CHAPTER XVII AFTERNOON PRACTICE

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It was a Thursday, languidly warm, and trade had been dull. Mr. Cummings wandered down to where Tom, having just got back from school, was placing selling marks on a new arrival of running shirts and trunks.

“How’s the high school nine getting along, Tom?” he asked. “I saw they got beaten by the Y.M.C.A. team the other day.”

“Yes, sir, rather badly. I haven’t seen them play yet, but I hear that they’re sort of up against it for pitchers this year.”

“Haven’t seen them, you say? That’s so, you don’t have much chance, do you? What do you think of that, Horace?” Mr. Cummings turned to the junior partner, who was busy across the store. “Here’s Tom selling baseballs and bats and things and hasn’t seen a game of ball yet. Hard luck, eh?”

Mr. Wright grunted and Mr. Cummings winked jovially at Tom. Then, to their surprise, Mr. Wright added, “I s’pose it is.”

Mr. Cummings laughed. “It surely is,” he declared. “Tom, suppose you and I go and see a game this afternoon. I guess we won’t be needed here.”

“They don’t play to-day, sir.”

“Don’t they!” Mr. Cummings was palpably disappointed. “Thought I saw a lot of the boys going out toward the field awhile ago in playing togs.”

“They have practice every afternoon, sir.”

“Oh, that’s it! Well, what’s the matter with going out there and seeing them practice?”

“I’d like to very much,” answered Tom, “if I’m not needed in here.” And he looked doubtfully across at Mr. Wright. The junior partner sniffed. “Guess we can do without you to-day,” he said almost graciously. “Don’t see what you want to go tagging off to a ball game for, Joseph.” Mr. Cummings laughed again.

“Just to keep Tom out of mischief,” he said. “Get your hat, Tom. Joe, if Mr. Wyman comes in about those locks, you tell him we got word to-day from the folks in Philadelphia and they’re on the way. Ought to be here by Saturday, sure. Come on, Tom.”

They caught a car outside and Mr. Cummings pushed Tom into a rear seat. He chuckled as he selected a cigar from his case and lighted it. “Guess we did that pretty well,” he said. “If I had a bag of peanuts I’d feel as if I was going to the circus!” He seemed in real holiday mood. Of course they talked baseball until they left the car to walk the intervening block to the athletic field.

“I suppose they don’t charge us anything to-day, Tom,” he said questioningly as they came in sight of the grounds.

“No, sir.”

“Too bad; I feel just like spending money! How do we get in?”

Tom led the way to the gate and they went inside. A handful of boys were lolling on the seats of the grandstand, looking on, while on the diamond the first team and the scrubs were engaged in a game. Tom saw Sidney on the bench and waved to him. By the time they had found seats in a shady portion of the stand, Sidney had joined them.

“Hello, Tom! How do you do, Mr. Cummings? Is this a holiday?”

“It is for us, Morris,” chuckled Mr. Cummings. “Tom and I sort of sneaked off. Are you playing?”

“Yes, sir, but I don’t bat for awhile yet,” replied Sidney, taking a seat beside them.

“Then suppose you tell us what’s going on. Who’s that at bat now?”

“That’s Sam Craig. He’s our catcher. We’re having a practice game with the scrub team, sir. The tall chap at the end of the bench is Frank Warner, our captain. And that’s Mr. Talbot standing behind him. He’s our coach, you know.”

“Good, is he?”

“Yes, sir, one of the best. Everyone likes him. Craig has fanned. That’s Pete Farrar coming up now. He’s our best pitcher.”

“Then I suppose he can’t hit,” said Mr. Cummings.

“Not very well. Nor,” added Sidney smilingly, “pitch much, either. He’s the best we have, though.”

“Tom was telling me you were hard-up for pitchers. Can’t you find a good one in all that crowd? Why, you must have three or four hundred boys in school, haven’t you?”

“Over four hundred, sir, but we haven’t found anyone who can pitch much. That is, except one fellow, and we can’t get him.”

“How is that?” asked Mr. Cummings.

“He has to work.” Sidney grinned at Tom, and Tom coloured. “If we got him to pitch for us, we’d be all right, I guess.”

