Читать книгу Jimmy Kirkland and the Plot for a Pennant - Fullerton Hugh Stuart - Страница 1

The defeat in the opening game of the final series of the season between the Panthers and Bears had been a hard blow to the championship hopes of the Bears, and its effect was evident in the demeanor of the players and those associated with them. It was the second week in September. Since early in May the Blues, the Panthers and the Bears, conceded to be the three strongest teams in the league, had struggled day by day almost upon even terms, first one team leading by a narrow margin, then another, until the interest of the country was centered upon the battle for supremacy.

Then, with the Blues holding the lead by the narrowest of margins, Maloney, their premier pitcher, strained his arm, and the Blues, in despair, battled the harder only to overtax the strength of the remaining pitchers, so that the team dropped rapidly into third place, still hoping against hope to get their crippled pitching staff back into condition for the finish.

It seemed that the four-game series between the Bears and Panthers probably would prove the crisis of the year's efforts, and decide the question of supremacy. On the eve of the commencement of that series the Bear hopes had received a shock. Carson, the heaviest batter, the speediest base runner and one of the most brilliant outfielders in the league, had fractured a leg in sliding to a base, and was crippled so seriously that all hope of his recovery in time to play again that year was abandoned.

Until the day the news that Carson could not play again during the season became public, the Bears had been favorites, but with their hardest batter crippled, and Holleran, the substitute, known to be weak against curve pitching, their hope seemed destroyed. Manager William Clancy, of the Bears, his kindly, weather-beaten face wearing a troubled expression, in place of his customary cheerful grin, was investigating. The defeat of the Bears in the first game with the Panthers had revealed to all the vital weakness of the holders of the championship, and Clancy, as he sat nibbling the end of his penholder in the writing room of the hotel, faced a discouraging situation.

Across the table from him a slender girl, attired in a close-fitting street gown, was writing rapidly, covering many sheets of hotel stationery with tall, angular hieroglyphics as she detailed to her dearest friend at home the exciting events of the day.

"Betty," said Manager Clancy, looking up, "if you and Ellen are ever going to get ready you'll have to start."

"I'm ready now, Mr. Clancy," the girl responded brightly, lifting her head until she revealed the perfect curve of her firm chin, and smiled, "I left Mother Clancy in the rooms sewing on some buttons. She will be ready soon."

At that moment a slender youth, easy in movement, almost graceful in his confident carriage, entered the hotel lobby. Something in his bearing gave evidence that he was accustomed to association with persons of refinement. His closely cropped, curling hair, sandy to the point of redness, attracted attention to his well-formed head, set well upon a pair of shoulders so wide as to give him the appearance of strength, in spite of the slenderness of his waist and the lightness of his body. His face was freckled and the uplift of his nose added to the friendly impression created by his blue eyes. His clothes were almost threadbare and his shoes were worn, but his linen was clean and his appearance neat. The youth hesitated, glancing from group to group of the players, as if trying to decide which one to approach.

"Silent" Swanson, the giant shortstop, who had earned his nickname because he was the noisiest player on the field, was standing talking with "Noisy" Norton, the second baseman, so called because he seldom spoke either on or off the field, and Adonis Williams, the star left-handed pitcher of the team. The newcomer's eyes fell upon this group, and his face lighted as he observed that Williams's hair was only a shade darker than his own. As if deciding quickly, he walked toward the group.

"You are Williams, are you not?" he inquired easily, smiling in a friendly manner.

"That's my name, but most people add a mister to it," responded Williams sneeringly.

The red-headed youth flushed and the smile died out of his eyes.

"I beg pardon, Mister Williams," he said, quietly; "I was seeking Manager Clancy. Perhaps you can tell me where to find him?"

"It isn't very hard to find Clancy," responded Williams. "We can't lose him."

"Perhaps you would be so kind as to point him out to me. I never have had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Clancy."

Neither of them had observed that Swanson and Norton had drawn aside to permit the girl who had been in the writing room to pass on her way to the elevator. Evidently she overheard the youth's inquiry, for she hesitated just as Williams laughed in an ugly manner and said:

"If you don't know him you'd better peddle yourself somewhere else. He won't be in a mood to talk to hoboes to-night."

Before the slender youth could speak, the girl stepped forward and said quietly:

"Pardon me, but I overheard you inquiring for Manager Clancy. He is in the writing room."

