the latter dryly. “Did you know
that, Jones?”

“I certainly did not, sir!” responded Dolph. “Didn’t you know, Jack, we
wouldn’t have let you play if we’d known your hand was in that shape?”

“Yes, that’s the reason I didn’t say anything about it,” answered Jack
naïvely, producing a burst of laughter. “I could have caught that ball
all right if I’d just remembered my hand, Dolph. But when I saw the
ball coming I forgot, and when it landed it――it hurt like the dickens
and before I could squeeze it it had bounced out.”

“You might have lost us the game,” said Dolph reproachfully.

“Oh, well, cut out the post mortems,” begged Ted. “Don’t forget that
Jack’s hit brought in the winning run. Besides, you want to remember
that Jack had been fighting for right field for a week and he knew if
he showed that hand around his hated rival would get the job.” Ted
smiled across at Will Watkins.

“I guess I would have, too,” said Watkins with a grin. “I’d have done
just what Borden did, you bet!”

There was another laugh at this frank confession and then Dolph
suggested that they get busy with the election. It was the custom to
elect to the captaincy a fellow who would be in his senior year, which
narrowed the list of candidates to three: Sam Phillips, Harry Smythe
and George Truesdale. Dolph as retiring captain had the privilege of
making the first nomination.

“There are three first team fellows,” he said, “any one of whom would
make a good leader for next year. They have all worked hard and all
have contributed to the team’s success this year and last. But there’s
one of the three who has done a little more than the others, a chap
who has got us out of many a tight hole, a chap who is always cheerful
and jolly, always cool-headed――no matter if the bases are full with
none out!――a chap whom we all like and admire and respect and one who,
I believe, will make as good a captain as Maple Ridge has ever had.
Fellows, I have the honor and pleasure to nominate Sam Phillips.”

Every one clapped and cheered, and the nomination was vociferously
seconded. Sam, with reddened cheeks, seized his spoon and began anew
on the ice cream. Ted, laughing, took the plate away from him. Gus
Turnbull claimed recognition.

“Without wishing to say a word against Sam, for Sam is all Dolph says
he is――and more――I want to propose for the captaincy a fellow who has
played on the team for three years and who has always worked hard
and deserves recognition for――for his services. I nominate George
Truesdale.”

More applause. “I second the nomination,” said Wales.

Then Morton Prince nominated Harry Smythe, and Smythe jumped to his
feet. “I decline,” he said. “Much obliged, but I decline. I’m not the
sort to be captain. I’d be scared to death, for one thing. I――I never
could look haughty enough, you know, and you’ve simply got to look
haughty, fellows. Leave me out, please.” And Harry sat down amidst
laughter.

“Are there any other nominations?” asked Dolph. “If not we’ll take a
vote.”

“Vote!” was the cry.

“Then those in favor of Phillips will arise and those in favor of
Truesdale will remain seated!”

There was a scraping of chairs as sixteen of the fellows arose,
Truesdale with them. Dolph counted them.

“Sixteen for Phillips and six for Truesdale,” he announced. “Phillips
is elected.”

A shout went up and the fellows crowded about Sam to shake his hand or
thump him on the back. Truesdale demanded attention.

“I move that the election be made unanimous,” he said.

Gus Turnbull promptly seconded the motion. Then Harry Smythe demanded a
cheer for Sam, which was given lustily, and one for Dolph, to which the
response was no less hearty, and then one “for Maple Ridge, fellows,
and make it good!”

And just as the last long-drawn-out “School!” had died away there was
a polite knock at the folding doors and Dick Furst threw them open. On
the threshold stood Dr. Benedict and a tall man in loose-fitting black
clothes, who viewed the scene in frank bewilderment. Silence fell on
the room as the fellows saw the visitors. Dr. Benedict smiled and held
up his hand.

“I must apologize for intruding on your ceremonies, young gentlemen,
but I have just received some very good news and, as it interests you
quite as much as it does me, I have brought the bearer of it to you and
will ask him to deliver his own message.”

