CHAPTER XV.

MR. MOLE PLAYS BASE-BALL.

Captain Cannon and Mr. Twinkle went back to England after the famous buffalo-hunt, feeling themselves insulted by the trick which had been played upon them.

Jack, Harvey and Professor Mole remained at the hotel.

It may readily be imagined that Jack was in no enviable frame of mind.

Alfred Van Hoosen was his friend and wished him to marry his sister, but Lena had promised to espouse Lord Maltravers, and so great was the mother's influence that the day was already fixed.

Jack expected every day that Alfred would come to him and propose some plan by means of which the celebration of the marriage could be prevented.

He waited in vain and fumed and fretted until he grew ill and pale.

Little did he know that at the same time Lord Maltravers was as uneasy as he was himself.

He knew nothing about the dangerous condition of the villain Bambino, and that Maltravers was standing, as it were, on a volcano which might at any time erupt and scatter all his fond ideas to the winds, dash his happiness to atoms and shatter the idol which he had set up for himself to worship.

If Bambino recovered sufficiently to speak, then all hope of a union with Lena Van Hoosen was at an end.

While affairs were in this condition, Mr. Mole made the acquaintance of a young man who was living with his parents in the hotel.

It happened in this way.

The Continental Hotel, on Broadway, was the caravansera which Harkaway and the members of the Travelers' Club stayed at, and the genial proprietor, Mr. Merrifield, was much interested in the eccentric professor.

Meeting him in the hall one morning, seated in a chair with his legs on another, Mr. Merrifield said:

"I thought it was not an English custom, professor, to put your legs up at an angle of forty-five degrees?

"My dear sir," replied Mole, "there is nothing in this country that an Englishman cannot do and has not done in his own land."

"Can you drink whisky straight?"

"Try me," said Mole, with a twinkle in his eye.

"Can you play base-ball?"

"I think so. The fact is, I am a good cricket player, and I see no reason why I should not play the emasculated game you call base-ball."

"Well now," said Merrifield, "I'll give you an opportunity of showing what you can do in that direction."

"How?"

"A young gentleman living in the house with his parents, whose name is Morris Hart, is captain of the Blue Stockings, and that club is going to play the Red Stockings a match to-day."

"Well?"

"The Blues are short of one out of their nine. You shall take the place of the missing man, if you like."

"I'll do it."

"Mind," said Mr. Merrifield, "you have said you are a good base-ball player."

"Did I say so?"

"Yes, and if you lose the match through your bad play, we shall blame you."

"I understand."

"Of course," Mr. Merrifield continued, "I am not reflecting on your veracity. I know very well that an Englishman never blows. It is only an American that brags about his country and says he can whip all creation."

"Well," replied the professor. "I don't mind repeating that I must be a good base-ball player, because it is a mild edition of what we call 'Rounders,' a game which small boys play and which cannot be spoken of in the same breath with cricket."

"But base-ball is a dangerous game to play."

"Oh! pshaw!"

"People often get arms and legs broken."

"Nonsense. You should see our swift round hand bowling. That would open your eyes a little."

As the professor spoke a young man approached; he was tall, well formed and handsome.

"Ah!" said Mr. Merrifield. "You are the very man I was looking for. Professor Mole, allow me to introduce my friend, Mr. Morris Hart."

They bowed and shook hands.

"Glad to know you, sir," said Morris.

"I am proud and happy to reciprocate that sentiment, my young friend," replied Mr. Mole.

"Morris," exclaimed Mr. Merrifield, "you are short of a man in your match with the 'Reds' to-day, I believe?"

"We are, and I cannot find a substitute anywhere. Guess we shall have to play eight against nine."

"No indeed. The professor volunteers to fill the vacant place."

"Is that so?" replied Morris Hart. "I am real pleased to hear it, but--"

"What?"

"I don't want to disparage the professor's accomplishments. Yet I have always heard that the English did not understand our national game."

Mr. Mole smiled disdainfully.

"Child's play," he said.

"What is?"

"Base-ball."

Morris Hart bridled up at this.

"You won't find it so," he rejoined.

"Not much," said Mr. Merrifield. "You bet your high monkey munk."

"Well, well," exclaimed Mr. Mole, "the proof of the pudding is in the eating. I will call base-ball a very scientific game, and with your kind permission, I will show you how an old cricketer can play."

"Agreed," said Morris Hart.

This being settled, Mr. Merrifield left them together, and it was arranged that Mr. Mole should go over to the grounds at Hoboken at a certain hour.

Morris gave him the club clothes, blue stockings, etc., which he put in a grip sack and left him, after exacting a promise that he would be on time.

Mr. Mole was no sooner possessed of the cap, shirt, drawers and stockings, than he went to his room and put them on.

Very comical indeed was his appearance, for his long, gaunt, angular form made him look like an animated scarecrow.

