Читать книгу Those Smith Boys on the Diamond; or, Nip and Tuck for Victory - Howard Roger Garis - Страница 4

Table of Contents

A CLOSE GAME

“Come on now, Bateye, soak it in!”

“Say, are you going to hold that ball all day?”

“What’s the matter with you; didn’t you ever see a horsehide before?”

“Oh, for the love of Mike! Throw it! Throw it! Do you want to give ’em a run?”

“That’s the way! Wake up, Bateye!”

These were only a few of the expressions and questions hurled by the other players at Bateye Jones, the Freeport rightfielder, who, after running back to recover a ball that had passed high over his head, was holding the sphere for a moment until he had made sure of the position of the runner, Jake Jensen, of the Vandalia team.

“Throw it! Throw it! You can take a picture of it after the game!” howled Captain John Smith of the Freeport nine, as he danced about behind home plate, and saw Tom Evans come in from third, and noticed Jensen legging it around from second.

Bateye threw, and, mingling with the cries of the players and the yells of the crowd, there were groans of anguish as the ball passed high over the second baseman’s head, who jumped for it in vain.

Bill Smith, the wiry little pitcher, made a successful grab for the horsehide as it bounced on the ground, captured it, and hurled it to third, just in time to catch Jensen there.

“Out!” yelled the umpire.

“Aw, say, I beat it a mile!” protested the panting runner. “What’s the matter with you, Foster?”

“Out,” said the umpire again, waving his hand to indicate that Jensen was to leave the bag.

“Say, I’ll leave it to anybody if I—”

“Come on in,” invited Rube Mantell, captain of the Vandalias in a weary tone, and Jake shuffled to the bench.

“Mighty lucky stop, Bill,” called Pete, or “Sawed-off” Smith, to his brother the pitcher. The small-statured lad again took his position at short stop which he had left for a moment. “I wonder what’s the matter with Bateye to-day? That’s the second error he’s made.”

“Oh, I guess he got a bit rattled with so many howling at him,” spoke Bill good-naturedly. “Come on now, Pete. There are two down, and we ought to wallop ’em easy when it comes our turn. Watch me strike Flub Madison out.”

Bill, who was the best pitcher the Freeport team had secured in several seasons, again took his place in the box, while his brother John, or “Cap” from the likeness of his name to that of the old Indian fighter, resumed his mask, after shooting a few indignant looks in the direction of the unfortunate Bateye Jones.

“He’s got to improve if he wants to stay on the team,” murmured Cap Smith as he waited for the next ball. “I s’pose he’ll excuse himself by saying the sun was in his eyes, or something like that. Or else that he can’t see well in the daytime. He certainly can see good at night. Old Bateye—well, here goes for the next one,” and Cap plumped his fist into the big mitt, and signalled to his pitching brother to send in a slow out curve to Flub Madison who took his place at the plate.

It was the ending of the eighth inning, and the score was seven to six, in favor of the Freeport lads. The game was far from won, for their opponents were playing strong, and still had another, and last, chance at the bat. To win meant much for the team on which the Smith Boys played, for they wanted to capture the championship of the County League, this being one of the last games of the season.

“One ball!” hoarsely called the umpire, as Bill unwound, and sent the horsehide sphere plump into the mitt of his older brother.

Cap looked an indignant protest, and hesitated as he tossed the ball back. It was as clean a strike as could be desired, but it was not the first time the official had favored Vandalia that day. The game was on their grounds, and the rivalry that existed between the two cities, located on either side of the Waydell river, was carried even into baseball.

“Make him give you a nice one, Flub,” called some of his friends.

“He’ll walk you, anyhow,” added another sarcastically.

Bill Smith gritted his teeth but said nothing. He shook his head as his brother signalled for the same kind of a ball, and sent in a swift drop. Flub bit at it, and swung viciously.

“Strike one!” sounded sweet to the ears of the pitcher and catcher.

There was a vicious “ping” as the next ball was sailing over the plate, and for a moment the hearts of the Freeport nine and the hopes of their supporters were like lead, but they turned to rejoicing an instant later, as they saw the ball shoot high over the extreme left grandstand, and disappear.

“Foul strike!” called the umpire, as he tossed a new ball to Bill.

Cap signalled for the fast drop, and his brother nodded in assent.

