They found a boarding-place without difficulty less than a square from the hotel. It was not very prepossessing and even June was inclined to turn up his nose at it. However, June’s nose was not shaped for turning-up purposes, and Wayne reminded him that they couldn’t expect much for two dollars and a half a week, and so he didn’t. They engaged a small and illy-lighted little apartment with one very grimy window that looked out into the rear premises of an iron foundry. The view, while not exactly inspiriting, was at least not monotonous, for the foundry provided movement and noise; to say nothing of smoke. Their landlady was frowsy and sleepy-looking and toddled away in evident relief the instant Wayne had deposited the first week’s board money in her hand, leaving them to debate whether the one small towel was intended to serve both occupants. The furniture consisted of two narrow cots pushed side by side, one chair, a decrepit bureau, and a metal washstand. There was a tattered rug on the floor and an equally tattered But that was later. After settling their few belongings into place the boys, followed, you may be certain, by Sam, sallied forth again. It was mid-afternoon by that time and Wayne led the way hurriedly along the street in the direction of the distant ball park. To part with fifty cents of their combined fortunes seemed, on the face of it, pure recklessness, but Wayne soothed his conscience by telling himself that a fellow ought to know something about the ball team he was going to join. June’s conscience troubled him not a whit. June was as pleased as Punch at the idea of seeing a ball game. Sam—well, we don’t know what Sam thought about it. He seemed, however, perfectly willing to accompany the expedition. The game was well into the first half of the third inning when the two boys settled themselves in their places on the bleachers. There had been a trifle of difficulty in persuading the man at the gate to allow the passage of the dog, a difficulty The Doncaster Club, familiarly known as the “Billies,” were the opponents this afternoon, playing the third contest of a four-game series. The score-board showed Doncaster leading by two runs obtained in the first inning. Wayne squandered another five cents and bought a score-card which informed him of the batting order. A neighbour ended his doubt as to which of the three pitchers on the card was really performing by telling him over his shoulder that “Wainwright’s in the box and Linton’s catching. They worked him for a pass and a three-bagger in the first. Henderson and Coe’s the Billies’ battery.” Wayne thanked him and turned his attention back to the game in time to see the third Doncaster man thrown out at first. After that the game dragged for several innings, with neither team getting past second. Wayne thought that the manager’s “bawling-out” that forenoon had done good, for the Harrisville team was certainly on its toes all the time and played with a snap. Only the total inability to hit the Billies’ pitcher safely kept the home club from scoring. Henderson was slammed here, June was having a fine time with a bag of peanuts, which he shared with Sam, and was already a violent partisan of the Harrisville Badgers. His comments, voiced for Wayne’s ear alone but audible to the nearby spectators, aroused much mirth. Wayne didn’t hear them all, for he was busy watching the players and their methods. He saw several tricks that were new to his experience. For instance, a Doncaster coach at third insisted that a runner who had reached that base should keep outside the foul line, something that the runner repeatedly neglected to do. That puzzled Wayne for the better part of two innings and wasn’t solved until a batter hit sharply to young Bennett, whereupon Wayne realised that had a runner been on fair ground he would probably have been hit by the ball and so been put out. By keeping on foul territory he was safe. He stored the fact away “Clover Jones? We-ell, he ain’t so bad as some. He bats better’n Tim Leary. I’ve seen Clover everlastingly wallop the ball an’ then again I’ve seen him go a week without making a hit. You can’t tell about Clover. He’s a good baseman, though. Ain’t anybody hitting today. That feller Henderson’s got a lot on the ball, I guess.” But even Henderson, who ranked high in the Tri-State League, couldn’t keep it up to the end, and when the eighth inning came Sailor O’Neill brought yelps of joy from the stands by leading off with the Badgers’ fourth safe hit of the game, a sharp liner that whizzed over shortstop’s head and let O’Neill reach second base by a hair’s breadth. Then Leary struck out. Linton, the catcher, laid down a bunt in front of the plate and the Billies’ backstop chose to head off O’Neill at The inning ended when Briggs, centre fielder, flied out to first baseman, and with the score three to three the game went through the ninth and started the tenth. By this time ennui was no longer discernible in stands or bleachers. Leather-lunged “fans” were appealing wildly to the