THE WYNDHAM PITCHER
Shortly before nine o’clock
on Saturday morning a touring car, containing three
youths, not one of whom was over eighteen years of
age, whirled up before the door of Mrs. Conway’s
boarding house in Oakdale and stopped.
The occupants of the car did not belong
in Oakdale; they came from Wyndham, and the machine
was the property of the father of the oldest one,
who was at the wheel. This was Orville Foxhall,
second baseman of the Wyndham nine. At Foxhall’s
side sat a husky, raw-boned, long-armed chap, Dade
Newbert, the pitcher on which Wyndham placed great
dependence. The chap in the tonneau was Joe Snead,
too fat and indolent to take part in any game of an
athletic nature.
“This is the house, Dade,”
said Foxhall; “this is where your friend boards,
all right.”
“Humph!” grinned Newbert.
“It doesn’t look swell enough to suit
Herb’s style. He’s the real warm
article, as you’ll realize when you see him.
When it comes to cutting a dash well, Rack
can cut it, you bet. I’ll see if he’s
around.”
Springing out, Newbert strode to the
door and rang. After a time, as he was growing
impatient and had prepared to ring again, the door
opened a foot or so, and a tall, thin, hopeless-looking
woman surveyed him inquiringly.
Newbert asked for Rackliff.
“Yes, he boards here,”
answered the woman in a mechanical tone of voice;
“but he isn’t up yet.”
“Ho, ho!” laughed Newbert.
“Isn’t up? Well, that’s like
him; won’t pull himself away from the mattress
until he has to. He’s a luxurious brat.”
“I’m afraid Mr. Rackliff
may not be feeling very well this morning,”
said the woman. “He has a very bad cold
and coughs terribly. I told him last night that
he should consult a doctor, and I heard him coughing
the greater part of the night.”
“Well, well! Sorry to
hear it. I’m an old friend of his, and
I’ve come over by appointment to take him back
to Wyndham with me. You tell him that ”
A harsh cough came echoing down the
stairs and a voice called:
“That you, Dade? Come
right up. It’s all right, Mrs. Conway;
let him come, please.”
Herbert, in silk pajamas, was standing
at the head of the stairs, looking ill indeed.
He put out a limp hand, which Newbert grasped, crying:
“By Jove! you are sick. Now, that’s
tough.”
“Come into my room,” invited
Herbert, leading the way. “It’s a
pretty bum joint, but it’s the best in the house the
best I could find in this wretched hole of a town.
I’m mighty glad to see you, old pal, though
I may not appear to be. Oh, blazes! but I have
got a headache!”
“What have you been doing?”
asked the visitor, as Herbert keeled over, with a
groan, on the bed. “Been hitting the pace?
Been attending too many hot suppers? Oh, but
you’re sure to sport wherever you go!”
“Hitting the pace around this
graveyard!” mumbled Herbert dismally. “What
are you talking about, old fel? Why, everybody
dies here nights at nine o’clock; there’s
not a thing doing after that. It’s the
most forsaken, dismal place imaginable after that
hour. I’m dying of dry rot, that’s
what’s the matter.” He finished with
a cough that seemed to wrack him from head to feet.
“You’re sick,” said
Newbert, with a show of sympathy. “You’ve
got a cold, and it has settled on your lungs.
You’re none too strong, Herb, and you’d
better look out. I guess you won’t be able
to take in the game to-day.”
“Yes, I will!” cried Rackliff
suddenly. “I wouldn’t miss it for
a fortune. Oh, I’ve got money bet on that
game, Dade.”
“Well, Orv Foxhall is outside
with old man Foxhall’s bubble. Great car,
that. And you should see Orv drive her.
Oh, he does cut it out some! He had ’em
staring when he ripped up through the center of this
old town. We nearly ran a team down back on the
road; was going better than fifty when we came round
a curve and grazed the old jay’s wheel-hubs.
I’ll bet that Reuben’s hair stood on its
hind legs. Ho! ho! ho!”