“Has to work, eh? That’s too bad. Something like Tom here, eh?”

“Very much like him,” laughed Sidney. Mr. Cummings looked around questioningly. “It’s Tom I’m talking about, Mr. Cummings.”

“Tom! Why, I didn’t know he could pitch ball.” Mr. Cummings faced Tom accusingly. “You never told me that. So you’re a young Walter Johnson, are you, son?”

“Sid’s just talking,” murmured Tom. “I pitch a little, sir.”

“He’s a dandy at it,” declared Sidney warmly, “and everyone wishes he could join the team. But of course he can’t.”

“I suppose not,” agreed Mr. Cummings. “Too bad, too.”

“Yes, sir.” Sidney was in perfect agreement. Mr. Cummings was silent a minute. Then, “I’d like to see you pitch, Tom,” he said.

“It would be quite a treat,” said Tom flippantly. He was a bit embarrassed and the flippancy was meant to disguise the fact. Sidney, who had started to say something, closed his mouth and got up.

“That’s three out. I’ll have to go. If you stay till we’re through, Tom, I’ll go back with you.”

Tom looked doubtfully at Mr. Cummings. “What inning is it?” he asked.

“Third. We’ll only play six, probably. It won’t take long. Better see it through.”

“Of course we will,” replied Mr. Cummings with cheerful decision, stretching his legs comfortably over the back of the bench in front. “This is a holiday with us, Morris. Nothing to do till to-morrow!”

Sidney laughed and hurried away into right field and Mr. Cummings turned to Tom. “How long you been pitching?” he asked.

“Just since last year,” responded Tom. “Sid showed me a little about it and then I got a book and studied it. Now there’s a man at my boarding-house who used to play professional ball; pitched on some of the minor league teams for eight years; he’s teaching me a lot.”

His employer observed him admiringly. “Tom,” he said, “you’re a smart kid, aren’t you? How old are you?”

“Sixteen—and a half.”

“Hm! You look more than that. I suppose now you’d like to play with these chaps, eh?”

“Yes, sir, I’d like to very much.”

“Well, I wish you could.” Mr. Cummings was frowningly silent for awhile. Pete Farrar—a long, rangy, and somewhat seedy youth of seventeen—was in the box for the school nine. He had an eccentric “wind-up” that included whirling his right arm around at the shoulder several times like a wind-mill. But most of the effort went into the “wind-up” and not enough, it seemed, into the delivery. At any rate, his performance that afternoon was pretty poor. He passed the first man up in the first half of the third and was hit for a two-bagger by the second. The scrubs got two runs across in that inning. Tom concluded that he liked the scrubs’ pitcher better. He was a youngster named Moran who, if he put on less “side,” seemed to have far better control. But perhaps, Tom charitably added to himself, this was an off-day with Farrar. As the teams changed places again Captain Warner went to bat. Mr. Cummings broke a long silence.

“Tom,” he said, “couldn’t we fix it somehow so you could play ball? How many games do they play a week?”

“Usually two, sir.”

“Well, don’t it seem as if you could get off two afternoons?”

“I’m afraid that wouldn’t do any good, sir, because, you see, I’d have to practise with the team if I was to play on it. I guess there isn’t any way I could play, Mr. Cummings, unless I was to quit working, and I couldn’t afford to do that.”

“How much practice would it take?” persisted Mr. Cummings.

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Well, it seems to me that, if these chaps need you as badly as they say they do, it’s a shame you can’t play. And I’m going to see if we can’t fix it somehow, Tom. I suppose Horace will think I’m crazy, though,” he added half aloud.

“I don’t mind not playing, sir,” Tom assured him. “And—and I wouldn’t feel right, anyway, about letting you pay me wages and then not being there.”

“Humph!” said Mr. Cummings. “I guess it wouldn’t break us. Who’s this coming?”

“Sidney Morris, sir. Oh, that’s Mr. Talbot with him!”

“Thought so. Looks as if they were coming here, don’t it?”

It did, and in a moment Sidney was introducing the coach to Mr. Cummings. Tom realised then that Sidney had brought Mr. Talbot over for a purpose. And the purpose was not long in declaring itself. There was a minute of polite conversation between the two men and then the coach got down to business.

