Weatherby's Inning: A Story of College Life and Baseball

“You must have somebody here that’s able to pitch a straight ball,” continued the coach.

“There ought to be,” replied Bissell. “How about it, you fellows? Can any of you pitch?”

There was a moment’s silence. Undoubtedly several of them could, but with Hanson’s dissatisfied gaze upon them they hesitated to make known their accomplishment. It was Jack who spoke first.

“I can pitch some,” he said, in matter-of-fact tones, stepping out of the line. “I’ll try, if you like.”

“Go ahead then,” said Hanson. “It isn’t necessary to pitch curves; just get an occasional ball over the plate.”

The head coach went over to the other net and Jack took the place of the retired pitcher. He hadn’t tried pitching since the summer and his first ball went very wide. The line of waiting batsmen grinned; some even laughed audibly.

“That’s a great deal better,” remarked one of them with fine sarcasm, and the laugh became general.

“That’ll do, Showell,” exclaimed Bissell. “We don’t need your opinion.” Showell, a junior, and the fellow whom Jack had ousted, grinned sheepishly under the amused glances of the others and Jack settled down to business. After a few poor balls he got his hand in again and Bissell nodded approvingly. One after another the candidates took their places in front of the net and stayed there until they had made clean hits. Jack did not attempt to puzzle them, for at this time of year, despite the practise in the cage, batting work was still pretty poor. He delivered straight balls as slow as possible and the line moved along quickly. When Showell took his place, however, Jack remembered his sarcastic remark and resolved to make the former pitcher earn his hit. He attempted no curves or drops, but sent the first ball very straight over the square of wood that did duty as a plate. But if it was straight it was also swift, so swift that Showell merely looked at it go by and then glanced inquiringly at Jack as he tossed it back to him.

He gripped his bat afresh then, and waited the next ball confidently. It came, and was, if anything, swifter than the one before. Showell struck at it hard, but was half a foot too late. The watchers began to guess what was up and looked on interestedly.

“Shorten your swing, Showell,” directed Bissell. “You were way too late then.”

Showell’s face took on a deep red and he gritted his teeth as Jack slowly and calmly threw up his arms for the next delivery. Again the ball came straight and fast over the plate and this time Showell struck an instant too soon and the sphere glanced up off his bat, bounded against the hood of the net, and came down on his head ere he could duck. He picked it out of the dust and tossed it back with no pleasant expression. The line was grinning appreciatingly by this time, but Jack’s face showed neither amusement nor interest. Again Showell struck and missed miserably.

“What are you pitching, Weatherby?” Bissell asked suspiciously.

“Just straight balls,” answered Jack, simulating surprise.

“Well, now look here, Showell,” said the acting coach, “do try and remember what you’ve been taught. Give me the bat.” Bissell took the other’s place. “Don’t stand as though you were going to run away. Face the plate; if you’re hit you’ve got your base. Now, watch me. All right, Weatherby.”

Jack sent him a fairly fast ball, and Bissell took it neatly on the end of his stick and sent it sailing in a short flight toward right field.

“You see, Showell? Swing back easily and don’t try to slug the ball. If you swing hard you miss your balance nine times out of ten. Bring the bat around easily on a line with the ball, hold it firmly and you’ve got your hit. Try it again, please.”

Showell did try it again and struck a palpable foul. Once more he tried and missed entirely. By this time he was as mad as a hatter.

“I can’t hit them unless he sends them over the plate,” he growled, eying Jack aggressively.

“You need to learn how to bat,” said a voice behind him. “I guess it would do you good to have a term with the third squad.”

He looked around into the face of Hanson, who unnoticed, had been watching his work for several minutes. He subsided and again faced the pitcher. But Jack had no desire to bring about Showell’s removal to the third squad, and so sent him a slow ball that he could not help hitting. When Showell had yielded his bat to the next man and stepped away Hanson turned to Bissell.

“Who’s that fellow?” he asked.

“Showell, a junior.”

“Junior? No, no; I mean the youngster that’s pitching.”

“Oh, that’s Weatherby, a freshman.”

“Weatherby? Oh, yes.” He watched Jack send in a couple more balls and then turned to Bissell again. “You’d better let him keep on pitching,” he said. “Seems to me he’s rather promising. What do you think?”

“I’ve never seen him pitch until to-day,” answered Bissell. “But he seems to be able to send in good, clean, straight balls. I don’t suppose he knows much about anything else, though.”

“Well, keep your eye on him,” said Hanson. “Can’t have too many pitchers, and that chap looks as though he might learn.”

