CHAPTER XI

TOM HITS A “JOLLY CRASH”

They tried to give the appearance of persons hurrying to the station to catch a train, but, since Tom was hatless and frequently applied a handkerchief to his flushed face, the imitation was far from perfect. When their course took them from the main thoroughfare Clif cast a look behind and announced that the pursuit had ceased, and they slowed to a walk, Tom puffing considerably. The station was in sight, a short two blocks distant, and as there was plenty of time they proceeded slowly, striving to regain composure before facing the eyes of their fellows.

“Say,” asked Clif while Tom paused to examine his countenance in a window, “what the dickens did you do that for, anyway?”

“It was a patriotic duty,” replied Tom. “Didn’t you hear the nasty cracks that goof was making? Besides, I’ve always hated those idiotic caps that stick on the back of your head like a plaster!”

“Well, if you’re going to light into every fellow who criticizes our team,” Clif grumbled, “you’ll have to travel alone. Gosh, you might have started a regular riot!”

“Well, I didn’t. And anyway that hunk of cheese will keep his thoughts to himself for awhile, I guess.”

On the train Tom sought a water cooler and performed first aid to his face. But he did not, of course, escape observation, and, while he was reticent and Clif vague, Jack, not having been bound to secrecy, gladly entertained an enthralled audience with a dramatic and highly colored narrative. Regret at having missed the event was loudly expressed on all sides. Pat Tyson, of the first team, was plunged into a dejection that lasted all the way home. Admiring friends clustered about Tom and gloated over the evidence displayed by his battered face, and a few were inclined to be rather peevish because he had not tipped them off to the fracas beforehand. It was generally conceded that it would be an excellent plan for him to remain out of sight of Mr. Connover, who, if a coach, was also a faculty member, and so Tom settled himself as far as possible from that gentleman, with his back turned, and played it safe. Yet luck was against him, for when the hour’s journey was almost over Steve arose and strolled to the water cooler at the rear of the car. There, having appeased his thirst and exchanged a few words with Al Greene, across the aisle, his glance wandered to Tom. Tom was gazing absorbedly from the window, and continued to so gaze until, thinking that the coach had returned to his seat, he glanced about to make certain. Whereupon Mr. Connover spoke solicitously.

“What’s the matter with your face, Kemble?” he asked.

Tom feigned surprise and passed an inquiring hand over it. “Must be dirt, sir.”

“It doesn’t look like dirt.” Mr. Connover shook his head slowly. “Rather looks as if you’d had some sort of an accident.” Clif, at Tom’s side, gazed steadily at the brass knob on the car door.

“Oh!” said Tom, enlightenment in his voice. “That, you mean? Yes, sir, I――I did have an accident, sort of.”

“Ran into something, perhaps?” asked the coach gravely.

“Yes, sir, I――ran into――something.”

“Hm, something rather hard, too, I’d say. Perhaps you turned a corner too soon. If I were you, Kemble, I’d go to my room at once and fix that up. You’ll find arnica helpful. And it might be a good idea to use some talcum before going to supper.”

“He’s a good scout,” muttered Tom as the coach retired.

Although he followed the advice carefully, the result was not all he had hoped for, and whenever during supper he glanced up――which was infrequently, since he kept his head well down most of the time――he invariably encountered winks and grins. Also, he was made uncomfortable by the certainty that Old Brad, the Greek and Latin instructor, presiding at Table 13, was studying him with a suspicious eye. However, all’s well that ends well, and nothing unpleasant came of his indiscretion. By the next morning, save for an area of discoloration which no amount of powder would hide, his face was normal. As for the similar spots on his ribs, those fortunately didn’t show!