Fates for a victory. Cotton was the relief pitcher for the Badgers, and, although he was as But Doncaster again held the lead and it was up to Harrisville to get a run across. The bleacherites did all they could to help, and June’s was a conspicuous voice amongst them. Even Sam seemed to sense a desperate crisis, for he roused himself from the lethargy produced by a feast of peanuts and barked wildly. Cross went out, third to first. “Cob” Morgan, the dark-visaged first baseman, reached the initial station safely by reason of a fumble on the part of shortstop. Jones started to the plate but was recalled and LaCroix took his place. LaCroix was a thick-set, hook-nosed Canuck. Opinion in Wayne’s vicinity differed as to the advisability of putting “Nap” in, but it was generally conceded that Steve Milburn generally pulled the trick and that events might vindicate his judgment in this case. And events surely did. Nap LaCroix leaned against the first offering and hit to short right and there were two on. The Harrisville “rooters” cheered and yelped and, considering their scarcity, made a brave uproar. Possibly it had its effect on Henderson, for he wabbled for the first time in the proceedings and walked O’Neill. The bleacherites arose to their feet and waved hats and coats and newspapers madly. Wayne did his share, June yipped, and Sam, squirming in Wayne’s arms, barked frantically. Another pinch-hitter was sent in, this time in place of Leary. “O you Joe Casey!” bellowed the audience. “Hit it out, Joe!” “Remember yesterday, Joe!” The young pitcher, who Wayne gathered had been ingloriously hammered the preceding afternoon, didn’t look like a likely candidate to pull the game out of the fire, for he presented a very awkward appearance at the plate. But he didn’t have much chance to show his prowess for Henderson pitched two balls before he got a strike over and then followed with two more, forcing in the tying run and exiling himself to the showers. The audience shouted joy and relief and settled down to their seats again. But they still sat on the edges, for the game was still to win. Linton tried hard to deliver but only hit across the infield to shortstop and LaCroix was an easy out at Gloom and disgust possessed the stands! The sun was gone behind the hills in the west when the eleventh session opened and the heat of the afternoon was giving place to the coolness of evening. Coats which had laid across knees for ten long innings were donned again. Here and there a spectator arose, unwillingly, and, with long backward looks, took himself homeward. Cotton was pitching fine ball now and Doncaster Manager Milburn’s line-up was a rather patched affair by now, for he had staked all on that tenth inning crisis. Fawcett started off by flying out to left. O’Neill hit for one. LaCroix fouled out to catcher. O’Neill stole on the second pitch to Linton and was safe. Linton fouled twice behind third base, each time barely escaping being caught out, and then, with two strikes and two balls against him, waited and walked to base. With two on and Cotton at bat anything might happen—or nothing. For a while it looked like nothing, for Cotton, in spite of his eagerness to hit and the wild and weird manner in which he swung his bat around his head, for all the world like a joyous lad twirling a shillalah at Donnybrook Fair and daring an adversary to step up and have his head broken, the Billies’ pitcher “Who is it?” asked Wayne to the bleachers at large. “Steve himself!” was the answer. “Bust it, Steve! Knock the hide off it! Wow!” And sure enough it was Manager Milburn who faced the Doncaster pitcher now and who tapped a long black bat gently on the rubber, leaned it against his leg, moistened his hands and rubbed them together, took up the bat again and eyed the moundsman warily. In the outfield the players were stepping back and still back. The Harrisville rooters shouted and screeched, red of face, entreating of voice. One ball, far wide of the plate, that Steve Milburn only looked at as it sped by. A strike that caused him to turn and observe the umpire silently and derisively. Another ball, high and on the inside, that sent Steve’s head and shoulders jerking back from its path. The pandemonium increased. Another offering that would have cut the outer corner of the plate knee-high had not Manager Milburn’s bat been ready for it. A fine, heartening crack of wood and leather, a gray streak cutting the shadows of the first base stands, cries, pounding feet, dust, confusion and—victory! The ball passed second baseman a yard from his outstretched fingers and went to right fielder on its first long bound. But right fielder never threw it. Instead, he merely trotted benchward. For O’Neill was throwing himself across The stands emptied, the players thronged to the dressing-rooms and Wayne and June journeyed across the trampled field of battle on their way to the gate as happy as though they themselves had won that victory. And Sam trotted behind with his pathetic stub of a tail wagging proudly. |