Anxious to display himself, he went to Harkaway's room, finding Jack and Harvey engaged in conversation.

"Say, boys," exclaimed the professor, "what do you think of me?"

They regarded him with astonishment.

"What lunacy is this?" inquired Jack.

"Eh!" exclaimed Harvey, "what is it?"

"I give it up," replied Jack.

"Give it up?"

"Yes. Ask me an easier one."

"It must have escaped from a menagerie," said Harvey.

Mr. Mole regarded them with a lofty air.

"No doubt you think yourselves mighty funny," he remarked. "But you can run me, all you like. I am going to show these Yankees how an Englishman can play base-ball."

"You going to play?"

"Yes, boys. I am a Blue shirt, or a cap, or a stocking, I forget which, but I know I'm blue."

"Perhaps you will be black and blue before you get through," said Jack.

"Good for the major," ejaculated Harvey, laughing.

"All right, boys. Have your little jokes with the old man, but you will see how I shall paralyze the Americans with my play."

"I wish you luck," answered Harkaway, "and would go with you, only I expect Van Hoosen here."

"Is there any fresh news about the marriage?" asked Mole.

"None. Mrs. Van Hoosen has made up her mind that Lena shall marry Maltravers," replied Jack.

"Misguided girl!"

"She is, indeed. I have every reason to know that she does not love him, and only a mistaken sense of duty to her mother makes her accept him."

"What are you going to do about it?"

"What can I do? The marriage is to take place to-morrow."

"So soon?"

"Yes. I give you my word I am nearly crazy, for I love that girl better than my life."

Mr. Mole heaved a deep sigh.

"I loved once," he said, "and my wife used to go for my scalp, which had the effect of destroying love's young dream."

"I should think so," replied Harvey.

"But, my dear sir," exclaimed Jack, "you will admit, I hope, that married life is the happiest state of existence."

"I'll admit nothing."

"No happiness is to be found outside of the home circle."

"It depends on a man's temperament, also on how a man is brought up. A Philadelphian is happy at home, a New Yorker is ignorant of the meaning of the word 'Home,'" replied Mr. Mole.

"Oh! pshaw," said Jack, impatiently. "Have sense. Tell me if there is any bliss comparable to that of having a sweet little darling always in the house when you want her?"

"Suppose she is there when you do not want her?"

"I can not admit any such supposition. Go and play your game."

"I will."

"You and Maltravers ought to be in the same game."

"Why?"

"Because it is 'base.'"

"Oh!" cried the professor. "What have I done to deserve this? You have called it 'base.' I must go and get a 'ball' after that."

He walked to a closet in which he knew Jack kept sundry bottles of wine and liquors, and helped himself to a draught of brandy.

"Well, boys," he exclaimed, "I must leave you, and you can bet your high monkey munk, as friend Merrifield says, that I will do all that lays in my power to uphold the honor of old England, and the flag that for a thousand years has braved the battle and the breeze."

Waving his arm grandly he quitted the apartment, and making all his preparations, started for the place appointed for the match.

The Blue Stockings were a pretty strong team and had beaten the Reds the year previously, but it was said the Reds had improved greatly, and a spirited contest was expected.

Mr. Mole knew nothing whatever about the game, but was wise enough to keep his mouth shut, until he was spoken to.

His side lost the choice of innings and had to take the field.

The professor became much interested in seeing the men run from base to base, and did not look out keenly enough.

What was the consequence?

A ball struck him with fearful force below the knee.

He ought to have stopped it or caught it, but he didn't, and he fell to the ground with a broken leg.

"Oh! oh!" he cried, "I'm killed."

Morris Hart ran up to see what was the matter.

"Why didn't you stop the ball?" he asked.

"It came so fast, I couldn't," groaned the unhappy professor.

"I thought you were used to fast bowling and could play the game."

"So I thought."

"It's my opinion you're a first-class fraud."

"Don't abuse me, there is a good fellow," said Mole. "Send for an ambulance and have me taken to the hospital: I'm in great pain and can't walk."

"If that is so, pardon me."

"My leg is broken."

"I'm sorry, but I always knew it took an American to play base-ball."

"Give me cricket," moaned Mr. Mole. "It is a decent and respectable game. You don't want to get your life insured before you engage in it."

Morris Hart could not refrain from smiling; but he hurried away to get a conveyance which would take Mr. Mole to the hospital.

He would have sent him to his hotel, but the professor wished to have the best advice he could get, and he knew he was sure of having excellent treatment at a hospital.

Accordingly he was taken to a hospital in New York and put to bed, when the surgeon set the broken leg and assured him that in a few weeks he would be able to get about again on crutches.

"Heaven help me," said Mole. "What a fool I am getting in my old age. Here am I in a strange country, and ought to have known better than to indulge in the barbarous games of the people. Confound base-ball and the man who invented it; but it serves me right. I have no one but myself to blame."