“Three strikes! Batter out!” was yelled a moment later and Flub threw down his stick in disgust, and walked toward the outfield.

“Now’s our last chance!” exclaimed Bill to John, as he came running in, while the teams changed places. “We ought to get at least three runs—in fact we need ’em if we’re going to win, for they’ve got three of their best hitters up when they come for their last dips. But if we can get a lead of four runs we’ll be all right.”

“Yes, we’ll be all right if Bateye doesn’t go to sleep again,” grumbled Cap. “Say, what’s the matter with you?” he demanded as the unlucky rightfielder filed in.

“Why—er I—that is I—”

“Oh, out with it! You’re holding that talk as long as you held the ball. Don’t do it again!” and Cap, who never could be ill-natured for very long, condescended to smile, while Bateye promised to do better in the future.

“Now Doc, show ’em how to make a home run,” suggested Pete, as Harry or “Doc” Norton, dubbed with the medical term by virtue of his father’s profession, came up to the bat. Doc tried hard, but only got a single. He was advanced to third when Norton Tonkin rapped out a nice two bagger, but that was as far as luck went for the Freeport nine that day. The next three players struck out under the masterly pitching of Nifty Pell, and the three Smith Boys did not get a chance.

“Well, we’re one run to the good. If we can hold ’em down the game’s ours,” observed Pete, as he walked out with his brothers, followed by the rest of the team. “It’s up to you, Bill.”

“I know that, Sawed-off,” was the answer. “I’ll do my best, but I can’t play the whole game. Crimps! But I would like to win this game! They’ve been making so many cracks about putting it all over us!”

“We’ve got to win!” said Cap Smith fiercely. “We need this to help us get the pennant. Don’t get nervous Bill, and you can do ’em. Try that up shoot on Scurry Nelson.”

The last half of the ninth inning began. There were agonized appeals from the Vandalia supporters for the nine to cinch the tying run, and then to bring in half a dozen more for good luck.

“They shan’t do it, if I can help it!” murmured Bill Smith half-savagely, as he took his place.

Noticing the manner in which Bill stung in a few practice balls his brother behind the plate smiled happily.

“Bill hasn’t lost any speed,” he thought gleefully.

Scurry Nelson swung with all his force at the first ball, and his bat passed neatly under it.

“Strike one!” came from the umpire, as if it made no difference to him.

“Only two more!” howled the supporters of the Freeport nine. “You can do it, Bill!”

Bill tried the same kind of a curve again, and got away with it, but on the third attempt, after giving a ball on purpose, he heard the fatal “ping” and a swift grounder got past Pete.

There were groans of dismay from part of the crowd, accompanied by howls of delight from the other half, as Scurry landed on first. Bill felt his heart wildly beating, and Cap thumped his big glove viciously.

The Vandalia team on the bench was in transports of joy. Already they saw their enemies vanquished. Bill calmed himself by an effort, and even smiled as he faced Buck Wheeler the next man up. Buck was a notoriously heavy hitter and it seemed as if he would knock the cover off the ball when he swung at the first one Bill sent in. Only he didn’t hit it.

And he didn’t hit the next two, either, though he made desperate efforts to do so, and there was not quite so much elation on the faces of the Vandaliaites as the next man got up. He knocked a little pop fly, which Bill caught with ease making two out and, as quick as a flash the pitcher turned and threw to second, toward which bag Scurry was legging it for all he was worth. Bill was just a second too late, however and the runner was safe.

“Two down! Only one more, and the game is ours!” came the encouraging yells from the grandstand where the Freeport supporters were crowded.

Bill smiled happily and got ready for the next man, at the same time watching Scurry on second. The following player was Will Longton, and had a high batting average. There was a smile of confidence on his face as he stepped to the plate.

Bill sent in a puzzling twister, and Will smiled as he refused to bite at it.

“Ball,” called the umpire.

“Take it easy! He’s afraid, and he’ll walk you,” was the advice Will got. He was still smiling confidently when the next ball whizzed past him.

“Strike,” came from the umpire, with obvious reluctance, since he wanted to see his friends win. Will looked an indignant protest at the official, and rubbed some dirt on his hands, so that he might better grip the bat.

“Watch him soak the cover off!” howled an enthusiastic admirer.