Her brown eyes flashed with anger, her lips were set tight and her sun-browned cheeks flushed as she passed quickly on toward the elevator, not waiting to respond to the thanks of the slender youth, who had removed his hat quickly to utter his gratitude. Then, turning toward Williams, who stood flushed and angry, his blue eyes narrowed and he said:

"Just for that, I'll kick you on the shins in the club house and dare you to fight."

"What? You will, huh?" spluttered the astounded pitcher.

He would have said more, but before he could recover, the newcomer, smiling oddly, turned and walked toward the writing room and held out his hand to the famous Clancy, for six years leader of the Bears.

The slender youth stood with extended hand while Manager Clancy gazed up from his writing.

"Mr. Clancy?" he asked, smiling.

"Yes. Sit down," responded Clancy, his intention of rebuffing the intruder changing as he saw the smile. "What can I do for you?"

"I read in the evening papers," replied the youth, still smiling easily, "that Carson broke a leg, and that, to win the pennant, you must find an outfielder who can hit."

"Perhaps you also read that I'd like to find a diamond about the size of my head," responded Clancy, sarcastically.

"The paper also said that you might switch Pardridge from third base to the outfield if you could find a hard-hitting infielder."

"Possibly the paper also said that if I found the diamond I'd move my gold mine to make room for it." Clancy restrained himself from further comment, feeling uncertain because of the quiet confidence of his visitor.

There was a pause, the veteran manager studying his caller and the slender youth sat smiling as if expecting Clancy to resume the conversation.

"Well?" said Clancy, glancing at his half-finished letter as if to hint that his time was entirely too valuable to be wasted discussing academic impossibilities with entire strangers.

"Well," replied the visitor, smiling, "I'm it."

"You're what?" asked the astonished manager.

"The third baseman who can hit."

"When shall I move the gold mine?" Clancy's voice was dangerously quiet.

"To-morrow, if you like."

Clancy sat gazing at his visitor as if undecided as to whether he should explode in wrath, laugh at some joke too deep for him, or believe the slender youth was in earnest.

"Say, kid," he said slowly after studying the youth for a moment, "I admire your nerve, anyhow. If you have half the confidence on a ball field that you have off it, you'll be a wonder. Where did you ever play ball?"

A troubled expression came over the boy's face.

"Mr. Clancy," he said, quietly, "if you take me you'll have to do it without asking questions. I can play ball, and it's up to me to make good at something. All I ask is a chance to prove to you I can play. It will not cost you a cent to find out."

"Done anything?" Clancy asked, sharply.

"Criminal? No," responded the boy, flushing.

"Ever signed a professional contract?"

"No."

Clancy studied him as if trying to decide what to do. Then, raising his voice, he called:

"Oh, Sec. Come here a minute."

A tall man, his hair gray, his face wearing a frown of perpetual worry, came from the hotel lobby.

"Mr. Tabor," said Clancy, without rising, "this is Mr. Jimmie McCarthy, who is to have a try-out with us at third base. Room him with the players. You aren't stopping anywhere else, are you?"

The last question was directed to the surprised youth.

"No – I'm broke," answered the youth, flushing quickly.

"I'll fix you up in a moment," said the secretary in friendly tones as he shook hands with the youth. "Wait until I finish settling up with the baggage man."

The secretary hastened from the room, and the boy turned impulsively to the manager.

"Mr. Clancy," he said in a tone of gratitude, "I want to thank you – I don't know how. I was broke – ball playing is about all I'm good at. How did you know I didn't want to use my own name?"

"I figured you might want to forget it for a time, anyhow," said Clancy. "McCarthy is a good name and it fits your eyes."

"I can't tell you how grateful I am," said the boy impetuously. "I'll make good for you. I've failed trying to make a living. Baseball is the only thing they taught me at college that I'm good at, and when I read that you needed a third baseman I" —

"College man, eh?" asked Clancy quickly. "Well, I won't hold that against you or tip it off. Don't thank me. If you make good I'll be the one to give thanks."

The youth turned to follow the secretary as if to hide a little mist that came into his eyes, and he left Manager Clancy gazing thoughtfully after him and nibbling the end of his penholder.

"It would be a miracle," said Clancy to himself. "But I've got a hunch it will come true. He's bred right – tell it from his looks. He's game, light on his feet; good shoulders, and – and – and a pair of eyes."