Part 11
“Why, do they play baseball _there_?” gasped the boy.
“’Course they do! Leastways, they play what’s pretty near like it. The――the general idea’s similar. They’re plumb crazy about it, too. They got a eight-club league down there――――”
But at that moment the bell in the town hall clanged its first stroke and Billy fled.
During the four days that the _Molly and Kate_ remained at Forster’s Wharf, Billy and the Captain met twice and when the schooner finally sailed the Captain had full, detailed and most explicit instructions regarding that length of straight, well-seasoned hoki-moki wood that was to be brought back either in the rough or shaped into the Pirate Key idea of a baseball bat. After that there was nothing for Bill to do save await the return of the schooner.
April gave place to May and the Broadport Juniors began to play Saturday afternoon games on the back common and to practice diligently on other days after school was over. Billy served a rigorous apprenticeship in the outfield, chasing flies that went over the heads of the regular players and several times scrambling over Mr. Bannerman’s fence and recovering the ball from under the rhubarb or from between the rows of early peas. So far fortune had attended him and he had invariably escaped with his life. Now and then he was allowed to take his turn with the batters and stand up at the plate while Waldo Hutchins pitched his famous “slow ones.” Practice is supposed to make perfect, but Billy was still a long way from perfection as a batsman. Nor could either he or Arthur Humbleton observe any great amount of improvement. But Billy persisted, consoling himself with rosy dreams of the future. Almost any day now the _Molly and Kate_ might return bearing Billy’s Great Discovery.
Meanwhile the Juniors won from Scalfield Grammar School, were defeated by the West Side Reds and were annihilated by the Downerport Eagles. And then, as it seemed to Billy, just in the nick of time to prevent a similar fate at the hands of that especial rival, the Broadport White Sox, the _Molly and Kate_ tied up again at Forster’s Wharf!
That was an eventful day in Billy’s life, eventful from the moment he heard the glad news to the moment that he was back at the house with the precious hoki-moki bat in his possession. He had scarcely heard Captain Ezra’s detailed and interesting account of the securing of the article. For once, anxious to put the bat to the test, Billy thought the Captain just the least bit loquacious! But he banished the thought almost instantly, blushing for its ungraciousness, and quite overwhelmed his benefactor with thanks ere he hurried away with the bat tightly clutched in hand and one jacket pocket bulging with a perfectly good “genuine horsehide” ball that had seen only two weeks’ service in practice and had been acquired from Captain Humbleton for fifteen cents.
Subsiding, much out of breath, on the edge of the side porch, Billy once more examined his prize with eager eyes. As to shape it looked as fine as the best “wagon tongue” ever made. There was no doubt about it, those Pirate Key natives knew how to make a baseball bat! Billy was just a trifle disappointed about one thing, however, and that was the lack of novelty. To all appearance the bat was quite like any other bat except that the inscription “Genuine Hoki-Moki Wood” appeared half-way along its smooth length. The words were printed in uneven characters, and evidently with pen and ink, and the ink had run with the grain of the wood. The varnish was still new and just a bit sticky, but that was to be expected since varnish always dried slowly near salt water. Hoki-moki wood was, contrary to Billy’s preconceived idea, light instead of dark, and closely resembled ash. A surprising feature of the bat was the twine-wound handle. It seemed strange to Billy that the natives of Pirate Key should know of that refinement. His respect for them grew tremendously then and there.
Having examined the bat to his heart’s content, he stood up and swung it experimentally. It proved the least bit heavier than he could have wished, but that wasn’t anything to trouble about. He had frequently heard Jack Cantrell express a preference for a heavy bat, and Jack was the hard-hitter of the Broadport Juniors. Remained now the supreme test, and Billy approached it falteringly. Suppose it failed! Suppose Captain Ezra’s tales of the peculiar properties of hoki-moki wood proved false! Billy felt that the disappointment would be more than he could bear! Nerving himself to the ordeal, he laid the bat at the edge of the porch, squeezed the horsehide ball from his pocket and deposited it with trembling fingers against the house. Seven feet separated ball and bat, and as he withdrew his fingers he gave a deep troubled sigh. For an instant it seemed that the experiment was to fail, and Billy’s heart sank sickeningly. But then, as he stepped back across the boards to the porch’s edge the miracle happened. Slowly, irresolutely the ball moved, rolled a few inches, stopped, went on, gathered momentum and traveled straight along a board until it bumped companionably against the hoki-moki bat!
