CHAPTER IV

MR. BINGHAM ENTERTAINS

Well, that first fortnight of work for the baseball candidates _was_ a good deal like drudgery. As Tom said, it wasn’t so hard, but it was blamed monotonous. Led by Coach Connover, or sometimes by Captain Leland, they went through a daily program of calisthenics that seemed designed to acquaint them with the possession of muscles they had never before even suspected. The ordinary setting-up exercises, amended to suit the coach’s notions, began the session. After that they swung clubs――at first in imminent danger from each other――and went through strange exercises with dumb-bells, the latter to limber up wrist and forearm muscles. Toward the latter part of the fortnight the day’s program ended with instructions on holding and swinging the bat, but it was not until the beginning of the third week that they abandoned the gymnasium floor and moved into the cage.

There were then forty-six candidates; not so many for a school which held that term one hundred and eighty-four students. Still, as some eighty of the latter number were either Junior School pupils or members of the fourth class, and in both cases ineligible for school teams, perhaps the showing wasn’t so bad, after all. Of the forty-six, eleven had played with last season’s first team at one time or another, although only five had taken part in the Wolcott series, and seven more had been second team members. Most of the rest had had more or less experience playing scrub baseball or, like Clif and Tom, were newcomers at Wyndham. A number had won fame in other sports, for the squad included nearly a dozen football players, several of the recently disbanded basket ball team, several track men and three fellows who had aided in the defeat of Wolcott on the ice. The latter were, besides Clif, Raiford and Coles. In spite of the monotony, those drills usually provided some amusement before they were over, and, on the whole, it was all pretty good fun.

Encouragingly, winter withdrew over the blue hills to the north during the first week of March, and, while it took many mild days to thaw the ground out, by the middle of the month word came that, barring more rain or snow, the baseball candidates could count on getting out of doors by the nineteenth. That announcement was cheering, for, although in lieu of the diamond the cage provided a fine practice space, every one longed to feel the spring of the turf under his feet and the wind in his face. It was evident that the latter longing was due to be satisfied, for no windier March ever visited Freeburg than this one. But, since neither rain nor snow intervened before the anxiously awaited Wednesday, the wind proved a friend rather than a foe, ably aiding the sun to dry the already greening sod of the field. And on Wednesday, in the face of a tearing westerly gale, but under the bluest of blue skies, the Wyndham baseball squad romped out of the locker room and across to the practice diamond as gayly as a lot of colts turned out to pasture.

I would like to be able to narrate that Clif and Tom had applied themselves so diligently to the work in hand and showed such aptitude for baseball that they were now marked members of the squad. But I can’t. Their diligence had been――well, let us say normal. At times it had been plainly in evidence; at other times it had waned. Indoor practice doesn’t arouse enthusiasm, as a rule, after the novelty has worn off. In short, when the squad went out to the field that Wednesday afternoon Clif and Tom were just two possibilities amongst two score.

The coach didn’t seem to take practice very seriously to-day. A number of balls were given out and for twenty minutes or so these were tossed about from one player to another, usually for a distance of no more than twenty feet. A simple, easy appearing pastime, this, but one which nevertheless, if correctly indulged in, called nearly every muscle of the body into play and speedily warmed one up to the point of perspiration――or beyond. In tossing as a preliminary to real work, the ball, as Clif soon discovered, was not delivered you where you could reach it the easiest but where you had to exert yourself to get it; at one side, overhead, shoe-high; in brief, anywhere save where you might reasonably expect it. Having caught it――or missed it――your play was to snap it back as soon as possible in the general direction of the next catcher; and the more general the direction the better. For awhile this sort of thing seems real fun, and there is much laughter, much shouting and many gymnastic performances, but after, say, ten minutes the laughter subsides, suppressed groans succeed the shouts and extraordinary attempts to capture the ball become fewer and fewer. And by this time your body is in a healthy glow, you are probably perspiring from every pore and you wish to goodness that Coach would think up a new stunt!

And presently he did. The candidates for pitcher went off by themselves; Jeff Ogden, last season’s ace, Bud Moore, Erlingby, Frost. With them went two others to catch their easy offerings. Manager Longwell hit slow bunts to a selected few. For the rest there was labor on the diamond or at the plate. With five men playing infield and six sharing the further territory, with Pat Tyson in the box and Assistant Manager Cotter behind him to feed the balls to him, the remaining candidates took turns with the bat. They were warned against slugging the ball, and it was infrequent that it went beyond the infield. Long or fast throws were prohibited by the fielders and more than once a too-energetic or too-ambitious player was reprimanded. The outfielders caught or chased flies sent up by Gus Risley, but they were not allowed to return the ball all the way to him in the air, and when one committed that breach of the law he was fiercely called to order by Jimmy Cunningham, catching for Gus. Jimmy was Second Assistant Manager and fully aware of the dignity and authority connected with his position. Frequent changes were made, and in the course of a half-hour every one made the journey to the plate twice. When practice ended, which it did very early, there were many tired youths among those who, obeying instructions, trotted all the way back to the gymnasium; and, despite that preliminary work indoors, there were many, many sore muscles.