CHAPTER VIII

THE LAST STRAW

Jack marked the first of April a red-letter day in his memory, for on that day he was taken on to the varsity nine as substitute. The fact was made known to him after practise when, with the others, he was dressing himself in the locker-house. The head coach appeared in their midst with a slip of paper and Jack listened indifferently until he heard his name spoken. Even then the absurd idea came to him that it was an April fool.

“Just a moment, please,” said Hanson; and when the hubbub had suddenly ceased, “the training-table will start in the morning at Pearson’s,” he announced, “and the following men will report there for breakfast: King, Knox, Gilberth, Billings, Stiles, Motter, Bissell, Lowe, Northup, Smith, Griffin, Mears, and Weatherby. Later, about the middle of the month, more men will be taken on. At present these are all we can accommodate. Breakfast is at eight prompt, and we want every man to be there on time. That’s all.”

After he had gone out those of the fellows remaining began an interested discussion of the announcement. Jack, pulling on his shoes, listened silently.

“Where were you, Jimmie?” asked King.

“I’m one of the ‘also-rans,’ I guess,” answered Riseman, a substitute fielder, sadly.

“Beaten by a freshie,” called a fellow across the room. “Fie, fie, for shame!”

“Who’s the freshie?” called some one else.

“Weatherby,” answered two or three voices. “Weatherby, the brave!” added another. An admonitory “S – s – s – sh!” arose from Jack’s vicinity, and King whispered around the corner of the next alley: “Shut up, you fellows; he’s over here.” And then another voice, one which Jack instantly recognized as Gilberth’s, drowned King’s warning.

“Do you suppose Hanson expects us to sit at the same table with that bounder?” he asked loudly.

Jack’s face paled, and he bent his head quickly over the shoe he was lacing. “He knows I’m here,” he told himself grimly, “and pretends he doesn’t. If he says ‘Coward,’ I’ll – I’ll – ” A lace broke in his hand. King suddenly began talking very loudly to Riseman about the baseball news from Robinson, but above that Jack heard Gilberth’s voice again:

“I’d be afraid he’d put poison in my coffee. A fellow that’ll stand by and see a person drown before his eyes without making a move at helping him might do anything. For my part – What? Who is?” There was an instant’s pause. Then, “Well,” continued the speaker in slightly lowered tones, “there’s an old proverb about listeners – ” The rest trailed off into silence.

King was still talking volubly and seemingly at random. In spite of his almost overmastering anger, Jack recognized King’s good-hearted attempt to spare him pain, and was grateful. His hands trembled so that he could scarcely tie his broken string, and the tears were very near the surface; he had to gulp hard once or twice to keep them back. The temptation to kick off the unlaced shoe, dash recklessly around the corner, and knock Gilberth down, to fight him until he could no longer stand, was strong. He kept his head bent and his blazing eyes on the floor and fought down the impulse. He had promised Anthony to keep silence; to lose command of himself now would be to waste all those weeks of self-repression which, he believed, and was right in believing, had made a favorable impression upon his fellows. He tried to think of other things, of his luck in being taken on to the varsity, of how pleased Anthony would be at hearing about it. Presently he finished lacing his shoes, stood up and calmly donned his coat. Then, in spite of himself, he hesitated.

The thought of passing through the locker-room under the staring, antagonistic eyes of a score or so of men, of running the gantlet of whispers and low laughter, for the moment appalled him. Then, as he slowly buttoned the last button, he heard a voice at his side.

“Ready, Weatherby? If you don’t mind, I’ll walk back with you.”

He looked around into the pleasant face of King and, after a moment of surprise, muttered assent. The central aisle was filled with fellows in various stages of attire and the two had to worm their way through. Jack went first, doing his level best to look unconcerned and at ease, and King followed close behind him, talking over his shoulder all the way. At the door King stepped ahead and threw open the portal, guiding Jack through with a friendly push on the back. When they had disappeared, one or two witnesses of the affair exchanged surprised or amused glances. But only Gilberth commented aloud.

“Very touching!” he laughed. “King to the rescue of Insulted Innocence!”

“Oh, forget it!” growled some one from the depths of a twilit alley.

Outside, on the porch, Jack turned to King with reddened cheeks. “Thank you,” he said.

“All right,” answered the other carelessly. “Fair play, you know.”

Jack hesitated, waiting for the other to take his departure. King looked at him quizzically.

“Look here, Weatherby, don’t be so beastly snobbish,” he expostulated with a touch of impatience. “If you object to my company back to the Yard, just say so, but don’t look as though I was too low down to associate with.”