Billy shrieked his triumph and danced ecstatically on the mignonette bed. It was true! The Great Discovery was proved.
Again he tried the experiment and again the ball yielded to the magic influence of the bat as the needle of a compass yields to the influence of the North Pole. Thrice the experiment worked perfectly. A fourth time the ball, having been placed further to the left, collided with the handle of the bat, jumped it and rolled over the edge of the porch into the flower bed. Billy waited for it to rise up and come back again, but that effort appeared beyond it. Considering that a distance of eighteen inches intervened between porch floor and flower bed, Billy felt that it would be asking too much of the ball. Anyway, it atoned a minute later by rolling nicely from house wall to bat with what seemed greater alacrity. Billy was more than satisfied.
I feel that I ought to inform the reader of a fact that quite escaped Billy, which is that the outer edge of the side porch was fully an inch and a half lower than the inner, being so built that water would run off it. I doubt if Billy ever knew of this. Certainly the slope was not perceptible to an unsuspicious vision. I make no claim that the slope of the porch floor had anything to do with the remarkable behavior of the ball. I am willing to believe that the ball would have rolled across to the bat had the floor been perfectly level. I only mention the fact in the interest of truth.
Later Billy sought the back yard and tried throwing the ball in the air and hitting it with the bat. At first this experiment proved less successful than the other, but presently he found, to his great delight, that he could hit almost every time! To be sure, he didn’t always hit just squarely, but he hit. That absorbing occupation came to an end when the ball went through a cellar window with a fine sound of breaking glass. Thereupon Billy recovered the ball and went innocently in to supper.
That night, for fear of burglary, Billy slept with the hoki-moki bat beside him under the covers.
The next day was Saturday and the day of the White Sox game. Billy spent most of the morning knocking the ball against the back yard fence and only desisted when Aunt Julia informed him from an upstairs window that she had a headache and would go crazy if he didn’t stop making all that noise. Billy stopped and went and sat on the side porch, with his feet in the mignonette and the hoki-moki bat hugged to his triumphant breast, and dreamed dreams worthy of Cæsar or Napoleon.
The Broadport Juniors wanted to win to-day’s game, wanted to win it more than they wanted to win any other contest in a long and comprehensive schedule. The White Sox team was comprised of boys who lived on the Hill. The Hill was the town’s patrician quarter. Just about everyone who lived up there had an automobile and a chauffeur to drive it and wore their good clothes all the time. The juvenile residents of that favored locality were, in the estimate of the down-town boys, stuck-up and snobbish, and they had a fine opinion of their baseball prowess. The worst of it was that their opinion was justified, for the White Sox――the down-towners jeeringly called them the Silk Sox――usually beat almost every team they went up against! Last year the Juniors had played two contests with them and had been beaten decisively each time. And so Captain Arthur Humbleton and all the other boys of the Juniors and all their adherents――including mothers and brothers and sisters and an occasional father――were especially keen on a victory. And when, in the first of the sixth inning, the White Sox finally solved Waldo’s delivery and made three hits and, aided by an infield error, sent four runs over the plate the Juniors’ bright dream faded and despondency gloomed the countenance of Captain Humbleton and his doughty warriors. The White Sox had already held a one-run lead, the score at the start of the sixth having been 12 to 11, and now, with four more tallies added, they looked to have the contest safely on ice.
Billy, his precious bat held firmly between his knees, occupied a seat on the substitute’s bench, a yellow-grained settee borrowed from the High School across the common. He had twice offered his services to Arthur and they had been twice refused, the second time with a scowl. Billy was absolutely certain that he could, if allowed to face the opposing batter, who hadn’t much but a fast ball to boast of, deliver wallops that would radically alter the history of the game. But the hoki-moki bat was no better than any little old sixty-cent stick so long as he was not allowed to use it. To his credit is the fact that he had determined, in case the White Sox still held the lead at the beginning of the ninth inning, to entrust the bat to others should Arthur still refuse his services. That was real self-denial, real patriotism. As much as Billy wanted to wield the wonderful hoki-moki bat himself victory for the team stood first.
