CHAPTER IX

A STUNNING SURPRISE

“Everybody report on the field this afternoon for practice!” called Lanky.

It was on Friday morning, and most of the members of the nine chanced to be within hearing distance of his shout.

“Bellport will be over here to-morrow, and with their teeth set to drop us down a peg,” remarked Jack Eastwick, who, while no ball player of moment, always manifested the greatest interest in the success of the team.

“Hope the weather keeps on as fine as it is to-day,” said Tom Budd, as he turned a few flipflaps around the group; but the boys were so accustomed to his antics that they paid little attention to them, although a stranger would have stared with amazement to see his really wonderful stunts.

“And that Frank’s arm is as full of ginger as it was last Saturday. My! but he did shoot them in. I heard some of the Bellport players talking about it after the game. They’re afraid of Frank, fellows, actually afraid!”

Lef Seller, who was hanging near, turned his head away to conceal the sneer that persisted in settling upon his face when he heard Buster make this announcement.

It was like gall and wormwood to Lef to hear any one say good things of Frank Allen. Every time this happened it seemed as though he were being robbed of something that by right should belong to him.

When they gathered that afternoon on the diamond, Lef was around to watch and criticise as the humor seized him. And Tony Gilpin also made his appearance, although seldom seen of late on the athletic field.

“No show this afternoon to get it, Lef,” he remarked, as he threw himself down near the other on the grass under a tree that grew outside the confines of the grounds.

“Rotten luck! Of course he wouldn’t carry it in his baseball uniform. That means we’ll have to wait our chance. And till I get my fingers on that paper I don’t dare so much as peep for fear that he shows me up,” grunted Lef.

From which it may be readily understood that he was even then laying plans looking to another robbery, this time in order to destroy all evidence of his participation in that other offense. So one crime often leads to another, after the first step has been taken along the broad way.

The boys were soon batting and throwing, while waiting for the arrival of enough fellows to make up the scrub team.

Captain Seymour was a clever manager and he had noticed just where the team had seemed a bit weak during that great game with Bellport. It was now his aim to strengthen those lame spots as best the short time allowed.

Those who had made errors of judgment were to be put through a course whereby they might reasonably remedy that defect. If a fielder had shown wavering in the matter of running in on a fly or backing away, he was to be bombarded with high, vaulting ones until he seemed perfect.

And so it went on. Columbia just then had no regular coach, since the instructor at the school, who had played that benevolent part with them earlier in the season, had been called away by the illness of his father.

“Who’s missing?” called Seymour, as he began to pick out his men, and arrange with the captain of the scrub for the opening of a little five-inning game.

“All here but Buster Billings!” announced some one.

“And there he comes toddling along now!” another called out.

“Buster never would hurry if the world was coming to an end,” said Lanky.

“You wrong him there. Send a fly out in his territory and see him go. Once he makes a start and he can whoop things up like a wild broncho on the plains. The only trouble with Buster is he can hardly stop after he gets wound up. I saw him knock down a whole section of a board fence once,” laughed Frank.

“Who’s he got with him?” asked “Bones” Shadduck.

“It’s a gentleman stopping at his house. I saw him come last night,” one of the boys answered quickly.

“Mr. Billings is having lots of company lately. I met another gentleman at the game last week who said he was visiting at their house,” remarked Jack Eastwick.

Buster came puffing up, his face rosy as ever, and a set grin upon it.

“Hello! fellows, a little late, am I? Well, Rome never was built in a day. Plenty of time to do all the practicing we want. And since we’re going to have a real hot game of it why I thought I’d bring an umpire along!”

He pointed to the gentleman at his side, who was smiling as if pleased to be among such a lot of happy-go-lucky young athletes.

“Reminds me of my salad days at Princeton, boys. As George here says I’ll be only too glad to prove of any assistance to you, either in the way of umpiring, or giving you a few pointers,” the tall man remarked.

Buster threw out his chest, and the light of a long-delayed triumph shone in his eyes as he exclaimed:

“Fellows, allow me to introduce my friend, Coach Willoughby!”

