Part 13

This notice appeared on the bulletin board on Monday morning and provided a deal of amusement and much speculation at Randall’s. Jonesie was overwhelmed with requests for further particulars and offers of skilled assistance. In every case Jonesie referred the inquirer to the notice and informed him that the team was already made up. Billy Carpenter cornered him in the corridor between recitations and demanded to know what he meant by such tomfoolery. Jonesie was surprised and pained.

“Didn’t you agree to play my team on Thursday?” he demanded.

“I was only in fun, you little idiot! A fine lot of ball players you’ll get! You take that notice down, Jonesie. If you don’t, I will!”

“Seems to me it’s a funny thing to back down now,” replied Jonesie, more in sorrow than in anger, “after I’ve made the team up and we’re to begin practice this afternoon. Still, of course, if you are really afraid to play us――――”

“Who’s on your team?” asked Billy.

Jonesie enumerated the members of the All-Stars and Billy grinned.

“Who’s going to pitch?” he asked.

“Tubby Bumstead.”

Billy’s grin broadened and he clapped Jonesie on the shoulder. “All right,” he said gaily, “we’ll play you four innings, Jonesie, if you last that long. It’ll be funny, anyhow, eh?”

“Funny!” said Jonesie indignantly, even a little bitterly. “You think it’s funny when I go to all this trouble to help you fellows out! I’ve a good mind not to do it! I’ve a good mind to just let you fellows go on the way you’re going and get licked by every little whippersnapper team that comes along, Billy! Funny! Huh! You won’t think it’s so funny when we lick you!”

“All right, Jonesie,” Billy laughed. “We’ll play you. Who do you want for an umpire?”

Jonesie shrugged his shoulders. “Any fellow you like. How about Gus Peasley?”

“Has he ever umpired a game?” asked Billy doubtfully.

“I’ll find out. If you don’t want Gus, though――――”

“Sure, Gus will do. Let’s make it as funny as we can, eh?”

And Billy went off chuckling, leaving Jonesie apparently silent with indignation.

At noon he sought out Gus Peasley. Gus was an Upper Middler and so, in a way, might be considered impartial. “Ever umpire a ball game, Gus?” asked Jonesie.

Gus shook his head. “I was kicked by a mule once, though,” he said with apparent irrelevancy.

“You’re the fellow we want, then,” said Jonesie with deep conviction, “to umpire the game on Thursday.”

“Say, are you really going to play the School Team?” asked the other eagerly. “Why didn’t you give me a show, Jonesie?”

“I agreed to play only lower-classers, Gus. But Billy and I both want you to umpire.”

“Shucks, I never umpired a game in my life! I’d look fine, wouldn’t I?”

“I’ll lend you a book of rules, Gus, and you can study it a bit. The game’s on Thursday at three. Don’t forget.”

“But―――― Here! Hold on, you silly idiot! I’m not going to umpire for you! Don’t be a chump, Jonesie!”

“Why not, when we both want you to? It isn’t anything to do and it’ll be heaps of fun, Gus.”

“Heaps of fun!” muttered Gus. “Someone’ll bump me on the head with a bat, I suppose! Well, all right. If you can stand it I can. Don’t forget those rules, though. Does that book tell when a foul ball is a strike and all that sort of thing?”

“Surest thing you know! You’ll have it all down pat by Thursday, Gus. Thanks awfully.”

On Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday afternoons the All-Stars were supposed to hold practice, and about three-fourths of the school went down to the field to enjoy the spectacle. But the All-Stars were not to be found on any of the afternoons mentioned. That Jonesie and Pinky Trainor and Tubby Bumstead and all the other members of the team were busy somewhere seemed probable since none of them was visible around the school, but they certainly were not on the playing field, and some six score youths were correspondingly disappointed.

But had any of them penetrated to the Games Room situated on the upper floor of the Recitation Hall they would have been at once surprised and interested. There, behind locked doors, the All-Stars were practicing. The practice was novel, however. Instead of batting and fielding and sliding to bases, the All-Stars sat in chairs or along the edge of the billiard table and not a bat nor a ball was to be seen. But Jonesie was coaching.

“Now, then, take Jimmy Buell. He will play left field for them, I suppose. Who knows anything about Jimmy?”

No one did, apparently, until young George Wrenn hazarded: “He’s sort of crazy about golf, isn’t he?”

“That’s so,” agreed Tubby Bumstead. “He’s trying for the team, or he was in the Fall.”

“That may do,” said Jonesie thoughtfully, making a note on the sheet of paper beside him. “We may be able to work that up. Anything else?”