The friends of the Juniors clapped and cheered as “Wink” Billings went to bat in the last of the sixth, and the one who cheered the loudest was Captain Ezra Blake. The Captain had come at Billy’s earnest and repeated behest and had togged himself out wonderfully in honor of the occasion. The Captain did not, Billy suspected now, know a great deal about baseball, for he cheered just as loudly when a villainous White Sox rapped out a two-bagger as he did when one of the Juniors stole home from third. But it was very evident that the Captain’s intentions were of the best.
The last of the sixth developed no runs for the Juniors, nor did the seventh add to the score of either side. In the eighth the White Sox captain got to third with two down and tried to tally on a bunt past the pitcher’s box. But shortstop ran in, scooped up the ball and nailed him a foot from the plate. The Juniors started their inning by a safe rap that placed Cantrell on first base. Myers sacrificed neatly and then the next man connected for a screeching liner that was too hot for the Sox second baseman and Cantrell scored the Juniors’ twelfth tally. But the score was still four runs to the advantage of the White Sox when Stone hit into a double and ended the inning.
Captain Humbleton pretended a confidence he didn’t feel and assured the team that all they had to do now was hold the Sox and then bat out a victory. It sounded easy, but Billy felt defeat impending. He tried to get a word with Arthur before that youth hurried off to his infield position, but failed. The White Sox started by putting their third baseman on first in consequence of Waldo Hutchins’ inability to pitch strikes. Then a bunt was mishandled by the catcher and there were runners on first and second, and things looked very bad. The next player was thrown out, but the others moved up a base apiece. The infield crept closer. The White Sox left fielder tried hard to slug, missed two and finally popped up a silly little foul that dropped comfortably in the catcher’s mitt, and the Junior nine’s adherents cheered loudly, Captain Ezra’s voice dominating all like a fog siren. There was another period of doubt and anxiety when, after knocking the ball everywhere save between the foul lines, the Sox first baseman finally whaled out a long, arching fly. The bases emptied and the runners scuttled home, but Leo Smith arose to the occasion like a veteran――which he was not――and pulled down the ball.
“Four to tie ’em and five to win!” shouted Arthur as he trotted in to the bench. “Come on now, fellows! Let’s get this! We can―――― What is it, Billy? Don’t bother me now!”
“I’ve got to, Arthur,” said Billy firmly, a tight clutch on the captain’s arm. “You’ve got to listen a minute. If you want to win this you must let me bat, Arthur. I can’t help hitting with this bat, honest, and――――”
“You’re up, Waldo! Work him for a base. Get it somehow!” Arthur tugged impatiently, but Billy held like glue. “You see, it’s a hoki-moki wood bat, Arthur, and hoki-moki wood has a――a infinity for horsehide. All you got to do is just swing the bat and the ball comes right up and hits it. It’s the greatest discovery of――――”
“What are you talking about?” demanded the captain. “Let’s see your old bat. ‘Hoki-Moki Wood,’ eh?” he jeered. “Where’d you get this contraption?”
And, still holding him firmly, Billy told him, and in spite of his expression of incredulity Arthur was secretly a little bit impressed. “Oh, shucks,” he said, “I don’t believe it, Billy! It ain’t possible! ’Course, you might have luck――――” He paused and frowned intently and then, with a short laugh, added: “Maybe I’ll give you a chance, Billy. We’ll see.”
Billy had to be content with that. Meanwhile Waldo Hutchins had waited and walked. An attempted sacrifice, however, failed to work and Waldo was cut off at second. The runner was safe on first. With one gone the audience began to disperse slowly. Then the Juniors’ right fielder landed squarely and rapped past third and hope crept back into the breasts of his team-mates. The departing onlookers paused in their flight. The Sox second baseman let the throw from the pitcher pass unchallenged over his head and the runners advanced to second and third. The cheering grew frantic. The coachers shouted and danced. “Slim” Gaynor did his best but only laid the ball down in front of the plate and was tagged out before he had taken two strides toward his base. Two on, now, and two gone!