“What!”

More than a dozen pairs of dilated eyes stared first at Buster and then toward the smiling and bowing gentleman with the athletic build, who began throwing off his coat as though anxious to get down to business.

For a long time past Buster had been quoting Coach Willoughby as an authority on all manner of sports in the gymnasium and on the field. By degrees his comrades had grown to look upon this personage as an imaginary party, and it had of late become a regular habit with them to shout every time Buster started to quote what his patron saint would advise under such and such circumstances.

Imagine their amazement, then, to have him not only prove the truth of this wonderful man’s existence, but to actually have him there on their humble athletic field to coach them in their work!

“Hurrah! three cheers for Buster!” whooped Jack Comfort, as though by that means they might in some measure atone for all the indignities they had heaped upon the head of the fat student in times past.

“And three for Coach Willoughby!” echoed Paul Bird, throwing up his catcher’s mitt.

They were given with a will, while the object of the attention, Buster, assumed an attitude, and allowed a beautiful smile to light up his good-natured face.

Ralph was to pitch for the scrub. Taken in all there was a pretty good set of players back of him, and Frank knew that he would have to do his best unless the regulars wanted to take chances of being beaten, which would have a demoralizing effect upon the team just at the threshold of their second struggle with Bellport.

Ralph never pitched better. He had that wonderfully elusive ball of his working in a way that deceived the heaviest batters most alarmingly.

Coach Willoughby proved his thorough knowledge of the game right from the start. He gave Paul several little pointers that opened the eyes of the catcher to some of his faults and weak places. More than this, he frequently called the players of the batting team about him and explained how certain plays could be made with far greater chances for success than by the older methods they were following.

“Sure Coach Willoughby is right up to date,” grinned Buster, when one of his mates remarked that the old Princeton player must have kept track of the game ever since leaving college.

When the fourth inning had ended, with just one more to play, for the afternoon was waning, the score was very close, being just five to four, in favor of the regulars, and most of these runs had been the result of errors rather than a weakness on the part of either pitcher.

In this inning Frank put on every ounce of steam he could muster. The result was the complete discomfiture of the enemy, who could not even manage to connect with the ball.

“Fine work, my boy!” complimented the coach and umpire; and Frank blushed, since it must mean something to be spoken to in this way by so old and experienced a Princeton graduate as Coach Willoughby.

Not to be outdone, Ralph, too, exerted himself in this inning. One little pop fly that was gathered in by the first baseman was the result of his labor; and the scrub team came in, perspiring freely, but grinning with the chase they had given the regulars.

“Columbia High has reason to be proud of possessing two such clever young twirlers as these boys. I’m going to see that game to-morrow, if I have to break an important engagement to do so,” declared the gentlemanly umpire, earnestly, as he walked with several of the players through the town on his way to Buster’s house.

Buster was apparently the happiest fellow in town. Every time he looked at the sun-burned gentleman he seemed to be saying:

“Maybe you’ll believe me now, fellows--maybe you’ll listen when I quote my favorite authority. This day has seen my complete revenge, and I’m satisfied!”

“By the way, do we pass the post-office, George?” asked Coach Willoughby; “for you see I forgot to tell them at the office to address me here in care of your father, and there might be an important letter waiting for me.”

“We can stop in and see, sir,” remarked Frank, eagerly; but Buster did not notice that he was more than ordinarily interested.

“Then let’s do so, please, for here is the building. Wait for me boys, or will you come in?” and with Buster and Frank at his heels the old Princeton player pushed through the doors.

He stepped up to the window where Harvey Brooks waited upon the patrons of the general delivery department.

And then Frank heard him say in a matter of fact tone of voice:

“Anything here for Mr. Pliny Evans Smith?”

“Yes, sir, one letter for you!” came the answer.

The gentleman athlete received it, tore the end off and was speedily devouring the contents. Frank looked at Buster, who turned as red as a turkey gobbler, and then gave a hysterical little gurgle.

The evidence seemed plain that this wonderful Coach Willoughby had been stamped a fraud of the first water!