CHAPTER XII

THE BATTING LIST

Mr. Talcott stooped, unlaced his shoes and kicked them off. Then he sprang up the ladder and joined the boys on the barn roof. Sure enough, the flames were pouring through venomously. Doubtless a stray spark had found lodgment there and had eaten its way through to the hay inside. Mr. Talcott watched a moment. Then he shook his head.

“All down from here, fellows,” he said. “We can’t stop that.”

“With a hose, sir, we might hold it,” said Joe Cassart.

“We haven’t one long enough. Get down the ladder in a hurry, boys; the hay is probably on fire underneath us this minute.”

When they reached the ground Mr. Finkler was acting like a madman. Once he made a dash at the door, but the heat sent him reeling back, gasping and blinded.

“My horses!” he shouted wildly. “My horses! Get them out! Why don’t the engines come?”

Mr. Talcott gathered a dozen of the boys together and hurried to the door at the end of the barn. This was reached by a sloping drive and was big enough to admit a loaded hay-rick. The two big sliding doors were tightly secured from inside and a hunt for the axe was begun. Will, the farm hand, was soon found, but what he had done with the axe he couldn’t remember. Finally it was discovered outside the cow door and Mr. Talcott set to work with it. Those doors were strongly built, though, and it was some time before an entrance was effected. When the shattered doors were pushed back the interior was already foul with smoke, while above them the flames were licking greedily at the great piles of hay.

“Look for some way into the stable end,” shouted Mr. Talcott as they rushed in. The middle of the floor was clear, but on either side stood hay-ricks, wagons, mowing machines and such. A wooden partition divided this end of the barn from the stable beyond and never a door was to be found.

“The man that designed this barn must have been an idiot,” muttered Mr. Talcott as he searched about in the smoke and dim glare. “See anything, Phillips?”

“There’s a small window here, sir.”

“That’s no good to us. How do you suppose they get hay to the horses?” he asked disgustedly.

“Probably shove it down through chutes from above, sir,” suggested Jack. “Give me a leg-up, Sam, and I’ll have a peek through the window.”

Sam obeyed.

“All dark the other side, sir,” Jack reported. He pulled his elbow back and sent it crashing against the window. There was a shower of glass and Jack pressed his face to the opening. “The horses are there, sir. I can see them; hear them, too; the poor things are frightened to death.”

“What’s under the window?” asked Mr. Talcott.

“I can’t see, sir.”

“All right; down with you. Look out!”

The axe bit into the planks. In the physical director’s hands an axe was a very business-like instrument and in a moment he had cleared an opening through which it was possible to crawl.

“May I go, sir?” asked Jack eagerly.

“All right. See where you――――”

“Whoa, boy! It’s a stall, sir. Be careful of the horse. He’s kicking up a bit.”

“Stay in there and keep out of the way, Borden, while I make this hole bigger. We may have to come back this way.”

The axe got to work again and then Mr. Talcott, followed by nearly a dozen boys, crept through. The stalls were arranged in two rows across the width of the big building. Between them was a space some twelve feet wide. The horses were in a panic, snorting with fear, tugging at their halters and plunging from side to side in the stalls.

“Keep out of the way of hoofs, boys!” sang out Mr. Talcott as he groped his way to the door at the front. The acrid smoke was less thick here, but it was bad enough, and it got into their eyes and throats until they wept and choked. Outside they could hear the roar and crackle of the flames and inside the heat was becoming almost unbearable. Mr. Talcott reached the door and once more the axe swung. About him the boys clustered, holding arms before their faces or wiping their eyes of the tears that streamed out. Suddenly there was a flash of red light as the door gave and the next moment Mr. Talcott had thrown it wide open, retreating quickly before the blast of heat that entered.

“Now for the horses!” he shouted. “Climb over the sides from stall to stall. If you have knives, cut the halters and drive them out. Phillips, you stand here and hustle them along. But look out for hoofs. Now then, quick’s the word, boys!”

With a cheer they began their work. Most of the fellows had knives in their pockets and as fast as a halter rope was slashed the halter was seized and the horse was forced out into the runway. It was wild work, for the poor animals, maddened by fright, refused in some cases to do anything but stand in the stalls and plunge about. In the midst of it there was a terrific crash overhead.