Evidently that exhausted Buell and after a moment Jonesie went on.

“The next fellow is Gordon,” he announced.

Several of the All-Stars chuckled, and Jonesie smiled demurely himself.

“Onions!” said Pinky explosively, and the room rang with laughter.

“Onions,” agreed Jonesie. “That’ll do for Gordon, I guess! And that leaves only Proudfoot, and――――”

“‘Quentin Durward,’” proclaimed Ernest Hoyt, “‘is probably the most popular work of the great novelist, William Makepeace Thackeray.’”

The All-Stars chuckled and giggled.

“‘A lambkin,’” contributed Sparrow Bowles, “‘is a fleece-bearing quadruped closely related to the domestic lamb or sheep.’”

“Don’t believe he ever wrote that one,” laughed Tubby.

“Yes, he did, too. Sumner Hayes heard Old Fury read it in class last year.”

“It’s great, anyway,” applauded Jonesie, scribbling feverishly on his paper. “Lambkin for Proudfoot’s! There, that’s the lot of ’em. I’ll have copies of this ready for you fellows to-morrow and then, next day, we’ll have a quiz. Practice is over!”

IV

“Bumstead at bat, Trainor on deck!” proclaimed Arthur Simpson, who, released from the infirmary, was once more on hand. Not, however, that Simpson was according this contest with the All-Stars the honor of a score.

“Now then, Tubby,” called Captain Jonesie from the visitors’ bench, “remember the lesson!”

Tubby, a little embarrassed because of the fact that he had never played ball before so large an audience, grinned as he stepped into the box. The audience cheered madly. Tubby dared a glance at the crowded stand and Proudfoot sent over a perfectly good strike. Gus Peasley, however, more ill at ease than anyone else there, proclaimed it a ball. Rufe Brown, the School Team’s catcher, howled dismally.

“Say, Peasley, do you know a strike when you see it?” he demanded.

“A strike,” replied Gus, half closing his eyes as an aid to memory, “is a ball passing over any part of the plate and between the batter’s shoulder and knees.”

“Well, didn’t that?” asked Rufe menacingly.

“I dare say, but the batsman wasn’t ready for it,” replied Gus quite calmly. He might be frightened, but he didn’t intend anyone should know it! “Play ball!”

Grumblingly the catcher threw the sphere back to pitcher and said uncomplimentary things about Gus as he knelt to give his signal. Proudfoot’s next attempt was so palpably poor that Gus merely grunted. Then came a second strike, which Gus called by its right name, thereby slightly mollifying the disgusted Rufe. But Proudfoot was unable to add a third and eventually Tubby Bumstead, after some urging on the part of his teammates and the audience, trotted to first, and Jonesie promptly stationed himself near by to coach. The stand howled and laughed and whistled, Pinky Trainor picked up a borrowed bat and faced the pitcher, and Jonesie began to coach the runner.

“Now then, Tubby, don’t forget the lesson! Take a lead; that’s it! Oh, let him throw if he wants to. Take another yard. Whoa! Why, Steve, you really caught it! Fellows, did you see Steve Cook catch the ball? Do it again, Steve, will you please? They didn’t see it. All right, Tubby! On your toes again! Ready to steal on the second ball, you know! Don’t forget the lesson!”

Pinky, following instructions, declined to offer at any of the balls offered him, and was finally called out. Clint Wrenn, however, actually had the effrontery to wallop one of Proudfoot’s best out-shoots and send it safely between second and third, while Tubby romped to the next station.

“Well done, Clint!” applauded Jonesie as he strode to the plate. “Oh, very nicely managed, sir. Ah, Mr. Proudfoot, salutations to you! And how is your throwing arm to-day?”

Proudfoot smiled and whipped a quick one over to first. Unfortunately Steve Cook was so busy listening to Jonesie that the ball went past him and Tubby legged it home, while Clint went on to second, sliding to the bag, not because there was any actual danger of being thrown out, but because he wanted to do the thing thoroughly. The spectators applauded generously this gratuitous performance, and then gleefully welcomed Tubby across the plate. Billy Carpenter, looking both puzzled and disgusted, viewed Jonesie with suspicion.

“Strike him out, Proud,” he directed. “He can’t hit!”

“Ay, so do!” chanted Jonesie, circling his bat wildly about his head and dancing a sort of Highland fling at the plate. “Be neither pitiful nor kind, Mr. Proudfoot! Dispose of me quickly, I pray! Who am I to stand here and dare your Jove-like bolts? Ah, Mr. Proudfoot――――”

“Ball!” quoth Gus.

“Get off the plate, Jonesie,” directed Rufe Brown. “Want to get one in the ribs?”

