The New Boy at Hilltop, and Other Stories Part 13

"Striker's out!" called the umpire.

Willard's rose as one man and cheered to the echo. In the tent the princ.i.p.al and his a.s.sociates forgot their dignity for an instant, and added their shouts to the general acclaim. The new pitcher, his eyes sparkling, retired to the bench.

The fielders, as they joined him, shot curious and admiring glances toward him. Harris leaned over the bench and talked with him about the incidents of old college games. And the boys near by listened, while the curly-haired instructor grew before their eyes into an athletic hero.

The last of the sixth inning ended without a score. Pretty as it was to watch, the first of the seventh would make tame history. Not a Durham player reached first base. One--two--three was the way they struck out.

Curly's arm worked now like a well-lubricated piece of machinery, and the outshoots and incurves and drops which he sent with varying speed into Apthorpe's hands puzzled the enemy to distraction.

Nor was the second half of the inning much more exciting. To be sure, Apthorpe put a fly where the Durham right fielder could not reach it, and so got to first base, and Riding advanced him by a neat sacrifice; but he had no chance to score.

Durham's best hitter was Mansfield, the instructor, who played first base.

Just when or how the peculiar custom of recruiting baseball and football players from the faculty originated at Willard's and Durham is not known; but it was a privilege that each enjoyed and made use of whenever possible.

This year, for almost the first time, Willard's team had been, until to-day, composed entirely of students. On the other hand, Mansfield had been playing with Durham all spring, and to his excellent fielding and hitting was largely due the fact that she had won the second of the three games.

He was a player of much experience, and in the eighth inning, when he came to bat, he made a three-base hit. The little knot of Durhamites shrieked joyfully and waved their cherry-and-white banners.

Curly faced the next batsman, tried him with a "drop," at which he promptly struck and failed to hit, and then gave his attention to Mansfield on third. Curly watched him out of the corner of his eye and pitched again.

The umpire called another strike.

Apthorpe threw back the ball to the pitcher; Curly dropped it, recovered it, and threw swiftly to third base.

Large bodies move slowly. Mansfield was caught a yard from the base. He retired in chagrin, while Willard's cheered ecstatically. Then the batsman struck out on a slow drop ball.

The third man made a leisurely hit and was thrown out at first.

During the next half inning Curly held his court on the players' bench.

Little by little timidity wore away, and the boys gave voice to their enthusiasm. They wished they had known he was such a ball player early in the spring. Next year he would play on the team, would he not?

Curly remembered the letter in his pocket and sighed.

Again Willard's failed to get a man over the plate, although at one time there was a player on third. The ninth inning began with the score still eight to eight. The spectators suggested ten innings, and fell to recalling former long-drawn contests.

Curly had found his pace, as Harris put it. His white shirt was stained with the dust of battle; his shoes were gray and scuffed; his curly locks were damp and clung to his forehead; but his blue eyes were bright, and as he poised the ball in air, balancing himself before the throw, he no longer looked ridiculous.

Harris, observing him from the bench, rendered ungrudging admiration.

"Good old 'Newt' Stone!" he muttered. "It's the little chaps, after all, who have the pluck!"

But pluck alone would not have succeeded in shutting Durham out in that inning. Science was necessary, and science Curly had. He had not forgotten the old knack of "sizing up" the batsman. He found, in fact, that he had forgotten nothing.

Durham made the supreme effort of the contest in that first half of the ninth inning. It might be the last chance to score. The first man struck out as ingloriously as his predecessors; but the second batsman, after knocking innumerable fouls, made a slow bunt and reached his base.

At that Durham's supporters found encouragement, and her cheers rose once more. Then fate threw a sop to the wearers of the cherry and white.

The third man up was struck on the elbow with the ball, and trotted gleefully to first, the player ahead going to second. But Curly caught the runner on first napping, and the next batsman struck out. The blue-stockinged players came in from the field.

"Stone at bat!" called the scorer. "Brown on deck!"

"A run would do it, sir," said Apthorpe, eagerly.

"One of those old-fashioned home runs, Newt," laughed Harris.

Curly walked to the plate, and stood there, swinging the bat back of his shoulder in a way that suggested discretion to the wearied Durham pitcher.

From the bank came encouraging cheers for "Mr. Stone." He made no offer at the first ball, which was out of reach. Then came a strike.

The spectators fidgeted in their seats; the field was almost quiet. Then bat and ball met with a sharp crack, and Curly sped toward first.

Across that base he sped, swung in a quick curve, and made for second. The center fielder had picked up the ball and was about to throw it in.

It was a narrow chance, but when Curly scrambled to his feet after his slide, the umpire dropped his hand. Curly was safe. From the bank and along the base line came loud cheers for Willard's.

But the following batsman struck out miserably. The next attempted a sacrifice, and not only went out himself, but failed to advance the runner.

Then Curly, seeing no help forthcoming, advanced himself, starting like a shot with the pitcher's arm and rising safe from a cloud of dust at third.

Apthorpe went to bat, weary but determined. Curly, on third, shot back and forth like a shuttle with every motion of the pitcher's arm. With two b.a.l.l.s in his favor, Apthorpe thought he saw his chance, and struck swiftly at an outshoot.

The result--he swung through empty air--appeared to unnerve him. He struck again at the next ball, and again missed.

But he found the next ball, and drove it swift and straight at the pitcher.

Curly was ten feet from the base when ball met bat. He stopped, poised to go on or to scuttle back, and saw the pitcher attempt the catch, drop the ball as if it were a red-hot cinder, and stoop for it.

Then Curly settled his chin on his breast, worked his arms like pistons and his legs like driving shafts, and flew along the line.

Beside him scuttled a coach, shouting shrill, useless words. All about him were cries, commands, entreaties, confused, meaningless. Ten feet from the plate he launched himself through s.p.a.ce, with arms outstretched. The dust was in his eyes and nostrils.

He felt a corner of the plate. At the same instant he heard the thud of the ball against the catcher's glove overhead, the swish of the down-swinging arm, and----

"Safe at the plate!" cried the umpire.

At second Apthorpe was sitting on the bag, joyfully kicking his heels into the earth. On the bench the scorer made big, trembling dots on the page.

Everywhere pandemonium reigned. The home nine had won game and championship.

Curly jumped to his feet, dusted his bedraggled clothes, and walked into the arms of Harris.

"The best steal you ever made!" cried Harris, thumping him on the back. As he went to the bench he heard an excited and perspiring youth exclaim proudly, "I have him in Greek, you know!"

Two minutes later the cherry-colored banners of Durham departed, flaunting bravely in the face of defeat.

Willard's danced across the terrace, shouting and singing. In their possession was a soiled and battered ball, which on the morrow would be inscribed with the figures "9 to 8," and proudly suspended behind a gla.s.s case in the trophy room.

Curly and Harris sat together in the former's study. Supper was over. Curly held a sealed and addressed letter in his hands, which he turned over and over undecidedly.

"Then--if you were in my place--under the circ.u.mstances--you--you wouldn't hand this in?" he asked.