DREAD

“There’s Phil,” cried Grant, spying him. “I’ll take the field. Let him pitch.”

Eliot turned, saw Springer, and looked relieved.

“Wondered where you were,” he said pleasantly. “I see you’re ready for business. This is a five-inning game, and Grant has pitched two innings already; you can hand ’em up the last three.”

“But I haven’t warmed up any,” said Phil. “I couldn’t get around any sooner.”

“There’s no hurry,” returned Roger. “You can have plenty of time to limber your wing; the scrub won’t object to that.”

“But I don’t want to butt in and take Grant’s place.”

“Shucks!” cried Rod genially. “Who’s butting in, anyhow? What are you talking about, partner? I want to get some field practice anyhow, and perhaps I will if you’re kind enough to let the scrub hit you once in a while. They’re putting up a right smart sort of a game, but Hooker’s mainly responsible, as he hasn’t been letting us rap him to any great extent. No scores yet on either side.”

“Come on, Phil,” called Eliot decisively, as he slipped his left hand into the big catching mitt, “get out there and wiggle your flinger. Tuttle, maybe they’ll let you play with the scrub, so Grant can occupy the right-hand pasture.”

This arrangement was quickly made, the captain of the scrub team having filled his outfield positions with youngsters who were even weaker than Tuttle. Springer accepted the ball tossed to him, and walked out to the pitcher’s box, where he began warming up by throwing to Eliot, while the scrub batters waited around their bench. He was not in the most agreeable frame of mind, but he had no fear of the scrub players. In a few moments he announced that he was ready, and began work with the determination of striking out the first fellow who faced him. Ordinarily, this would not have been such a difficult thing to do, but, through some unusual freak of chance, the batter, swinging blindly, succeeded in hitting out a most annoying little Texas leaguer that sailed just beyond the eagerly reaching fingers of Jack Nelson.

“Come, Spring, old wiz,” cried the thoughtless Cooper, “you’ve got to do better than that. If you don’t, we’ll have to put Grant back on the slab to avert the disgrace of being beaten by this bunch of kid pick-ups.”

A sudden gust of anger caused Springer to glare, speechless, at the annoying shortstop; and he was so much disturbed that, in spite of all he could do, the next batter, “waiting it out,” was rewarded for his patience by a pass. Within a few moments both these runners advanced on a long fly to the outfield, dropped by Stone after a hard run.

Springer forced a laugh. “Can’t expect to hold the kids dud-down with that sort of support,” he cried.

He did strike the following hitter out; and then came Hooker, who found a bender and straightened it for a sizzling two-bagger that sent in both runners.

Springer longed to quit at this juncture, but, being ashamed to do so, he relaxed his efforts and pitched indifferently, permitting the two following scrubmen to hit the ball. It chanced, however, that neither of these fellows hit safely, both perishing in a desperate sprint for the initial sack.

Rodney Grant, jogging in from the field, seated himself beside Springer on the bench.

“You were a little out of form that inning, son,” he said; “but you’ll be all right next trip, I opine.”

Without replying, Springer got up and began pawing over the bats, as if searching among them for some special favorite.

Hooker again pitched very well, indeed, but poor support gave the regulars a score, and they would have obtained more had not Roy risen to the occasion, with one down and the bases full, and struck two hitters out.

Although Phil showed some improvement in the fourth inning, and the scrub team did not succeed in securing another tally, he felt all the while that his teammates were watching him closely and comparing or contrasting his work with that of Hooker; nor did he forget that in the first two innings Grant had performed more successfully.

To the surprise of many, fumbles and bad throws behind Hooker in the fourth did not seem to discourage him, and he persisted in pitching as if the game was one of some importance and he had resolved to do his part, no matter what happened. The errors gave the regular team three runs and the lead, and it was Hooker’s work alone that kept them from obtaining several more.

In the fifth and last, Phil whipped the ball over spitefully, and only one batter hit it safely. Nevertheless, with the contest ended and the fellows trooping toward the gymnasium, he noticed that no one had any word of praise for him, while several expressed their surprise over the showing Hooker had made. Even Grant, whose friendly advance had been met with churlish spleen, commended Hooker. Phil felt as if the very ground was slipping from beneath his feet, and it made him sore and sick at heart. He paid little attention to the talk of the fellows while dressing, until of a sudden the words of Nelson caught his ear.