Billy, his heart racing and jumping, watched Arthur anxiously. But Joe Ware was allowed to take his turn. Joe was an uncertain batter. The White Sox pitcher tempted him with a low one and with one on the outside, but Joe refused them. Then came a fast one that went as a strike. Then one that hit the dirt just back of the plate. The pitcher frowned and would have sent the next offering in the groove had not the catcher signalled for a pass. Joe walked to first, filling the sacks, and cheers filled the air. Arthur himself followed Joe Ware, and the bunt he trickled along the first base line was a veritable marvel, for it sent a tally across, moved runners from first and second and left Arthur himself safe on his bag!
But three runs were still needed to tie and four to win, and there were two gone. Billy arose, pale but resolved on sacrifice. He meant to offer the precious hoki-moki bat to Steve Sawyer, next up, but as he moved toward the plate Arthur, dusting himself on first, saw him and recalled that half promise. And perhaps he had what he would have called a “hunch.” At all events his voice reached Billy just as he was about to present the bat to Steve’s notice:
“All right, Billy! Hit it out! Let Billy bat, Steve!”
And so Billy, with a fast-beating heart, went on to the plate and faced his fate. Surprise and condemnation floated from the bench in mutters. The Sox pitcher observed Billy’s small form with a puzzled frown. Then, noting the boy’s evident nervousness, he laughed in derision “See who’s here, Jim!” he called to his catcher. “Home-Run Baker, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s Tris Speaker! Be good to him, Tom!”
“All right! Try this one, kid!” The pitcher wound up. Billy pushed his bat around over his shoulder. On bases the three runners danced and shouted. The coachers yelled incessantly. The infield jabbered. But Billy didn’t hear a sound. Now the pitcher’s arm was shooting forward. The ball was singing its way toward him. He tried to watch it and couldn’t. But he swung the hoki-moki bat around just as hard as he knew how, putting every ounce of his strength into it, and something happened. There was a resounding blow, electric tingles shot up Billy’s arms, he staggered and then, first.
Far into right field sped the ball, just inside the base line. In raced the runners. Billy raced too. Pandemonium assailed his ears. As he reached the first bag he sent a final look after the ball and his heart leaped with joy. Straight behind Mr. Bannerman’s garden fence it fell, right amongst the early peas and bush limas!
“Take your time, Billy!” shouted the coach at first. “It’s a home run, kid!”
* * * * *
They never did find that ball, for Mr. Bannerman appeared on the scene most inopportunely, but it didn’t matter and no one cared. The Juniors had won, 17 to 16! The hoki-moki bat had proved itself! And Billy Mayes was a hero!
There were unbelievers who denied to Billy’s famous bat any special virtue, but Billy knew what he knew and had seen what he had seen, and his faith was unshakable. But, and here is the sorry part of my tale, it was several years before Billy made another home run, for, although he became a regular member of the team and, as time passed, became a fairly dependable hitter, the hoki-moki bat had lost its cunning. It was not the bat’s fault, however. It was due to the fact that, owing to the war, baseballs were no longed covered with horsehide!
THE TWO-MILER
We were sure of winning that spring. John Blake, the manager of the team, said that if we did not win he should walk home when school closed. And as John lives in the western part of Ohio and is a man of his word, you can see that we were pretty cocksure.
We met Maynard College and Chamberlain College every June in what we at Preston called the “Tri-Track,” which was a quick way of saying Triangular Track Meet. The year before, Maynard had beaten us by five and a half points. Chamberlain usually did not produce a strong team, although it had a way now and then of upsetting our calculations in an irritating manner.
We had been hard at work all the spring, and when the Saturday of the “Tri-Track” came we had seventeen men ready to do their best. The meet that year was at Chamberlain, and in consequence we put Chamberlain down for twenty points, five more than she had ever won. There were one hundred and seventeen points in the thirteen events; to win first place in any event counted five, second place three and third place one.
