CHAPTER XV

“PLAY BALL!”

“Who’s the umpire, Lef?” demanded Bill Klemm.

“Name’s Willoughby. Used to be a pitcher for Princeton away back, they say.”

“What they got him in for? Where’s Grigson, the regular umpire?” continued Bill, as though his comrade might be an information bureau.

“Laid up, I hear. Captain Seymour says this feller beats Grig all hollow. Guess they’ve got it all rigged up to throw the game for Columbia. I wouldn’t put it past that Frank Allen and his bunch of toadies,” growled Lef, still sore after his experience of the morning.

“But they say Frank ain’t going to toss ’em over to-day. Got hurt this morning in some way. One fellow told me he jumped in the river and hauled Minnie Cuthbert out. Nobody seems to know just what happened, but his arm’s black and blue where he hit a rock,” went on Bill, at the same time eyeing his friend closely, for he had heard Lef chuckle as though quite tickled.

“So that’s what happened to little Frankie, was it? Served him right. He ought to mind his own business. I reckon I’d tamed that hoss down soon if he hadn’t cut in when he did,” grumbled Lef.

“What’s that?” demanded Bill, suspiciously, and showing keen interest.

“Never you mind. Tell about it another time. I know just what Frank Allen did. He’s always playing to the gallery, you know. Then who’s going to pitch for Columbia?” asked the other, turning the question aside.

“They say Ralph West,” replied Bill.

“That country kid. Why, these heavy batters of Bellport will just eat him alive. It’s a pity they can’t give _me_ a chance to show what I can do. I’m better by long odds than I was last year, and I held ’em down to three hits one game. Remember that, don’t you, Bill?”

“Course I do. But I’m lookin’ for that come-on. Why ain’t he showin’ up and doin’ some practicin’? P’raps he’s got the big head, and thinks he don’t need to work out any before the game?” suggested Bill, maliciously.

“I kind of guess it’s just the other way, Bill,” laughed Lef.

“You mean he’s got cold feet, and won’t show up at all. Well, that would be a joke now. What d’ye suppose they’d do in such a case, Lef?”

“Either the wounded hero would have to go in and be slaughtered, or else they’d have to temporarily lift my suspension, and let me toe the mark.”

“I reckon you’re fit, all right, Lef. I’ve been ketchin’ you for a week, and I never thought you had so many cute tricks in you. And speed, why it’s there to burn. I hope they do let you have a chance,” remarked Bill.

Lef uttered a grunt of disgust.

“It’s all off,” he said, with a shrug of his shoulders.

“What d’ye mean?” asked Bill.

“Look yonder at that wagon stopping on the road by the gate. A feller’s jumped out, and he’s got a baseball suit on, too. It’s that sneak Ralph, as sure’s you’re born. I’m on to his curves, all right. He just wants to keep the crowd in suspense, you know, and then get the cheers when he shows up. Bah! he makes me tired, that’s what.”

Lef judged others by himself. Under similar conditions that was just what he would have done, for applause was sweet in his ears.

When Ralph was seen running across the field there was a rippling cheer that advanced into a positive roar. The boy’s face flamed, for he was not accustomed to being in the limelight. Still, he paid no attention to the shouts that greeted his coming, but hastening over to where the boys were still practicing he met Captain Seymour.

“Glad you’ve turned up, Ralph. The boys were beginning to get a little worried about you, and Frank just said he’d go in if necessary, though his arm is in a bad way, and he might injure it for keeps. We want him for the last game--if there is going to be another,” said Roderic, looking closely at the other, as if to make up his mind whether Ralph had brought his nerve with him.

“The delay was entirely unavoidable. I had to carry a little child half a mile. She had crushed her hand. That is her father in the wagon with her, on the way to the doctor’s. Hello! Frank! better late than never. Send her in, Paul! How long can I have to warm up, Captain?” said Ralph, as he caught the ball, and began to return it, quietly at first, but with increasing pressure as his muscles responded to the demand made upon them.

“The umpire says that the time is almost up; but on account of your coming late he will postpone calling the game ten minutes. Now, do your prettiest, Ralph. I hope you get that trick ball working handily this afternoon,” returned the other, who was plainly more or less nervous.