“Mr. Cummings,” he asked, “isn’t there some way by which we can get the services of Tom Pollock here? We need him pretty badly on the team. We’re in a regular hole as far as pitching goes. Of course I realise that he’s working for you and that you need him at your store, but it seems to me that in some way or other we might arrange things so he could pitch for us at least occasionally. We might not need him all the time. If he could pitch, say, one game a week, it would be a big thing for the school.”

“I was just talking it over with Tom,” replied Mr. Cummings. “If it can be arranged, I’ll be glad, Mr. Talbot. But Tom says he would have to do a lot of practising with the team. Frankly, Mr. Talbot, if I had the whole say of it, I’d send him out here every afternoon, but my partner, Mr. Wright, isn’t—well, quite as sympathetic toward baseball as I am!”

“I see. As to practising, why, Pollock’s right. But under the circumstances I guess we could be easy with him. You don’t expect a pitcher to do much more than play his position, you know. I guess we’d forgive him if he didn’t show up very brilliantly at bat and at fielding. What we want is someone who can stand up against some of the big teams we’re scheduled to meet this month and next and give us a chance to win now and then. We’ve got a pretty fair team this year. They’re smart fielders and they’ll do pretty well at bat in another week or so. But we’re certainly shy on pitchers, Mr. Cummings.”

“Well, what’s your idea?” asked Mr. Cummings.

“How about three afternoons a week during May and then, say, two after that? I wouldn’t ask Pollock to pitch more than once a week, but I’d like to have him come out and get used to the team and let the team get used to him. By the first of June I guess, if he practised once a week, it would be enough to keep him steady.”

“I’m willing,” replied Tom’s employer, “and I’ll talk it over with my partner. If I can make him agree, it’ll be all right. And—oh, well, I’ll pretty near guarantee to talk Horace around! Anyway, we’ll settle it in a day or two. But, say, I’m taking your word for all this. How do I know he can really pitch? You ever seen him?”

Mr. Talbot laughed and shook his head. “As a matter of fact, Mr. Cummings, I never have! I’m taking the boys’ word for it. Morris here says he can. Healey says so. And Hughes and two or three others.”

“That’s all right,” returned Mr. Cummings gravely, thrusting his hands in his pockets and looking stubborn. “But I’m from Missouri. You’ll have to show me!”

Sidney laughed. “What Mr. Cummings wants, I guess, is to have Tom pitch now.”

“Want to try it?” asked Mr. Talbot of Tom.

“If you want me to, sir.”

“Well,” the coach hesitated, “it’s sort of short notice, I suppose, but maybe we’d better convince Mr. Cummings, Pollock. We want him to help us, you see. How would it do if you pitched for the scrubs the next inning or two?”

“I’m willing,” replied Tom, “only——” He glanced at the clothes he was wearing.

“Never mind about what you have on,” said Mr. Talbot. “You needn’t bat, and I guess if you take your coat and waistcoat off you’ll get along all right. They’re calling you, Morris. You’re up.” And as Sidney hurried across to the plate Mr. Talbot went on: “I hope you will succeed with your partner, Mr. Cummings, for we certainly need this chap out here with us. In any case, I’m very much obliged to you for your willingness to help us. Wouldn’t you like to look on from the bench?”

Mr. Cummings arose with alacrity and, followed by Tom, accompanied the coach across to the other side of the diamond, where a place was found for him on the players’ bench. Buster Healey winked gravely at Tom.

“Get on to Bat being sweet to old Cummings,” he whispered to Bert Meyers, who was seated beside him. “He’s after Pollock I’ll bet a dollar. Bet you he gets him, too!”

Mr. Cummings was introduced to Captain Warner and one or two of the other boys and was quite in his element. Pete Farrar, farther along the bench, viewed Tom’s appearance with suspicion. Young Smith, bat in hand, waiting for Sidney to retire from the plate, turned his head toward the bench and whispered hoarsely:

“Pete!”

“Huh?” grunted Pete Farrar.

“Good-bye,” said Smithie softly.

Pete only grunted again.


                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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