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

Anthony, making his way briskly down Main Street, raised his head at the greeting, and glanced across the street. Professor White, immaculate in his Sunday attire of black frock coat, gray trousers, and silk hat, was picking his way gingerly between the little puddles left by the night’s shower. Anthony returned the salutation, and waited for the other to join him. Then they went on together down the quiet street in the shade of the elms. The village seemed deserted. It was an hour after noon, and staid, respectable Centerport was dining on all the indigestible luxuries that comprise the New England Sunday dinner. As for the college – well, the college was at the depot awaiting the arrival of the 2.12 train.

“Going down to welcome the victors?” asked the professor gaily.

“Yes,” answered Anthony. “And I guess you are too. Sort of late, aren’t we?”

He produced his big gold watch, removed it tenderly from its pouch, and saw that it announced eight minutes after the hour. The professor nodded, and they mended their pace.

“You didn’t go down, did you?” asked the latter.

“No, I wanted to, but couldn’t afford it. But we got the news at Butler’s by innings. We had quite a celebration all to ourselves before the rest of you got home.”

“Didn’t keep you from taking a hand in the bonfire last night, though, did it?” laughed the professor.

“No, I guess every one went out to the field. It must have been an interesting game, professor.”

“It was. But it was rather conducive to heart-disease toward the end. We came pretty near to being outplayed, and a good deal nearer to being beaten. When Robinson had the bases full in the ninth and their left-fielder rapped out that liner – well, I shut my eyes and held my breath! I didn’t see Weatherby make his catch; when I looked he was throwing to third. Well, it was great, simply great!”

“Yes, but I didn’t quite understand what it was Jack did. If he hadn’t caught the ball the other chaps would have made three runs, isn’t that it?”

“Well, two runs anyway, three probably; you see, the bases were full, and that hit was good for a two-bagger, I think, if Weatherby hadn’t got his hands on it. It was a hot one, too, and ’way over his head. As it was, he put out the batsman by catching the ball, tagged second before the runner from that base could get back, and then threw to third and put out the man there. You see, a runner is required to hold his base until a fly has either been caught or has touched the ground. Well, Robinson thought Devlin’s hit was a safe one; it surely looked like it; and every one ran. Then when Weatherby caught it they had to get back to their bases; but they couldn’t. Condit was almost home. It was very pretty. Triple plays like that have been made before, but they don’t happen very often. And then the difficulty of Weatherby’s catch added to the brilliancy of the thing. Well, he’ll be a hero now as long as yesterday’s game is remembered.”

“I’m mighty glad,” said Anthony quietly. “Jack’s had sort of a hard time of it, take it all ’round. I’m glad things look better for next year.”

“Oh, he can have pretty near anything he wants after this,” laughed the professor. “I’m quite as well pleased as you are, Tidball. There’s one thing, however – ” He hesitated. “We can’t get around the fact that Weatherby’s been largely to blame for his own unhappiness, Tidball. We’re both friends of his, and we can afford to recognize the truth. It was his duty, to himself and more especially to others, to put himself right. He should have explained why he apparently made no effort to go to the rescue of that boy in the river. It looked bad; I saw the whole thing, and to all appearances it was just a case of cowardice. I was mistaken; and I said what was in my mind, which was a still greater mistake. But don’t you see, Tidball, he should have spoken up and said that he couldn’t swim. None would have blamed him then. He had no right to allow others to misjudge him. Then, too, his attitude wasn’t of the kind to attract friends to him. From what I can make out he appears to have taken umbrage because the fellows didn’t seek him and make his acquaintance when he first came, and subsequently repelled every advance by his apparent indifference and self-sufficiency. It was – unfortunate.”

“Yes, I guess you’re right. But I can’t altogether blame Jack, for I know just how sensitive he is. Sometime he’ll get over it, but it’s something you can’t change at once. Wasn’t that the whistle?”

“I didn’t hear anything, but if you like we’ll sprint a bit.”

And they did, reaching the station just as the train rolled in, and the victorious baseball team and attendants descended into the dense throng of students to an accompaniment of wild cheers. For a moment the players were swallowed from sight. Then they came into view again on the shoulders of privileged friends, and were borne to the three hacks that were to take them in triumph up to the college. Jack caught a brief glimpse of Anthony’s tall form as he was borne, swaying and bobbing, across the platform, and waved a hand to him. Then, with the cheering crowd jostling and shoving about the carriages, the journey was begun.

Jack found himself in the second of the hacks, sandwiched between Billings and Knox. Facing them, on the front seat, sat King, Motter, and Showell. As they turned into the Square, the horses prancing excitedly because of the crowd and the noise, Jack caught a glimpse of the carriage ahead and of Joe Perkins leaning out to shake hands with the nearest of his admirers. There was no attempt at conversation between Jack and his companions. Even had the tumult allowed it they were all too sleepy and tired to talk much.

Training had ended for the season with the ending of the game. They had remained in Collegetown as Robinson’s guests, and had been dined, and, later, had attended a performance at the little Opera House in company with their hosts. After that they had returned to the hotel, assembled in Joe’s room, and chosen a new captain. The honor had fallen to King. There had been no dissenting voice. King, although only a junior next year, was already a veteran player, having captained his school team before coming to Erskine, and having played two years with the varsity. Jack was pleased. He liked King better than any of the fellows who would be eligible for the next year’s nine. And King, he believed, liked him.

Jack forgot the cheers and the singing and the enthusiastic throngs that filled the sidewalks and almost surrounded the carriage, and closing his eyes, leaned back and gave himself over to thought. In three days the term would come to an end, and he would go home for the summer, a summer which promised to be one of the pleasantest of his life. Anthony was to visit him in July for a week, and later, if all went well, he was to spend a few days in Jonesboro, and finish his natational education with surf bathing. Then, in September, Erskine once more. But what a difference there would be! He would return to college to find fellows not merely willing but eager to claim his acquaintance, to call him friend. The stigma of cowardice would no longer be placed upon him; rather he would be looked upon as a hero, as the one who had saved the college from defeat.

