  It had been a great winter for the lads of Truesdell. Although the big blizzard put an end to ice-boating, it provided instead snow-shoeing, ski-running, and many other delightful winter sports. Plenty of hard study interspersed with recreation made the winter months pass rapidly, and when the last shrunken snow-drift had sunk to a muddy grave and the balmy south winds were drying soggy fields and muddy lanes as if by magic, the boys turned from winter sports to the enthusiastic consideration of baseball possibilities. “We’ve got a swell chance to cop the championship pennant in the Lake Shore League,” declared Charlie Rogers to a group which had gathered in a sunny nook behind the school building. “Believe me! We’ll wipe the earth with Bedford this year!” “Where do you get that stuff, Red?” demanded Abner Jones, a sallow youth whose prominent knee and elbow joints had won for him the nickname “Bony.” “I hear Slugger Slade is going to play third for Bedford. He’s an old-timer and knows every trick in the bag; and can he hit? Oh, boy!” “Slade is tricky all right,” agreed Rogers. “He’s tricky and dirty, too, if he gets a chance, but when it comes to hitting, why we’ve got a couple of pitchers who may fool him.” “Forget it!” scoffed Jones. “Slade will make a monkey of any pitcher we’ve got—even Ned Blake.” “Here comes Ned right now,” interposed Wat Sanford. “Let’s hear what he has to say about it.” “What’s all the row?” asked Ned, as he came down the steps swinging a strapful of books. “Bony, the crape-hanger, says we can’t beat Bedford with Slade playing for ’em, and I say we’ll wipe ’em off’n the map,” explained Rogers. “How about it, Ned?” “Both wrong—as usual,” laughed Ned, clapping a strong hand on the disputants and pushing his broad shoulders between them. “Now here’s how I see it,” he continued. “Slade is a wicked hitter and a tough man in the field. He’ll be a big help to Bedford, but he can’t play the whole game. Keep that in mind, Bony. On the other hand, Red, remember that plenty of teams are world-beaters before the season starts. We’ve got some good material, but it will take a lot of hard work to make a winning nine out of it. That’s what it’s up to us to do. I’ve just posted a notice for the squad to show up for practice this afternoon. The field is drying fast and I want every man on the job.” “All except the pitchers, I suppose,” yawned Dave Wilbur. “I’ll be around the first of next week and work on the batting practice.” “You’ll be right on the job at two p.m. this afternoon, Dave,” replied Ned, firmly. “I’m depending on you to set a good example to the new men.” “Do you hear that, Weary?” gibed Tommy Beals. “You’re expected to set the old alarm for one forty-five p.m. and be made an example of.” “That’s the idea, Fatty,” laughed Ned. “Anybody going my way?” “I am, if you don’t walk too darned fast,” replied Beals. Dick Somers also rose to his feet and joined the two as they shouldered their way out of the group and strode down the street. “Bony Jones is an awful knocker,” remarked Tommy, when they were out of hearing. “He’s that all right,” agreed Ned, “and yet for the good of the team right now, I’d rather they’d hear Bony’s knocking than Red’s boasting. Over-confidence at the start of the season is a mighty bad thing, and as captain of the team, it’s up to me to kill it if I can.” “What’s the real dope on this fellow Slade?” asked Dick. “I don’t have any very pleasant recollections of him myself, but how about his playing?” “I’ve seen him in a couple of games,” replied Ned. “He’s a good third baseman and a small edition of Babe Ruth when it comes to hitting.” “How about these stories of his spiking men on bases and other dirty work?” persisted Dick. “I don’t know,” answered Ned with a shrug of his shoulders. “I won’t condemn a man till I actually see him do something of the kind myself. I’m more worried right now about how good our fellows are going to be than how bad somebody else is. By the way, Dick,” he continued, “how much ball have you played?” “Oh, not a whole lot,” answered Dick, modestly. “We had a pretty fair team where I used to live. They let me chase around out in right field.” “Well, I want you and Fatty to be on hand this afternoon,” declared Ned. “We’re going to need every man who shows any class.” Promptly at two o’clock the Truesdell squad assembled on the muddy field and began the season with an easy workout. Dick Somers quickly demonstrated a remarkable throwing arm, both for distance and accuracy, while his quickness of foot promised to make him a valuable fielder and base-runner. The development of hitting ability was Captain Blake’s most difficult problem, and upon this first day and for many days thereafter he kept the weak hitters swinging at pitched balls till their shoulders ached. “D’j’ever hear about ‘the straw that broke the camel’s back’?” grumbled Dave Wilbur as he left the pitcher’s box after a particularly long session of batting practice. “Ned’s an awful glutton for work. He’s making me wear out my wing throwing balls past these dubs, who couldn’t hit a balloon with a bass viol!” “Don’t kid yourself, Weary,” gibed Rogers. “Ned is figuring on giving you some much-needed practice in hurling. We’re just standing up there so’s you can learn to locate the plate.” “Aw say, use your bean,” grinned Dave. “I can put ’em over the old pan with my eyes shut!” The first regular game of the schedule was won by Truesdell but the victory proved costly. Charlie Rogers, sliding home with the winning run, sprained his ankle and was pronounced out of the game for the rest of the season. “There goes the best fielder in the Lake Shore League,” wailed Tommy Beals, as he watched Rogers hobble from the field. “A few more unlucky breaks like that will make hard going for us!” This pessimism seemed well founded, for a few days afterward, Ned Blake dropped into Somers’ home with another gloomy bit of news. “Tinker Owen flunked math. yesterday,” he announced, shortly. “That wipes him out of the picture, unless old Simmons will relent—and you know how much chance there is of that.” “Not a look-in,” agreed Dick, picking up his banjo from the couch and plunking a few chords in a doleful minor key. “It leaves us only nine real players anyhow you figure it,” continued Ned, who was checking off the names from a slip of paper. “You’ll have to play center field in Red’s place, Dick, and we’ll try out Fatty Beals in Tinker’s position behind the bat. Dave and I will have to alternate pitch and right field.” “It’s pretty tough on Weary Wilbur, making him pitch every other game and play right field between times,” grinned Dick. “He’ll crab plenty when he hears the news!” “I’m not worrying about Dave,” was Ned’s reply. “Of course he’ll crab a bit and probably he’ll spring one of his everlasting proverbs on us, but he’ll come through in his own lazy fashion. It’s a shame we haven’t got a few more good subs, but we’ll manage somehow.” Truesdell High struggled through the next three games with its changed line-up, winning each by a narrow margin but improving steadily in the matter of speed and smoothness. Bedford Academy, although heavily scored against, likewise kept a clean slate showing six victories. It was freely predicted by the followers of baseball that this year’s annual game between the two great rivals would be “for blood.” |
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