“Not I, forsooth! See, I retreat. Mr. Umpire, I request you to observe that most promptly I retreat! With all my heart――――”

“Str―――― Ball two,” said the umpire.

“_What?_ Say, you cross-eyed chump, what do you think you’re doing here? Are you umpiring or――or――――” Rufe choked with emotion. Proudfoot rolled his eyes to heaven and crossed his arms to express his contempt for the decision. Whereupon Clint Wrenn started abruptly for third base and――――

“Look out!” bawled the pitcher.

“Third! Third!” shouted Billy Carpenter frantically.

“Out of my way!” yelled Rufe, stepping forward with the ball.

“Where are you coming?” inquired Jonesie anxiously, stepping in front of him.

“Throw it!” implored the third baseman. Rufe pushed Jonesie ungently aside and threw it. But the ball struck in front of the base and, although Joe Tyson made a heroic effort to stop it, went rolling on into left field, while Clint romped home into the outstretched arms of Jonesie. Up hurried Pitcher Proudfoot and Captain Carpenter and First Baseman Cook, each sputtering with wrath.

“Say, you――you――――?” began Proudfoot, indicating Gus Peasley with a clenched fist.

“Put him back on third,” demanded Billy irately. “Jonesie got in Rufe’s way deliberately! If you can’t umpire decently――――”

“This isn’t baseball, anyway,” declared Steve bitterly, still smarting from the incident of the throw that went by first. “It’s a farce!”

“Did you see what he did to me?” asked Jonesie in hurt tones. “He pushed me aside――violently! He said to me, ‘Look out!’ and I said, ‘Where are you coming?’ and then he distinctly pushed me! The umpire saw it, didn’t you, Gus? And you’re perfectly _disgusted_, aren’t you? Considering, Billy, that we are your――er――guests here to-day, I don’t think we should be pushed and shoved about! I really don’t! Anyway, not with violence, Billy!”

“Oh, cut it out! If you fellows want to play ball, why, play ball, but don’t try any baby tricks. This isn’t a――a circus!” And Billy eyed Jonesie and Umpire Peasley with distinct displeasure.

“Of course we want to play ball!” responded Jonesie indignantly. “That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it? That’s what we practiced for all these days! Go on and play; we’re ready. We didn’t stop the game, did we? Honest, Billy, you surprise me, you do really!”

“Do they get that last run?” demanded Proudfoot truculently.

“Sure,” answered Gus. “The runner scored, didn’t he?”

“Jones got in Rufe’s way, though, and the ball went into the outfield――――”

“In order to throw to third, Mr. Proudfoot,” declared Jonesie authoritatively, “you’ve got to know more than the ball.”

“Oh, give them the run,” said Steve. “We’ll lick ’em to a standstill. Come on, fellows.”

They went, lingeringly, filled to the brim with remarks they wanted to offer, but didn’t. After all, as Steve Cook said, it was only a farce, a parody. Only――and Billy Carpenter picked up a pebble and hurled it away with unnecessary violence――Jonesie did make a fellow so mad!

Jonesie struck out miserably, and Hoyt, rolling a slow one to Proudfoot, followed him to the bench. Then the School Team came in and the All-Stars distributed themselves about the field, many in really original locations. For instance, Nash, playing in left, took up a position some twenty yards behind third base and Wigman seemed unable to tear himself away from close proximity to the second bag. Tubby Bumstead, who had once pitched two games for a grammar school team, strode to the box with all the nonchalance of a Mathewson, picked up the ball and promptly threw it over Jonesie’s head.

“That’s the stuff, Tubby!” cried Jonesie, trotting after the sphere. “That’s pitching, old top! You got it with you to-day! Now, then, first man, Tubby! Don’t forget the lesson! Bingham likes ’em high. Give him one, Tubby.”

Tubby’s attempt was not successful, and Gus droned, “One ball!”

“That’s the way, Tubby! Now another one a little bit higher. Bingham doesn’t like to reach for ’em, do you, Bing?”

“Don’t you be so fresh!” growled Bingham, who was a senior and properly mindful of the respect due him from lower-class fellows.

“A thousand pardons, Bing! Here it comes now! Bang it, Bing! Bing it, Bang! Bang――――”

Bingham swung at a wide one and missed, and Jonesie, who had never before tried to catch behind a swinging bat, turned his back and dexterously stopped the ball. The audience approved wildly. Bingham scowled. Tubby, recovering some of his lost science, sent a nice straight ball across, and Bingham, trying to shut his ears to Jonesie’s artless prattle and not succeeding, struck too late. Jonesie stepped nimbly aside and ducked, and the ball collided with Gus Peasley. Gus said “Ugh!” in disgusted tones and doubled up. However, as he was properly guarded by a body protector, no harm was done, and Jonesie sent back the ball and followed it with a flood of conversation.

