The Lowell Reporter was the college paper of the University. It appeared once a week and in it was printed all the news of the college world, and announcements of various kinds. The advertising columns furnished an opportunity for a couple of young hustlers to earn enough money soliciting advertisements to keep them in school.

The paper was edited entirely by the students under the watchful eye of the faculty and especially of Professor Bennett, assistant teacher of English and of many years’ experience as a newspaper writer and editor. He also had under his direct supervision a small class in journalism, a department which had but recently been founded. The University let the students’ committee publish the paper themselves, i. e., to get it ready and then just before being printed, Professor Bennett would go over the copy in order to be sure that nothing contrary to the policy of the University was published and once in a while to curb the enthusiasm of this or that writer, when he allowed his imagination to prepare any article that was not in keeping with the dignity of the institution.

Timothy Murnin, a young Irish lad of American parentage, was one of the two fellows who kept themselves in college by hustling for advertisements for the Reporter. Timothy’s one ambition was to be the owner and editor of a big city newspaper, and his job of hustling for advertisements was the best start he could have made in that direction if he only knew it.

Besides attending to his studies and getting most of the advertisements for the Reporter, Tim added to his many duties, by request of the student body, the job of reporting all the sporting events of the college. His many duties didn’t give him a chance to indulge in any of the games himself, but he had a wonderful knowledge of all the sports, football, baseball, basketball, track work and everything. In baseball he was particularly fit. Like all good healthy boys in this country he loved the great American game of Baseball. He loved it for the same reason that millions of others loved it—its squareness and thrills.

He knew the game from “soup to nuts,” as he would say in talking about the ability of this or that great player. He could give you offhand the records of all the great college teams in the country for twenty years back and the individual fitness of almost every player. He had them all on his finger tips, and his reports of the games at college were filled with items showing that this first baseman acted like old Pop Anderson, yonder pitcher reminded him of Russell, or some young catcher threw down to second like Charley Burnett, or that so and so stood up to the bat like old Dan Brewers or King Kelly.

Once in a while he surpassed himself, and his report of a dull and uninteresting game was many times more exciting and enjoyable than the game itself. Such a game was the one the team played with Barber College along about the middle of April. The team had been going along pretty well in the half dozen or more games which had been played with the minor colleges, all of them preparatory to the bigger games toward the close of the season. Lowell had had a rather easy time of it up to the fourth inning, at which time the score stood 7 to 0 in favor of the Varsity. The game had been played in a drizzle of rain, the ball was wet, the grounds slippery, and errors were the rule instead of the exception. Fielders had tumbled over themselves chasing balls over the wet grass, and players who had attempted the fall-away slide could hardly be recognized on account of their mud-stained uniforms.

In the seventh, eighth, and ninth innings, Miner had given way to Babe, as the game looked safe and Babe had an off day, for Barber secured six hits in the three innings, which, mixed with the errors, enabled the visitors to pile up five runs while the Lowell team was doing nothing in the tally line.

The game ended, however, with Lowell still two runs to the good and the game was ours, but this is the way Tim’s report of parts of it looked in the Reporter the next day after he had reduced his idea of the contest to writing. Here it is:

The report of the game went on in this style to the end. Tim had discovered a new language and he was proud of his effort. When he had finished he turned in his copy. A few minutes after he reached home he was called to the telephone. It was Professor Bennett speaking, and he asked Tim if he could come around and see him right away. He had something to talk with him about. When he reached the professor’s office he found him sitting with a puzzled expression looking at some manuscript which Tim thought was his. It was:

“I don’t quite understand this, a— I suppose it is a report of the baseball game with Barber yesterday.”

“That’s it,” said Tim; “don’t you think it’s pretty good?”

“Have they changed the baseball terms recently? I hadn’t heard of it. If not, and this is only an original way of yours of reporting what took place at the game, I’m afraid that we will have to dispense with it. I’m afraid that coming out as it does with the O. K. of the department of English, the Lowell Reporter will be discredited among the alumni.”

“I hope you won’t cut it out,” said Tim. “Yesterday’s game was mostly a one-sided and dull affair, and I thought I’d liven it up a bit by putting some spirit into the report.”

“Well, but the words and terms you use are not understandable.”

“I think you are mistaken, Professor, about that. I think even the smallest boy who knows anything at all about baseball could understand perfectly what is meant.”

“Suppose we go over it together,” said the Professor, “and let me see if I can get an idea what it is all about. Now, right at the beginning you say Jones, one of the big family (I can understand that), the first to swing the willow for the enemy, etc., what do you mean by that?” asked the Professor.

“Well,” answered Tim, “the bat is made of willow, the Barber nine is our enemy for the time being. A grass cutter is a ball that is rolled swiftly over the grass. Jones hit a ground ball to shortstop, who picked it up and threw it to first base.”