By the middle of the following week Mr. Cooper had become a frequent caller on Loring after supper time. It became quite the usual thing to find him there when Clif and Tom went over from dining hall, and Clif, for one, was disappointed when he wasn’t there. Sometimes he played chess with Loring or Tom, but he was no master of the game, and generally the hour or more between supper and study hour was spent in talk. Mr. Cooper still remained something of a mystery, for none of the Triumvirate was rude enough to ask questions. They did learn quite a little about him, but their information came to them in unrelated fragments. They learned, for instance, that he had been in many countries in many capacities; in South America, at Bahia and Pernambuco; in India at Bombay and as far north as Kashmir; in Italy at towns they had never before heard the names of; in England and France and Germany and other countries as well. Once――that was before the World War――he had served in Algiers with the French Armée Coloniale. After the War, as he had told them earlier, he had been in the English Army in Scotland. What had gone between they didn’t discover then, although they knew he had seen service. Lately, how lately was not established, he had been in British Columbia; he referred to it as “B.C.” and confused Tom horribly. These facts appeared casually in the course of reminiscences. He never appeared to be trying to impress them with his experiences. Something reminded him of an incident, and he told it carelessly but always interestingly. His very manner of dismissing a whole glamorous land with a word or a phrase was in itself fascinating to the audience. But he was not always reciting yarns. More frequently he was listening to the doings of the boys, chuckling over the funny happenings of the day or giving grave attention to their problems. He showed no preference for any one of them, although he and Loring, seeing each other nearly every day at the field, had attained to an intimacy not wholly shared by Tom or Clif. Sometimes Clif received the impression that Mr. Cooper laid more store by Tom’s interest or applause than on his or Loring’s; but that was probably because Tom had shown himself more difficult. That Tom was gradually growing to share his companions’ hearty liking for Mr. Cooper was soon apparent. And that respect went with liking was proved by something which happened one evening that week.

Tom had played a very good game at second base that afternoon, which, since the former incumbent of the position, Stu Evans, had returned to school two days before, was considered most fortunate. Stu wasn’t yet in condition to play baseball, but he soon would be according to report, and the Triumvirate were hoping――and willing――that Tom would meanwhile prove his right to retain the position. But they realized that he wouldn’t do so unless he improved his hitting considerably. That was dwelt on this evening, and Tom grew quite pathetic over his inability to get a hit off the first team pitchers. “That’s what’s going to queer me,” he said sadly. “That fellow Evans doesn’t have to play second any better than I do, because he’s got the edge on me when it comes to batting.”

“What I can’t understand,” said Clif rather hopelessly, “is why you don’t get onto yourself. Tusks shows you how to bat his way and you say ‘Yes, sir,’ and then go right on giving your famous impersonation of Clouter Hogan, or whatever his silly name is!”

“My sainted Aunt Jerusha!” exclaimed Tom despairingly. “Haven’t I been telling you that I’m mighty near worn out trying to remember to do like Tusks says? I just can’t, that’s all! I get so balled up trying to think what it is he wants that I can’t hit the ball, and then I forget his way and swing like I’m used to swinging, and still I don’t hit it! Heck, I’d――I’d do it if I could!”

Mr. Cooper said, in his quiet way: “Kemble, if I were you I’d stop thinking about it entirely, and when it came my turn to bat to-morrow I’d just step up and do it.”

“Huh?” ejaculated Tom.

Mr. Cooper smiled. “The quickest way to do a thing is to――_do_ it. Try it to-morrow.”

Tom opened his mouth, closed it again, cast an inquiring glance at Loring and relapsed into thoughtful, somewhat puzzled, silence. Loring swung the conversation to another channel, and baseball was not mentioned again that evening. During the quarter of an hour or so that passed before the gong rang Tom was noticeably detached.

The next afternoon, at the field, Wattles said: “Mr. Kemble certainly hit it on the nose that time, didn’t he, sir?” Wattles was acquiring quite a baseball vocabulary. Loring started and looked around.

“What did you say about Tom?” he asked.

Wattles repeated his observation with relish, adding: “I fancy you didn’t see it, sir. He took quite the approved stance and gave the ball a jolly crash, Mr. Loring.”

“Probably you mean smash, Wattles. No, I didn’t see it, but I’m glad to hear it. Do you mean that he stood up to the plate, like the others, and didn’t crouch?”

“Absolutely, sir. I was quite surprised!”

Loring chuckled. “So I’d have been if I’d seen it. I was wondering what’s happened to Mr. Cooper to-day. He has seemed so interested in Tom’s try for second that I was sure he’d be out this afternoon. Perhaps he thought it was going to rain. It did look like it awhile back, but――――”

Loring’s ruminative flow was abruptly checked. Slim Scott had knocked a foul into the air, and the descending ball was making straight for the wheelchair. There was a desperate ejaculation from Wattles, his stool fell backward and there was a loud _smack_ as the sphere struck his cupped hands and――marvel of marvels――stayed there!

“Fine work!” exclaimed Loring gleefully. An audience of two score on field and stand laughingly applauded, and Wattles, his long countenance expressing mingled surprise and triumph, stepped forward and with a sweep of his arm bowled the ball toward the pitcher. There was a sharp exclamation of dismay from that youth as he sprang nimbly aside, and the bounding missile sped on into the outfield.

“Well bowled, sir!” shouted Tom from the bench, joyously. “Oh, very well bowled, sir!”