“That was a dandy, Tubby! Sort of a fade-away, what? Say, you’ve got it with you to-day, all right! That’s pitching ’em, Tubby! He couldn’t even see it. His sight isn’t what it was since he blew up the laboratory!”

“Say!” Bingham turned threateningly upon Jonesie. “You cut that out or I’ll beat you, you fresh kid!”

“No offense, Bing――――”

“And don’t call me ‘Bing’!”

“Just as you say, old top! I only mentioned that laboratory experiment of yours because――――”

“You say that again and――――”

“How was it?” demanded Jonesie as the ball settled into his mitt.

“Strike three!” replied Gus promptly.

“_What?_ You――you robber!” shrieked Bingham. “I’ve a good mind to――to――――” He started toward Gus, but Jonesie interposed.

“Don’t lose your temper,” he pleaded. “It _was_ a strike, Bing, honest it was! Right over the middle――――”

“You, too,” interrupted Bingham angrily. “You tried to queer me! I wasn’t looking at the ball――――”

“What’s the row?” demanded Carpenter, pushing his way in to the agitated group. Bingham explained a trifle incoherently. Billy listened and took him by the arm.

“All right. Come on,” he said wearily. “You got caught, Bing. No use kicking. Hit it out, Rieger.”

And Rieger did hit it out. He sent a fine long fly into left field. Young Nash, hands in pockets, turned and watched it descend to earth some two hundred feet beyond him while the spectators laughed and howled with glee. It was George Wrenn who fielded the ball to second in time to hold Rieger at that bag. Jonesie, mask in hand, stepped authoritatively in front of the plate.

“Nash,” he called, “play back another foot or two!”

Joe Tyson went to first to coach and Buell lolled over behind third. On second Rieger seemed strangely inattentive to his duties as a base runner. Hoyt and Wigman stood close by, and from all indications the trio were engaged in conversation. In fact, it was possible to catch snatches of it even in the stand:

“I’m not saying you did, am I? Every fellow knows, though――――”

“... Again and I’ll....”

“Don’t rile him, Wigman! Let bygones be bygones――――”

“Come on!” bawled Tyson exasperatedly. “Get off that base!”

“Hey! Rieger! What’s the matter with you? Are you glued there? Come on!” And Jimmy Buell, back of third, waved frantically.

“... Just once more,” threatened Rieger wildly, “and I’ll come over there and――――”

“... Sore subject,” piped Hoyt. “As far as I’m concerned ... as long as he owns up to a thing....”

Steve Cook let one delivery go by and then landed on the next. By some miracle Pinky Trainor, at first, managed to get in front of the ball and, although it bounded away from him, he picked it up and raced across the bag the fraction of a second ahead of Steve. The stand applauded warmly and hilariously and Rieger went on to third. Joe Tyson, grinning, tapped the plate with a bat and winked at Tubby.

“A low one for Joseph,” called Jonesie. “He eats ’em alive, Tubby. Now then, one right down here! That suit you, Joe?”

Joe shook his head. The umpire called “Ball!” doubtfully, and Jonesie rewarded him with a grieved look.

“He didn’t like that one, Tubby. Try again. Here, Joe, show him where you want it.” And Joe obligingly indicated the locality with his bat. “Get that, Tubby?” asked Jonesie anxiously. “Now try and give him one like that. We strive to please, Joe. That’s our motto. Right over, Tubby, and just where the gentleman wants it! Here she comes, Joe! Whack it! Whack it! Whack――――”

“Strike!” proclaimed Gus.

Joe grinned at Jonesie. “Say, that was all right,” he said.

“Glad you liked it. If you don’t get what you want, ask for it, Joseph. Send him another of those, Tubby. He likes ’em. Here we go! Here we go! Don’t hit him, Tubby! One more now!”

“Two balls!” said the umpire.

“That’s pitching, Tubby, that’s pitching! But don’t make him reach for ’em. He’s a friend of mine. What’s the matter with your neck, Joe?”

“Nothing.”

“You ought to have it looked at. All right, Tubby! I knew a fellow who had one of those things on his neck and―――― Make it good, Tubby! Sort of low, you know!――and didn’t look after it, Joe――――”

“Strike two!” announced Gus.

“Say!” bawled Joe, turning wrathfully. “Keep your mouth closed for a minute, will you? You’re worse than a phonograph! There’s nothing the matter with my neck!”