Already he had tasted the intoxicating draft of popularity. Ever since the crowd had poured on to the field the day before he had never for an instant been allowed to forget that the college looked upon him as one whom it was a pleasure to honor. The time when he had read “Coward!” in each averted face seemed very dim and far. And yet the vindication of which he had dreamed then, a vindication of his physical courage, had not come. Well, perhaps next year —

He came to earth with a start. King had leaped to his feet, and was staring excitedly down the street. The tumult had changed from joyous cheers to cries of alarm. The crowd about the carriage was frantically struggling toward the sidewalks and above its voice sounded the pounding of hoofs on the hard road. Jack turned and looked. Behind them, sweeping down the narrow street between the fleeing throngs, swayed the third hack, the horses, frightened beyond control, plunging forward with outstretched heads. On the box the driver tugged vainly at the lines and shouted warnings to the crowd. A moment or two and a collision was inevitable.

Their own driver had heard and seen; the hack sprang forward, and King tumbled into Jack’s arms. At the same instant Showell struggled to his feet with pale, drawn face, and, with an inarticulate groan of terror, threw open the carriage door and leaped blindly into the road. Over and over he rolled in the path of the oncoming team. Jack pushed King from him, and in a moment was balancing himself on the sill, clinging to the woodwork beside him. Some one strove to get by him, and he pushed him back.

“Stay where you are,” he shouted.

Then he jumped.

As he did so he saw dimly the crowd crushing back against the shops, panic-stricken, struggling for safety. He landed and kept his feet, and even before the momentum had passed had swung himself about, and was racing back down the street toward the motionless form of Showell and the plunging horses. As he ran there was no fear in his heart; rather an exultant consciousness of power; here was the opportunity to wipe out forever the stigma of cowardice.

“It’s my inning at last!” he thought gladly.

If it has taken long in the telling, yet in the doing it was the matter of a moment. He reached the inert body of Showell, and, with desperate strength, sent it rolling toward the sidewalk. Then the horses were upon him. With a gasp for breath he leaped forward, arms outstretched, as it seemed into the path of death.

But brief as had been his moment of preparation, he had not misjudged. His clutching hands caught at rein and mane, and he was swept off his feet and borne onward. Then his left hand found a place beside the right, and with all his weight back of the bit and the horse’s hoofs grazing his legs at every plunge, he clung there desperately with closed eyes. For an instant there was no diminishment of the pace; then the horse’s head came down, and Jack’s feet again touched earth. Plunge after plunge followed; a confusion of cries and cheers filled his ears; the team veered to the left, and his feet felt the sidewalk beneath them. There was a crash as the heavy pole splintered against one of the granite posts of the college fence, and Jack, striking violently against something that drove the last breath from his body, loosed his hold and fell backward into darkness.

When he opened his eyes again, a minute later, he was lying, weak, shaken, and gasping, just inside the fence, his swimming head supported on the knee of Professor White. About him excited yet kindly faces looked down, while on the sidewalk the trembling horses were being unharnessed from the carriage. He strove to sit up, but the professor restrained him.

“Hurt, Weatherby?” he asked.

Jack stretched himself carefully, shook his head, and struggled into a sitting posture.

“No,” he gasped, “all right; breath – knocked out – that’s all.”

“Well, sit still a minute.” Jack obeyed, and closed his eyes. About him were low voices and whispers, and his name being repeated over and over. Then he became aware of a sudden commotion, and opened his eyes to see Anthony pushing his way through the ring.

“I found him,” he gasped. “He’s coming right over. How is he?” He dropped to his knees at Jack’s side, sending an anxious glance at the professor.

“Nothing broken; just out of breath.”

Anthony seized Jack’s hand and held it tightly, his broad mouth working yet unable to voice his words. Jack grinned up into his face.

“You’re a sight, Anthony,” he said. “You’ve gone and lost your specs. Help me up.” The professor nodded. Anthony seized him about the shoulders and lifted him to his feet. Jack tried his legs tentatively, and found them apparently sound. Then he turned to Anthony.

“Showell?” he asked anxiously.

“He’s all right, Jack; just stunned a bit from the fall.”

“Take him over to his room, Tidball,” said Professor White. “I’ll send the doctor when he comes.”

The throng made way for them. As they passed through, Anthony supporting Jack as carefully as though the latter were a basket of eggs, the crowd found its voice. Jack glanced into some of the faces and read therein a new respect and liking. He dropped his eyes, the color flooding into his cheeks, and hurried on. The throng grew momentarily. In front it broke and parted, and Joe Perkins and Tracy Gilberth confronted them.

“All right, Jack?” panted Joe.

“Of course I am,” Jack muttered sheepishly.

“All right, then. Up you go, old man!” Before he could resist he found himself on the shoulders of Anthony and Joe, with Tracy supporting him behind.

“Let me down, you idiots!” he pleaded.

But they paid no heed. The individual voicing of approval suddenly merged into a confused cheering that grew and grew in volume until Jack’s remonstrances were drowned beneath it. He clung to Anthony’s head, and tried to look as though he didn’t mind, and only succeeded in looking like a thief on the way to the stocks. Of late, he silently marveled, he seemed to be continually swaying about on fellows’ shoulders!

Near the museum the chaos of sound took form and substance, and Jack, still somewhat confused and dizzy, found that he was bobbing along in time to the loud, deep, and measured refrain of “Weatherby! Weatherby! Weatherby!”

THE END