“I’m feeling in fine shape, Captain. If they knock me hard it will be because I’m out of my class, I expect,” was the confident rejoinder he received.

For fully ten minutes then the young pitcher was the center of observation. Friends and foes alike commented upon his style of delivery. When he sent in an extra swift one a murmur of admiration bubbled forth.

“I guess he’s the right sort,” called the sanguine Columbia adherent.

“If only he don’t lose his head when those hard hitters begin to reach his ball a little. They’ve sent more than one horse to the stable to be blanketed,” declared another, less confident.

Many secretly sighed because Frank Allen was temporarily out of the game.

“Hope he’ll be all right by next Saturday, then. We can afford to lose this game, boys. It’ll only square things, and make it all the more interesting,” cried still another skeptic.

“Give the boy a chance, will you?” demanded a man near by; “you talk like he’s thrown this game away already. I tell you he shows up well, and perhaps some of you croakers will get a surprise yet!”

“That’s the talk; encourage the boy!” called another spectator.

“He needs it all right,” jeered a Bellport rough; “why, what our fellows will do to that kid will be a shame. It’s like takin’ candy from the baby, that’s what!”

And all these floating exclamations came to the ears of Ralph as he stood there near the end of the bleachers and continued to send them in to Paul. He had his teeth set, and was, as far as outward appearances went, as cool as a veteran.

Coach Willoughby, ready for the fray, gave him a signal just then. It signified that there had been sufficient practice, and that he was about to call the start in another minute or two; so Ralph drew on his sweater, not wishing to catch cold, for despite the hot sun there was a cool breeze blowing.

Frank wanted to have a last brief talk with his friend. He knew more about the peculiarities of the Bellport team than Ralph possibly could, and was able to tell him just how some of them could be coaxed to strike at an impossible ball.

“Notice that their captain, Cuthbert Lee, is on his old job to-day at second, in place of Hough. He’s a hard hitter, Ralph, but from what I know of him I think your teaser ball will fetch him. Only don’t use it too often. And if he ever gets on a base keep your eye on him. He’s the fastest runner they have, and can steal bases to beat the band, while the pitcher is winding up.”

“Glad you told me, Frank. After the game wait up for me. I’ve got some grand news to tell you,” observed the pitcher, getting up and discarding his sweater as the loud voice of the old Princeton player, now serving as umpire, was heard saying:

“Play ball!”

Frank took one look at the sparkling eyes of his friend.

“Tell me, is it about that thing?” he asked, eagerly, and Ralph, turning as he started to walk off, nodded his head in the affirmative.

“Bully! You just make up your mind you’re going to win, Ralph. I seem to feel it in my bones you are!” Frank said, confidently.

Ralph picked up the new ball which the umpire had tossed into the box, and sent a few sizzling ones to first base while the balance of the team hurried to their places in the field.

The crowd had become strangely silent now. Every eye was glued upon the new pitcher, and of course anxiety made many a Columbia heart nervous, for Ralph was as yet an untried quantity against a regular team. Many had faith in him, or professed to have, though secretly even his boldest adherents found themselves wondering how he would act if those Bellport fellows ever began to bombard his curves as they had been known to do to more than one phenomenon in the past.

The lineup of the Bellport team was just the same as on the preceding Saturday, with the one exception of second base. Here the familiar figure of Cuthbert Lee was to be seen, and his cheery words gave confidence to his men.

The batting order of the visitors ran as follows:

Snodgrass--Right field. Lee--Second base. Banghardt--Center field. Smith, Jr.--Left field. Smith, Sr.--First base. Lacy--Shortstop. Bardwell--Third base. Clay--Catcher. Coddling--Pitcher.

As usual, Snodgrass could be depended upon to work the pitcher for a free ticket to the initial sack, if it was within the range of possibilities. He was a good waiter, and a fine judge of balls.

“Put ’em over for this beanery waiter!”

“Make him hit her out, West!”

“Don’t forget you’ve got eight other fellows back of you, boy!”

“Now, soak it to him, youngster. You know!”

Ralph suddenly shot the ball at the batter like a flash. It passed straight over the plate as though it cut the same in two equal parts.

“Strike--one!” shouted the umpire, even as Snodgrass jumped back, pretending that he had to dodge, though he grinned at the same time.