“Oh, all right!” Jonesie tossed the ball back. “Better hit at this one, Joe. Tubby always makes the fourth one good. I don’t want to alarm you about your neck, but if I had it I’d certainly have it attended to before it got any worse. If you let it go very long they’ll have to operate and――――”

Against his better judgment Joe put a hand tentatively to the back of his neck. Tubby wound up quickly and pitched. Joe’s hand came down suddenly and grabbed at his bat, and the bat swung wildly.

“You’re out!” cried Gus.

Joe leaned on his bat and looked disgustedly at Jonesie.

“You wait until this game’s over,” he said dispassionately. “I’ll see you later, Jonesie!”

Jonesie smiled sweetly and sorrowfully.

The School Team took the field and the All-Stars came to bat in the first of the second inning. But although George Wrenn found Proudfoot for a hit that landed him on first, and although Jonesie coached him superbly and incessantly, the next three batters went out ignobly.

Billy Carpenter started things going for the School Team with a long hit into center and reached second. Jimmy Buell swaggered to the plate, tapped it knowingly and waited.

“What does he want?” asked Tubby.

“Ah, to be sure! What sort of a ball would you like, James?” Jonesie inquired solicitously. Jimmy laughed.

“Any old thing, Jonesie, as long as I can reach it.”

“The gentleman is not particular, Tubby. Try a few of those ‘floaters’ right over the tee. James is using a niblick this shot.”

Jimmy stirred and muttered.

“One ball,” said Gus.

“Try again, Tubby! Careful of this one, James, and keep your eye on the ball. Don’t forget the carry-through, old top. Going to try a full swing?”

“Aw, cut it out!” growled Jimmy.

“Let’s see, James, you didn’t make the team last Fall, did you? It’s simply awful the way favoritism rules in athletics here! Keep your eye on the ball, James! Careful now!”

“Strike one!”

“Maybe you’d better try a brassie, old man. You want distance this time, you know. If you get bunkered――――”

“Keep it up! You’re not bothering me a bit, Jonesie.”

“I’ll bet you’ll make the Golf Team yet, James. Any fellow with an eye like yours and a――er――physical development――――”

Jimmy let the next one pass, and Gus promptly announced another strike. Jimmy wanted to argue about it, but Jonesie returned the ball without delay, and Jimmy had to content himself with a few well-chosen remarks which, owing to the fact that he umpired from a place well removed from danger, Gus probably never heard.

“I suppose,” continued Jonesie, “it’s awfully hard to hit a golf ball, James. They’re so small, aren’t they? Regular little pills! Did you ever hit one, James?”

“I’ll hit you if you don’t close your mouth!”

“Fie, James! You’re losing your temper! If you do that you’ll never make the Golf Team, I know. Now then, James! Hit behind the ball; you topped that last one, you know; and follow through, James, follow――――”

Jimmy followed through all right, but the ball whacked against Jonesie’s protector――Jonesie didn’t pretend to catch them when struck at――and Gus crooned, “Striker’s out!” Tubby, running up, got the ball in time to hold Billy Carpenter at second. Jimmy Buell retired to the bench with dragging bat, talking all the way. Gordon, the next batsman, played his position in right field better than he batted. But on this occasion he found what he wanted in the first ball pitched, and swung hard. Unfortunately the ball started straight down the third-base line, and although Billy Carpenter bounded frantically to the left to get out of its way, it bounded off him and rolled toward second. Billy walked disgustedly to the bench, rubbing his leg, and Gordon proudly perched himself on first.

“Two gone!” called Jonesie cheerfully. “Play for the batter, fellows! And don’t forget the lesson!”

“Say, what’s this old lesson you’re always talking about?” asked Proudfoot as he squared himself to the plate.

“Never you mind, Horace Erasmus,” replied Jonesie. Proudfoot, who was not at all proud of his name as set down in the school catalogue, frowned.

“And never you mind about my name,” he rejoined shortly.

“Well, it _is_ your name, isn’t it?”

“That’s none of your business. You’re too fresh. You――――” Proudfoot’s further remarks were halted by the strange behavior of the All-Stars. One by one they were edging toward the left of the field. As they went they held their noses and looked accusingly toward first base, where Pinky Trainor was elaborately binding a handkerchief about his face. Even Tubby showed signs of uneasiness. Jonesie’s voice rang out sharply.

“What’s the matter with you fellows?” he asked irately. “What are you all doing?”

“We can’t stand it, Cap,” called Hoyt from out in short left field.

“Stand it! Stand what?”

“The――the odor!”

“What odor?”

“Onions!”