“Of course, you fellows have heard all about that Clearport-Wyndham game? I had a talk to-day with a fellow who saw the whole of it. Cracky! Clearport did come near pulling it out of the fire actually batted out a lead of one run in the first of the ninth. If Wyndham hadn’t come back in her half and made two tallies, she’d been stung.”

“I hear,” said Berlin Barker, “that Clearport pounded Wyndham’s wonderful new twirler off the slab.”

“That’s right,” said Nelson. “They got at Newbert in the seventh and gave him fits. The score was eight to two in favor of Wyndham when the ’Porters began connecting with Newbert’s twists, and they hammered in three earned runs before the shift was made. Twitt Crowell was sent in to save the day, but if he hadn’t had luck, they’d kept right on. It was his backing that checked the stampede.”

“The Clearporters always have been heavy batters,” said Eliot. “If they could play the rest of the game the way they bat, they’d be almost sure to win the championship.”

“The fellow we put up against them for Saturday will have to have his nerve with him,” grinned Cooper. “If he weakens, they’ll murder him.”

“Crowell got through the eighth all right,” continued Nelson; “but in the first of the ninth the ’Porters found him and bingled out four runs. It looked as if they had the game tucked away; but Wyndham rose to the emergency in the last half and got two, which let them out with a victory.”

“If Clearport can play like that away from home,” observed Sleuth Piper, “my deduction is that she will be a terror to beat on her own field.”

Springer, dressed, stowed his playing clothes in a locker and walked out of the gymnasium unnoticed. This was the first time he had heard the particulars concerning that game, although on Saturday the surprising information had been telephoned to Oakdale that Wyndham had been barely able to squeeze out a precarious victory on her own grounds. As Eliot had stated, the Clearporters were batters to be feared, and Phil was now in no condition to be unruffled by this menace to his prowess.

Once more Springer sulked; not until Friday night did he again show himself for practice. Eliot, thoroughly disgusted, and realizing that it was the worst sort of policy to coax such a fellow, let him alone. He was given a chance to warm up and do a little pitching to the batters, but, following Eliot’s example, no one tried to coddle him.

“Everybody be on time for the train to-morrow,” urged Roger, as they were dressing. “Trains won’t wait for people who are late.”

But even when he went to bed that night Springer was undecided as to whether he would be on hand or not. Had he been urged, it is doubtful if he would have appeared; but, perceiving, in spite of his dudgeon, that he could gain nothing by remaining away, he arrived at the station just in time to board the train with his comrades.

The day was disagreeable, rain threatening, and, deep in his heart, Springer hoped it would pour all the afternoon. The menacing storm holding off, however, at the appointed hour the two teams were on the field ready for the clash.

Phil, still agitated by poorly hidden alarm, could not fail to observe the all too evident confidence of the Clearport players. The local crowd was likewise confident, something indicated by their encouragement of and cheering for their players.

“If I’m batted out to-day it’s my finish,” thought the unhappy Oakdale pitcher.

“Cheer up,” said a Clearporter, trotting past him. “We won’t do a thing to you. If you’re sick and need some medicine, we’ll hand you some of the same kind we gave Newbert and Crowell.”

“Aw, go on!” growled Phil. “You’re nothing but a lot of wind-bags.”

While the locals were practicing Eliot called Grant and Springer aside, giving each a ball.

“Warm up, both of you,” he directed. “I’ll catch you.”

So these rivals, who had only a short time before been friends, stood off at the proper distance and pitched alternately to Eliot. Grant was steady and serene, with good control and in command of some curves, of which the drop taught him by Springer led Roger to nod his head approvingly; seeing which, Phil, who had not been right to start with, grew very wild indeed.

Practice over, the Clearport captain trotted up to Roger, saying:

“We’re all ready. We’ll take the field. Let’s get to playing before it begins raining.”

Phil sat down on the bench, throwing his sweater over his arm for protection. The umpire called, “Play,” and Nelson, cheered by the little crowd from Oakdale, stepped out with his bat.

The Oakdale captain found a place at Springer’s side. “Phil,” he said in a low tone, “I want you to be ready to go in any time. I’ve decided to start the game with Grant, but we may need you any moment.”