“There comes some of the roof,” said Mr. Talcott cheerfully. “Come on, fellows! Get busy! Get up, there! Out you go! Send him along, Phillips.”

Sam had found a pitchfork and with the handle of it he belabored the horses as they reached the corner. And it took plenty of urging to get them to face that glare and heat at the doorway. But, with Sam showing no mercy behind, they all went through, and in scarcely more time than it has taken to tell it the stalls were empty and Farmer Finkler’s horses were galloping off into the darkness.

“That’s all, sir!” shouted Jack from the end of the line of stalls.

“Good work! Come on now! Cover your faces, boys, and make a dash for it. There’s no use trying to get out where we came in. Ready? Now run!”

The heat smote them like a blow from some giant hand as with closed eyes and covered faces they dashed through the doorway, but they got out safely and reached the shelter of the trees across the driveway. Cheers from the others met them as they gained safety. And when from there they looked back at the barn they realized that they had left it none too soon, for it was in flames from end to end and the great crimson and orange tongues were leaping ten feet high along the ridge-pole. A sudden clanging of gongs sounded from down the drive and an engine, hose-cart and hook-and-ladder swung into view. At the same instant the carriage-house subsided in a wreck of charred and flaming timbers and the nearer end of the barn roof disappeared with a loud crash.

An hour later Maple Ridge went home to bed, if not to sleep. By that time the fire was under control. The carriage-house and barn were total losses, but the woodshed and residence were safe, as well as the water-tower and several smaller structures near it. As the boys trooped down the lane, their extinguishers in tow, the light from the fire followed them, casting grotesque shadows ahead. And above the jarring of the engine and the hiss of water came the incessant barking of Rowdy!

* * * * *

I have said that Maple Ridge went home to bed, if not to sleep. Naturally, after such a night of adventure and excitement sleep was very far from the thoughts of most of the boys, and both North and South Dormitories discussed the events for a long time after the last light was out. But there was one boy who spent little time in conversation, and that was Jack. It seemed as though an hour of a fireman’s life was just what he needed to quiet his nerves! By the time he and Sam were back in their room Jack was nodding, and, although Sam would gladly have talked for a long time, Jack fell asleep quickly and soundly, in spite of the fact that his right hand, surreptitiously wrapped in a dampened handkerchief, was smarting and throbbing under the pillow.

Saturday dawned clear and hot, with scarcely any breeze stirring the leaves of the trees on the campus. It was a morning when hot coffee looked supremely distasteful, when appetites proved capricious and the clink of ice in the big water pitchers was music to the ear. As Gus Turnbull remarked when, breakfast over, a number of the fellows made themselves comfortable in the shade in front of North, it “only needed a silly locust up there somewhere to make it August.”

“It’s going to be some hot for the game this afternoon,” observed Steve Walker, plucking a particularly juicy grass-blade and inserting it between his teeth.

“Lucky if it doesn’t rain,” said Tyler Wicks, casting a knowing look at the dazzling blue sky above the tree-tops.

“There’s sure to be a thunder-storm.” This from Midget Green, cross-legged at the edge of the group and as near Ted Warner as he could get.

“What do you know about it, kid?” asked Milton Wales, tossing a pebble at him.

Midget caught the missile deftly and shook it between closed hands. “I do know,” he answered. “You always have a thunder-storm on a day like this. You――you can feel it in the air.”

“Midget’s rheumatism is troubling him,” suggested Ted gravely. “Any one seen Dolph since breakfast?”

“Yes, he and Shay are up there; I guess they’re making out the batting list,” answered Harry Smythe, nodding his head in the general direction of the upper floor of North.

A silence followed this announcement. Jack and Watkins each strove to look indifferent and only succeeded in appearing very self-conscious.

“Guess we won’t know it until just before the game, will we, Ted?” asked Smythe with a yawn. He had not gone to sleep until after three in the morning and was feeling the effects of his dissipation.

“I suppose not,” replied Ted. “Who’s got a ball?”