“Good,” said the Professor. “Now let’s see the rest of it. Knight hit a sunscraper into the meridian and Gibbie pocketed it on the return trip.”

“Perfectly plain, Professor,” said Tim. “A high building is a skyscraper—then a high ball might be a sunscraper—the meridian is directly overhead, isn’t it? Then this ball that Knight hit went straight up in the air, very high, Gibbie the catcher caught it easily when it came down.”

“Not bad,” said the Professor. “Let’s take the next line. Wilson stung the pellet to Robbville, which Ty annexed without leaving his office. What——?”

“That means,” continued Tim, “that Wilson hit the ball hard to right field where Tyrus Robb plays, and hit it absolutely into his hands. He didn’t have to leave his office means, he didn’t have to move to get it.”

“I begin to be interested in your new style of English. It seems all right if you have a key handy. Are you going to furnish a glossary of terms with each of your reports after this, Murnin?

“Suppose we go on. Now then you say: Ross launched a Lusitania to Amberg which broke down in midocean. What possible connection can there be between a fast liner and a ball game?”

“You have it. Fine. Don’t you see how quickly the meaning comes to you when you get a start? Lusitania—a fast liner—launched to Amberg—went straight for him—broke down in midocean—it stopped when it got to Amberg, who caught it.”

“Good, now let’s see if I can figure it out myself. Everson loafed (waited) around the rubber (the plate) for four misfits (four balls, I guess); Little Arthur (must be Delvin) stung a beauty (a good one) over the near station—near station? (Oh! yes, third base) which took him to the first stop (first base) and opened the switches for Everson’s (let’s see, where was Everson? Oh, yes, he got a base on balls and was on first) run to the middle station (Everson got to second), Honus bumped a daisy scorcher (now, what’s a daisy scorcher, Tim?)”

“A low ball, not one rolling on the ground, but a little raised, about as high as the daisy blossoms.”

“Good, Honus bumped a daisy scorcher to Jones which the latter pickled (he must have gotten it and put Honus out if it went as a sacrifice). Delvin navigated to second (advanced to second) and the Human Crab breezed to third. (Who’s the Crab? Let me see, he must have been on second. Do you call Everson the Human Crab?)”

“Yes,” said Tim.

“This is the situation now, isn’t it? Everson on third, Delvin on second. All right, now let’s see what happened.”

“Ty swung his trusty locust (thought it was willow) against the first groove cutter (let me see, that must mean a ball put over the plate) and the horsehide (ball) stamped his initials on the Clubhouse flag pole (the ball must have hit the flag pole, eh?) and Ty almost beat Everson and Little Arthur to the water cooler (that’s almost too plain, Tim. Ty made a home run and brought home Everson and Delvin. Better improve that one a little).”

“I think it will average up,” said Tim.

“All right,” said Professor Bennett. “What happened next? Mr. Talkington (why mister, I wonder?) while waiting for four (trying to get his base on balls) was chased with three (what, get his base on three balls?).”

“No, sir, he struck out. They chased him to the bench.”

“Oh, I see!” said the Professor. “Larke sent one singing to the curve box (that must be the pitcher) which the slab artist (pitcher) tossed to the initial sack (first).”

“I really think some of it is too plain,” said the Professor, rather more pleased than he would let on. He found himself quite an adept in this new language.

“It improves as you go along, I think,” said Tim.

“Let’s see what happened in the second inning,” went on the Professor. “Barber College goes to bat now, doesn’t it? Amberg hit one over the shortest route to Everson (that must be a straight-line hit), Wheeler spun three times and sat down (spun what? I don’t get that).”

“When a fellow strikes at a ball hard and misses he generally spins around,” said Tim. “Wheeler missed three strikes which he tried very hard to hit.”

“I see,” said the Professor, “and Dorner did the same. So Black struck out two in succession, eh?”

“Black (was Black the first man up?) did what was expected of the pitcher. What is expected of a pitcher at bat? I don’t get that.”

“Pitchers generally bat poorly. Black struck out,” said Tim.

“Oh, I see! Gibbie is up next. Gibbie got a one timer (that’s a one-base hit, I guess) back of Wilson (let me see, where does Wilson play? Oh, yes, third!). Gibbie got a one-base hit back of third (very plain), Ross arched one to Knight (an arching fly), Everson dropped one in front of the rubber (a bunt, I am getting on splendidly again), Gibbie annexing the keystone bag (Gibbie got to second), Little Arthur was there with a dew drop (dew drop? What’s a dew drop, Tim?).”

“A little fly ball that comes down out of the sky and lights on the grass without touching anything,” said Tim.