As I say, we allowed Chamberlain twenty points, mostly seconds and thirds, although we did think that her man Cutler would capture first in the high jump. Then we put ourselves down for seven firsts. That made thirty-five points. We felt likewise sure of five seconds. That gave us fifteen points more, making fifty in all――more than enough to win. We conceded the rest to Maynard.
Of those seven events in which we expected firsts, only one seemed in the least doubtful; that was the two-mile race.
Carl Atherton, the captain of the team, had run the distance the year before in 10 minutes, 41⅘ seconds, and had cut that down a second this spring in practice. But all the year we had been hearing a good deal about a new runner at Maynard named Beckner, who was said to have done the two miles in forty “flat.” We felt willing, however, to trust Carl for the two miles.
John Blake decided that for once the whole team should go to Chamberlain. Usually our funds were low, and only the men who were absolutely necessary were taken; but this year the subscriptions had been more liberal.
Bobby Hart was almost as much pleased as anyone at John’s decision. Bobby had worked hard during the two years he had been in school, and deserved to get into a real race. He was not a great runner, but there is plenty of room on the track in the “distance” runs.
“I’m going to try for third in the mile,” Bobby confided to me on Friday night. “I think I can do better than I ever have done.”
“Yes, but I’m afraid you can’t get third. First will go either to Carl or to Dick Bannet, and Maynard’s sure to have a man close to them. I shouldn’t wonder if Carl let Bannet have the mile and saved himself for the two.”
“Well, anyway, I’ll have the fun of trying,” answered Bobby.
We went over to Chamberlain Saturday morning, and nearly the whole school went with us.
Bobby was in great spirits. He kept us laughing all the way over, and I could not help thinking what a difference there was between him and Carl Atherton. There was Bobby, as happy as a clam because they had entered him for the mile and the two mile with no chance in the world of his winning better than third, and small hope of that; and there was Carl, happy, too, perhaps, but not showing it a bit, just sitting down at the end of the car talking to the trainer or reading a magazine, yet knowing all the time that he was sure of one cup, if not two. I could not help thinking that of the two perhaps Bobby would have made the better captain, if getting close to the fellows and heartening them up had anything to do with it.
We had luncheon at twelve o’clock, and at half-past one we piled into a coach and drove out to the field. The old village was much decorated, and the crimson of Preston was more plentiful than the Maynard blue. Of course the orange and gray of Chamberlain was everywhere.
We went into our dressing tent, put on our running clothes, and then went out and limbered up a bit.
At two o’clock the half mile was started, and we were pretty well pleased with ourselves when it was over. Maynard got third place, but the one point for Maynard did not look important against eight that we won.
Then came the trials for the hundred yards; two of our men qualified. We did not expect much from the sprints, and we did not get much. In the finals we took third place; Maynard won first and Chamberlain second. That started the cheering, for the orange and gray was pretty well represented on the stands, where Maynard and Preston had each only a handful of fellows. When they called us for the trials of the high hurdles, I did not have any trouble in winning from the two Chamberlain runners and the one Maynard man opposed to me. Then came the mile run.
Each school was allowed three starters; our entries were Carl Atherton, Dick Bannet and Bobby Hart. I heard the trainer giving them their instructions.
“This is Bannet’s race if he can get it,” he said. “But if Bannet can’t win it, you must, Atherton. Hart, here, will start in and make the pace for you two, and at the end of the third lap you must draw up to the front. Save yourself for the two miles if you can, Atherton; but if you have to win this, do it. We can’t take any chances. And you see if you can’t take third place, Hart.”
The nine runners did some pretty maneuvering for the pole. When they went down the back stretch on the first lap, Bobby was making pace and Carl and Bannet were running fourth and fifth. That was the order for two laps. Then a Maynard chap named Green sprinted and took the lead. Bannet pushed up to third place.
Bobby held on for a while, then dropped back. He had just about used himself up. Beckner, the Maynard “crack,” was running strongly in sixth place, and Carl was watching him closely at every turn.