Herbert sat up. “It won’t
take me long to dress,” he said. “I’ll
go back to Wyndham with you.”
“You haven’t had any breakfast.”
“Don’t want any.
Haven’t had an appetite for three days.
I caught this rotten cold riding a motorcycle back
here from Clearport after the game last Saturday.
I wouldn’t mind if this cough didn’t tear
me so.”
“It’s tough,” said
Newbert. “Can I help you? Going to
take a dip?”
“Boo! No, I won’t
bathe this morning; haven’t got the nerve for
a cold plunge, and a warm one might fix me so I’d
catch more cold. Just you make yourself comfortable
as you can while I’m getting into my duds.”
Three times while dressing Herbert
was compelled to sit down to rest, and Newbert declared
that his friend seemed to be pretty nearly “all
in.”
“I certainly am,” agreed
Rackliff; “I’m up against it. Never
was knocked out like this before. Why, I can’t
even smoke a cigarette, it makes me bark so.
You can imagine how tough that is on me. Sometimes
I’m half crazy for a smoke I’m
shaking all over; but when I try it I just have to
quit by the time I’ve taken three whiffs.”
“You’ve smoked too many
of those things, that’s what’s the matter.
Used to hit ’em up myself; thought it real devilish.
Never took any real satisfaction in it, though.”
“That was because you didn’t
inhale; they’re no good unless you do.”
“They’re no good if you do; give me a
cigar every time.”
“You got my last letter all
right?” asked Herbert, selecting a necktie from
his abundant supply.
“Oh, sure. I’ve
put all the bunch wise, too. They’re wondering
how I got hold of the information, but I didn’t
give you away, old pal. I reckon mebbe Foxy
and Snead suspect now, but they won’t say anything.”
“You’ve got to win,”
said Herbert, carefully knotting his tie at the mirror.
“My old man is kicking over being touched up
for cash so often; says he can’t see how I spend
so much in this quiet place. I’ve bet
every sou of the last amount he sent me on your old
baseball team, and if you don’t take this game ”
“We will, don’t worry
about that. We could have done so anyhow, but
of course you’ve helped make it a dead-cold
certainty. If you’ve got any friends here
who ”
“Friends!” sneered Rackliff;
“friends among these country yokels! Don’t
make me laugh, for it might start me coughing again.”
“But you said you let a chap
in on the Barville deal. He ”
“He wasn’t a friend of
mine,” said Herbert scornfully; “he was
only a chap I wanted to use. I’ve let
another dub into this deal, but I didn’t do
so simply to befriend him not on your natural.
Perhaps you’ve heard of him Phil
Springer. He expected to be the star slab artist
on the great Oakdale nine this season, but he unwisely
coached another fellow to assist him as second-string
pitcher, and now the other man has pushed him into
second place and he has quit, dead sore.
He’s an egotistical yap, and it simply killed
him to death to have his pupil step right over his
head.”
“What’s your idea in boosting
him by putting him next to a winning proposition?”
“Perhaps I can use him, too.
At any rate, he can pitch some, and by keeping him
raw and working him the way I am, I’m weakening
the pitching staff. See?”
“Oh, yes,” muttered Newbert.
“I swear you’re a clever schemer, Herb.”
“Thanks. You see, I induced
this man Springer to let me have seven bones to bet
against Oakdale, and now, no matter how much they may
happen to need him, as long as he has his money at
stake, they can’t coax him into the game to-day.
They may try to do that if you fellows get to batting
Grant good and plenty. Oh, I’ve taken pains
to forestall in every direction, for I’ve simply
got to make a killing on this go. How’s
the weather?”
“Fine, but you’ll need
to wear an overcoat in the auto. I didn’t
take one, but it’s rather cool whistling through
the air at the rate Foxy drives. Besides, you’ve
got to look out for that cold. Better wear a
cloth overcoat now than a wooden one by and by.”
“Don’t talk that way,”
shivered Herbert. “I’m not anxious
to shuffle off.”
He brought his overcoat from the wardrobe,
and Newbert helped him into it, after which they descended
the stairs together.