Wattles resumed his seat with dignity, resettled his disturbed derby, wiped his hands with a handkerchief and tried very hard to look as if nothing had happened. But he didn’t succeed, for the feat had left a glow of exaltation on his countenance. He had faced the oft threatened crisis, had met it, had won! There was, in fact, a new and strange light in his eyes as he rubbed his tingling palms gently together, such a light as may perhaps have shone in the eyes of Columbus as he first sighted the shore of a new continent!

“Gee,” said Loring enviously, “I wish I could have caught that, Wattles! Say, I’ll bet it felt good, didn’t it?”

Wattles cleared his throat. “Er――yes, sir, I think I may say that the sensation was surprisingly agreeable.”

After that whenever a ball was pitched to a batsman in front of the net Wattles became tense and expectant. But although fouls were frequent they usually struck the hood of the net and not again was Wattles allowed to experience the agreeable sensation.

When Tom made his second trip to the net Loring was sorrier than ever that Mr. Cooper wasn’t on hand, for Tom behaved most remarkably. Instead of standing away, with widespread feet, and crouching, he stood straight, almost toeing the rubber. And instead of waving his bat around continuously he kept it almost still. Doubtless Clouter Hearn would have wept or gnashed his teeth had he been there to see! Having disdainfully allowed the first offering to pass him, Tom met the next one and hit it straight over second. A moment later he lifted a fly to short left, and then, to complete a perfect exhibition, bunted nicely.

Scarcely crediting his eyes, Loring shouted his delight so loudly that even Tom, making his way back from the plate, heard and waved. “What do you think of that?” Loring demanded of Wattles. “He hasn’t hit like that all season! Wasn’t that corking, Wattles?”

“Oh, quite, sir,” replied Wattles warmly. “He certainly poked out a remarkably nice bingle, Mr. Loring.”

There was great rejoicing amongst the Triumvirate that evening, and Clif spoke for all when he said: “Gee, I wish Mr. Cooper was here with us!” But Mr. Cooper didn’t appear and so didn’t hear Tom’s frank acknowledgment of indebtedness to him.

“You see,” he explained earnestly, “I got to thinking over what he said last night; about the right way to do a thing being to _do_ it, you know. Say, there’s a whole lot in that, fellows. He said a mouthful! Well, I got to thinking about it, as I said before, and I just made up my mind that I’d quit all the funny business, all the psychology stuff and the ‘I-Will’ rot, and――”

“Do you mean,” demanded Loring in pained tones, “that you didn’t――didn’t have your mind on――”

“You bet I didn’t,” answered Tom triumphantly. “I didn’t use my mind at all. I didn’t think about anything! I just stepped out there and walloped the old apple!”

“But you must have subconsciously determined――”

“I didn’t even think of the old subconscious,” declared Tom brutally. “I tell you I kept clear of all that stuff. I――”

“Hold on a minute,” laughed Clif. “Just awhile ago you said you ‘made up your mind to quit all the funny business.’”

“Huh?” said Tom blankly. “Well, but, hang it, that was last night! To-day I didn’t make up my mind to anything! I didn’t have any mind! That’s why I came across, I’m telling you.”

But Loring was smiling again. “It’s perfectly simple,” he explained. “You made up your mind last night what you were going to do to-day. So, of course, you didn’t have to think any more about it this afternoon. See what I mean? You’ve got your will power working so perfectly now that it’s good for twenty-four hours, Tom!”

“I have?” Tom looked startled at first, and then very proud. “Is that how it was? Just like a clock, eh? I wind it up to-night and it runs until to-morrow night? Say, that’s great! I always suspected I had a grand little mind!”

“Never mind your grand little mind,” said Clif. “What we want to know is whether you can keep it up. Hitting the ball, I mean, and hitting it the right way.”

“Sure, I can! Heck, there’s no trick to it after you learn how.”

“Still, I noticed you got only one hit off Sam Erlingby in three times up.”

“What of it? That hit was a humdinger, wasn’t it? Tyson didn’t get within three feet of it! The other times Sam fooled me with a slow one once when I was up, and then Tusks told me to bunt and Sam kept them all low the next time. Heck, that’s no――no criticism!”

“You mean criterion, I suppose,” said Clif, “but never mind. Just you keep it up, Tom, and Stu Evans will have to whistle for his job. I don’t care an awful lot for that chap, anyway. It was sort of hard luck, his getting banged up like that, but he shouldn’t have been joy-riding with Cox. Any one could see that Cox couldn’t drive a car! You keep right on winding up the old will power every night, Tom, and you’ll be a ball player yet!”

“Is that _so_?” asked Tom with stinging sarcasm.