Longton did hit it, but only a foul resulted, and Scurry, who had started for third, had to come back.

“You know how to do it, Bill,” called the catcher to his brother, giving him a sign. Bill nodded, and the next instant, amid a breathless silence a swift ball shot from his hand, straight for the plate.

With an intaking of breath Will Longton swung at it with such force that he turned completely around, and the look of astonishment on his face was mirth-provoking, as he realized that he had missed.

“Pung!” went the ball as it settled into the pit of Cap Smith’s glove, and the voice of the umpire, as he called “Three strikes—batter out!” was lost in the howl of delight that welled up from grand stands and bleachers as the crowd realized that Freeport had held their opponents down in the last inning, and had won the game. What if it was only by one run? One run has often won a league championship.

“Great work, Bill!” cried Pete as he ran in, clapping his brother on the back.

“That’s the stuff!” agreed Cap, as he hugged the pitcher. “We did ’em! Come on now, we can catch the next boat across the river if we get a move on,” and the Smith boys, followed by the rest of the team, hastened to the dressing rooms, stopping only long enough to return the cheer which their opponents gave them.

The crowd was surging down from the stands, talking about the close game, discussing the best plays, arguing how if such a man had done differently the result would have been changed, and speculating as to Freeport’s and Vandalia’s chances for winning the pennant.

“What are you fellows going to do to-night?” asked Bateye Jones a little later as he stood talking with his chums, the Smith Boys on the little ferry boat which ran across the river from Vandalia to Freeport.

“Nothing special, I guess. Why?” inquired Bill.

“What do you say if we give the fire department a run?”

“Give ’em a run?” asked Cap with a puzzled air. “What do you mean?”

“Why they haven’t been out in nearly two weeks, and they’re just waiting for a chance to show off their new uniforms, and try the new chemical,” spoke Bateye. “I say let’s give it to ’em.”

“How?” asked Pete, who detected a gleam of fun in the half-closed eyes of the lad who had such a habit of being out nights, and such a reputed ability to see in the dark, that it had gained him the name of Bateye. “How you going to do it?”

“Easy. Come over here, and I’ll tell you. Come on, Doc, and you, too, Norton.”

The two lads thus addressed, together with the Smith boys, moved forward on the little boat.

“I saw Spider Langdon and Beantoe Pudder looking at us,” explained Bateye, when they were safe in a corner of the craft, “and I didn’t want them to get on to us. Now here’s my scheme. We can have some fun, and, at the same time give the department a chance to show off,” and with that Bateye began to whisper the details of his plan.

It did not take long to disclose it, and at the conclusion he asked:

“Will you do it, fellows?”

“Will we? Will a cat eat warm milk?” demanded Pete, as if there was no question about it.

“But say, there won’t be any come-back, will there? We got into trouble enough with the railroad people, and by flying our kite with Susie Mantell on the tail of it last year, so I’m not looking for any more,” said Cap Smith solemnly.

“Oh, this will be all right,” Bateye assured them. “Now I’ll come over about eight o’clock, and make a noise like a tree toad. Then you come out. But lock up Waggles, your dog, or he might give the scheme away.”

“We will,” promised Bill, and then the boat tied up at the wharf, and the ball players in advance of the crowd rushed off.

“Say, I’ll bet there’s something doing,” said Beantoe Pudder to Spider Langdon, as they followed the throng.

“Why?” asked the long legged lad, who was nicknamed “Spider.”

“Because I saw those Smith Boys and Bateye talking together, and—” but at that moment Sam Pudder stumbled and would have fallen, had not his chum caught him.

“There you go again, Beantoe!” exclaimed Spider, as he helped him regain his balance. “What’s the matter with you?”

“It’s these new shoes, I guess,” and Beantoe, who owed his title to his habit of stumbling, limped along. “But as I was saying, I saw the Smith fellows and Bateye and Doc talking together. There’s something doing. Let’s watch and see what it is,” he concluded.

“All right, I’m with you. We’ll hang around to-night, and maybe we can spoil their game,” and the two cronies who, among other things in common, had a dislike for the Smith Boys and their friends, hurried along, whispering together.

Meanwhile the members of the Freeport Volunteer Fire Department were all unaware of the plot brewing against them.