The Doctor laid his hand on the arm of the stranger.

“Boys, this is Mr. Finkler. Mr. Finkler, these young gentlemen are the
members of our baseball team. And Mr. Shay, their coach.”

The boys greeted the introduction with a subdued “_A-ay!_” of applause
in which one might have detected both surprise and curiosity. Farmer
Finkler bobbed his head, looking very embarrassed, and cleared his
throat. Then he thrust a pair of big gnarled hands into the pockets of
his voluminous trousers and seemed to find encouragement there.

“Well, boys,” he began in his gruff voice, “I ain’t got much to say. I
didn’t expect to make a speech when I came over here this evening, but
Dr. Benedict here seemed to think I ought to. And maybe he’s right.
Because it gives me a chance to thank you all for the help you gave
me last night. I’m mighty grateful. I guess I’d been a heap worse off
to-day than I be――am if it wasn’t for you boys. I lost my stable and my
barn, but those can be built up again. I saved my horses, and that’s
the main thing. I――I’m fond o’ them horses; guess horses is a sort of
a weakness o’ mine, boys. I ain’t saying anything about the value of
’em; that’s considerable, too; but I’d just plumb hated to lose them
horses, boys. So, I――I’m much obliged to you one and all. And――and I
guess I’ll just say good night and go along home now.”

But the Doctor laid a detaining hand on his arm.

“Just a minute, sir,” he laughed. “You’re forgetting the main thing,
aren’t you? About the land?”

“Oh! Well, it’s just that I want to show you that I’m grateful, boys,”
said the farmer. “You’ve been wanting a piece of my meadow for a good
while. Maybe I’ve been――been sort o’ prejudiced against you.” There
was a twinkle in his eye and the boys grinned responsively. “Well,
we’ll let bygones be bygones. The land’s yours, as much as you want of
it, two acres or five. The Doctor and I we settled that part of it.
It ain’t going to cost you anything. You’re welcome to it, and I hope
it’ll make you a good playground.”

The cheer that went up was spontaneous and so unexpected by Farmer
Finkler that he fell back from the doorway in alarm. The Doctor
laughingly reassured him. “They’re just showing their appreciation of
your generosity,” he explained.

“I want to know!” ejaculated the farmer.

The boys were shoving Dolph forward with cries of “Speech, Dolph,
speech!” So Dolph, a little embarrassed, accepted the office.

“Mr. Finkler,” he said earnestly, “I don’t believe anything I can say
will make you understand how much we fellows appreciate what you’ve
done. Not only us few here, sir, but the whole school――and the fellows
who’ve gone and those to come. It’s going to make a big difference,
sir, for it will give us an athletic field as good as any in the
country. We――we’re awfully grateful to you, sir. It――it’s fine and
dandy of you! What we did to help last night at the fire we were mighty
glad to do, but you’ve repaid us fifty times over, sir. And――and I want
to say――to promise on behalf of the whole school, Mr. Finkler, that
after this you won’t have any trouble about your apples, sir!”

Laughter and applause greeted this remark.

Farmer Finkler’s wrinkled face relaxed. “Well,” he drawled with that
twinkle showing again in his eye, “I guess that don’t matter much. I
guess a few apples ain’t anything between friends.”

Dolph turned to Dr. Benedict. “And, Doctor,” he resumed, “I’d like to
suggest, sir, that when the new field is finished we name it after Mr.
Finkler.”

A shout of approval went up and the Doctor nodded smilingly.

“A good idea, Jones,” he agreed, “a very good idea. We will call it
Finkler’s Field.”


THE END.



BY RALPH HENRY BARBOUR


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       *       *       *       *       *


 Transcriber’s Notes:

 ――Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).

 ――Except for the frontispiece, illustrations have been moved to
   follow the text that they illustrate.

 ――Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected.

 ――Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.

 ――Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.





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