Midget made a convulsive sound, threw himself back until his feet were in air and produced one from his trousers pocket after much struggling. “Take mine,” he said breathlessly.

“Thanks. Want to pass, Harry?”

Harry shook his head. “Not much. I’m going to sleep.”

“I will,” said Will Watkins. The two moved over to the gravel and began throwing the ball back and forth.

“Who wants some tennis?” asked Gus Turnbull.

“I’ll play you, Gus,” said Tyler Wicks.

But Ted overheard and interposed sternly. “You’ll do nothing of the kind, you idiots. Shay told us to keep quiet this morning. You’ll be all done up if you play tennis in this heat.”

“Well, gee,” grumbled Gus. “I can’t sit around like this all the morning.”

“Get a book and read,” Ted suggested.

“It’s too hot to read,” grunted Gus. The others laughed. Wicks sat up and fished in his pocket for his knife.

“I’ll amuse you, Gus,” he said. “Crawl over here and we’ll play stick-knife.”

“Stick-knife!” jeered Gus. “Why not jack-stones?” But nevertheless he joined Tyler and the two were soon hard at it. One by one the fellows left and the group lessened until only the players, Jack and Steve Walker remained.

“Think you’ll play?” asked Walker, lowering his voice.

Jack shook his head. “I don’t believe so,” he replied. “Not start the game, that is.”

“What’s the matter with your hand?”

“Nothing; just scorched it a bit last night.”

“Let’s see.”

But Jack didn’t disturb the handkerchief around it. Instead he thrust it into his pocket, where he had been keeping it most of the time. “There isn’t anything to see,” he answered. “It’s just――sort of red.”

Walker eyed him narrowly and shrugged his shoulders. “Better get it attended to if you expect to play,” he said. “Too bad it isn’t the other hand. Then you could have padded your glove a bit. How’d you do it?”

“Took hold of a piece of hot iron,” replied Jack.

“Guess you dropped it in a hurry,” said Walker with a grin. “Say, Borden, I think we were pretty good to that old rascal last night. Seems to me after what we did for him he ought to come off his high horse and be decent about that piece of land we want.”

“I think so, too, but Sam says he’s more likely to prosecute us for trespassing!”

“That’s not bad,” laughed Walker, “and I dare say that’s what he will do. Well, I’m off. Hope you get into the game, Borden.”

After he was gone Jack drew his hand from his pocket, unwrapped the handkerchief and examined his wound. It looked pretty ugly, for the blisters had broken and the flesh underneath was red and inflamed. The only thing Jack had found to apply was peroxide of hydrogen. Sam had a bottle of that and Jack had filched a little before breakfast when Sam wasn’t looking. Jack didn’t want even Sam to know about his burn; it was best to be on the safe side. If it got to Dolph’s ears or to Shay’s they might make a lot of it and not let him play. Of course it _did_ hurt, but then it wasn’t anything to interfere with his catching or batting. Meanwhile, he concluded, he would go back to the room and if Sam wasn’t there put some more peroxide on it.

Dinner for the nine and substitutes that day was a half-hour earlier than usual, for the game was to start at two-fifteen. Every fellow made a good pretence of eating heartily, but few of them really consumed enough food to satisfy a healthy baby. The heat continued, although there seemed a little more breeze stirring than earlier in the day, and many anxious looks were cast at the sky. But the thunder clouds didn’t materialize. At a little after one the Towners and their friends began to arrive and at half-past the nine went to the gymnasium to get into their togs. Dolph was looking a bit pale and acting fidgety, and Mr. Shay was very quiet and earnest. When the fellows were ready for the field he called them around him and made a little speech. It was quite the usual thing, only it sounded a deal more important to-day, and the fellows listened very quietly to it. And when he had finished he took his little red memorandum book from his pocket.

“Here’s the batting-list for the game, boys,” he announced. “Warner, first base; Smythe, shortstop; Jones, catcher; Truesdale, center field; Borden, right field; Turnbull, second base; Cassart, third base; Wicks, left field; Phillips, pitcher. All right now; come on!”

As they made for the door Sam thumped Jack on the back.

“O you Kansas!” he chuckled.