“Oh, I see! it was a little fly that should have been caught, but no one got there in time. Wilson picked it up too late to shut the door on either Gibbie, Everson or Delvin (couldn’t prevent them from what?) who slid into the vacant chairs (did he want to shut the door on the chairs?). You used a bad one there, Tim—and all the seats at table were occupied (bases all full, eh?).

“The big German lad (Hagner) leaned gently against the leather apple (leaned against the ball. Do you call Hagner’s style of hitting, leaning?) and knocked it out of the orchard (over the fence) shaking the tree for four more juicy ones (you mean four more runs) for Lowell. Ty fouled to Bowman. Three out (why, such ordinary English?).

“After that for the third, fourth, fifth and sixth spasms (innings) neither side got a look in (very ordinary, Tim), although three hopefuls from each college went boldly to the front, only to be cut down in their youth before crossing the Rubicon (you are giving out, Tim, this isn’t nearly so good).”

“Wait until you strike the music in the seventh inning,” answered Tim.

The Professor went on reading, “In the stand-up session (oh, yes! seventh inning), however, the tonsorial artists (good! the Barbers) made the Lowell hair stand up (I don’t get that one).”

“Gave us a scare,” explained Tim.

“Hughie sent the Infant in (Infant?)”

“Radams,” said Tim, “his nickname is Babe.”

“Oh, of course, the Infant,” went on the Professor. “Hughie sent the Infant in for a piece of pie (piece of pie, why pie?).”

“Well, the game was easy and Hughie wanted to give Babe a little practical experience.”

“I see,” said the Professor, “very good, indeed, we will continue. Jones the first shaver (he must have been a Barber man) swung the sign (the sign?).”

“Yes, the sign—the barber pole—the stick—the bat.”

“Ah, yes, very good; swung the sign on a drop (drop ball) and raised it over Arthur’s study box (study box—do you mean—of course, you mean, he raised it over Delvin’s head) for a single. The fellow with the after 6 P. M. name (let me think. Guess you’ll have to help me again, Tim).”

“Read a little farther,” said Tim.

“The fellow with the after 6 P. M. name waited patiently, and as the Babe couldn’t see the plate because Knight was near (oh, yes! I see his name was Knight, very good, indeed, Babe couldn’t see the plate, ha! ha!) he walked. Wilson hit a slow one to Johnny which he came in on and rolled around the sod (Everson must have fumbled), while Jones, Knight and Wilson perched on the salt bags (very ordinary that last), Hughie wigwagged (signaled) the infield to come close so they could hear the song of the Whirling Sphere and join in the chorus.

“Amberg binged (must mean hit) one which knocked the wind out of Honus’ organ (the ball hit Hagner in the stomach, I should say, from reading that), Johnny picked up the sphere (ball) and heaved it at the Barber band sitting back of Gibbie, behind the screen, to make them join the music (he threw wild and high past Gibbie), and Jonesy and the Utter Darkness (Utter Darkness? Oh, yes! Knight again) beat a fast tattoo on the base line and disappeared over the horizon to the visitors’ bench after their final journey toward the West. (Now, if I understand that, it means Jones and Knight both scored and went and sat down on the bench with their fellow players. Is that the idea?)”

“It is,” said Tim.

“Well, we’d better finish this inning, anyhow. Babe got himself in tune by this time (you mean he got in harmony with the requirements of his job, I suppose) and whanged out three high, but perfect notes (he sent up three good balls), which Wheeler tried to reach in unison with him (Wheeler tried to hit each of them) but couldn’t (in other words, Wheeler struck out); Wilson, who had reached third while the loud pedal was open (let’s see, Wilson had got to first on Johnny’s error. Then this must mean he got around to third when Johnny made the wild throw past Gibbie), was lulled to sleep by the sweet strains (was so delighted that he got careless) and was caught napping by Gibbie (Gibbie caught him off third base), Dorner sent a whistler (a fast one) out to Talkington who muffled it (do you mean muffed? Oh, no, I see! he caught it and that muffled its whistle), and the singing practice was over. Score, 7-2.

“I think that is about all I can hope to learn in this first lesson in your new language, Murnin,” said Professor Bennett, resuming some of the dignity which he had dropped when he had become interested. “When I first saw this I thought it wouldn’t do at all, but there seems to be something about this new language of yours which makes the report of a ball game quite interesting, and, I shall, therefore, let the story go in the Reporter. I wish, however, that you would write out a class-room copy of the report in plain English so that I can have a defense handy in case any one asks questions of me.”

Tim did this but the report of the game as it appeared in the Reporter was so much of a puzzle that it created a disturbance. The principal trouble was that the members of the faculty failed to look at the matter in the same light that Professor Bennett had, and they decided that future games should be reported in the former style.