By Saturday outdoor conditions were better. The turf lost its sogginess, the base paths hardened and a chill wind no longer endangered overheated bodies. By Saturday, too, most of the restrictions had been removed and practice looked more like the genuine article. There was even a three-inning game that afternoon between the newly formed first and second squads, and, while no score was kept, there was plenty of hard playing. Tod Raiford, outfield candidate playing with the first squad, landed against one of Frost’s straight ones and hit it almost to the center of the football field for four bases. To be sure, second-squad members protested loudly that it had fallen foul, but since the foul-line flags had not yet been put into place they couldn’t prove it and Tod was given the benefit of the doubt. “Bi” Longwell, officiating as umpire from behind the pitcher, gravely proclaimed it fair, although since he had not left his position to judge its flight there were those impolite enough to say that he didn’t know anything about it. Cooper, catching for the second squad, good-naturedly offered to settle the question after practice, with or without gloves, but Bi threatened to fine him and Cooper subsided.

Clif and Tom were allowed a few minutes of participation in that brief contest, but their appearance with the second, Clif in left field and Tom on third base, could not truthfully be said to add perceptible strength to the team. Of the two only Tom went to bat, and the best he could do was pop an easy foul to Catcher Cobham. Clif failed to distinguish himself by even that much, since the first team batsmen thoughtlessly failed to hit the ball anywhere near his position. Nevertheless both boys ended that week with increased ambition and enthusiasm. Also, it must be added, with decreased expectations of winning renown on the diamond. There was no doubt but that, viewed without prejudice, they were pretty small fry in the baseball sea. Tom pretended, however, to believe that as the season progressed those in command would discover his now concealed talent and install him at some post of honor on the big team, preferably second base. Clif, on the other hand, might easily have lost courage about that time and modestly withdrawn from competition had it not been for Tom and Loring. Tom’s argument was that you never could tell what was going to happen and that an epidemic or an earthquake or something equally devastating might any day wipe out a couple of handfulls of Clif’s rivals. “Then,” added Tom reasonably enough, “you’d be mighty sorry you didn’t stick!” Loring’s argument was that it would be the part of wisdom to stay with the squad just as long as he was allowed to stay and learn all he could so that next year, if not this, he would be all set to accept the captaincy or any other little job that might be lying around! Perhaps Clif’s own inclinations weighed more than advice, though, for, although he was frequently discouraged by his own ineptitude and certain that he wouldn’t survive the final cut in the squad, he had always believed in finishing what he started. Not a bad belief to hold, that, for persistence has often won where courage has failed.

Clif’s father made one of his frequent visits to school the following Sunday. Clif’s mother was dead, and he was the only child. In consequence he and his father had been pretty close for many years, and, until weather conditions had prevented during late January and early February, Mr. Bingham had averaged two trips a month from Providence by automobile. The present visit was the first for over three weeks, and Clif forgot the self-consciousness that was likely to assail him at such times and squeezed his father’s hand so hard that Mr. Bingham flinched perceptibly. He rolled up to the Inn shortly before church time, the blue car well spattered with mud, and Clif didn’t have much time for conversation then. A few questions and replies, an appointment for dinner at one――to be kept, however, as soon as church was over, and accompanied by Tom――and Clif had to hurry back to school. As the Freeburg Inn was only a block from the school entrance he was able to make the journey in three minutes flat.

Usually Clif made up a quartet for dinner at the Inn by inviting two of his friends, generally Tom and Walter Treat. Walter was Clif’s roommate in Number 17 West Hall, a quiet, studious, rather self-contained youth of seventeen. Clif liked him thoroughly, although not so well as Tom, and Clif’s father had long since fallen victim to his attractions, the greatest of which, in Mr. Bingham’s judgment, being an ability to converse intelligently on subjects other than school athletics. To-day, however, as frequently happened, Walter’s own folks were visiting school, and while Clif would have liked to have had Loring to dinner in Walter’s place, Loring wouldn’t be persuaded. Not generally sensitive about his condition, Loring disliked displaying his infirmity in public dining rooms. So when at a few minutes past one Mr. Bingham’s party seated itself at table it consisted only of the host, Tom and Clif. Whatever was to be said of the Inn’s Sunday dinners――and much that was complimentary might have been said――they could not be criticized on the score of astounding originality. You always knew just what to expect. To-day’s dish of olives and pickles looked exactly like last Sunday’s, the cream of tomato with rice tasted exactly like the soup of a week ago, and so it went right down the menu, through the fish and the broiled milk-fed chicken and the three vegetables and the combination salad and the harlequin ice-cream to the demi-tasse and the far too pliable crackers, which, aided by a square of yellow cheese, ended the banquet. But it was good, that dinner, and especially toothsome to fellows who for nearly a month had subsisted on a possibly more appropriate but far plainer diet. Tom, as always, lost no time in approaching the task at hand, nor wasted strength on conversation. Where dining was concerned Tom’s was a one-track mind!

Clif and his father, however, found leisure for talking; leisure, too, to regard the other occupants of the big, sunny room and to exchange bows with a few of them. At a near-by table Walter Treat, his father and mother and a kid brother were dining. Several others of Clif’s acquaintances were also on hand, while, over by an open window, a thin, somewhat sallow-looking man who ate alone glanced up and nodded as he encountered Mr. Bingham’s eyes. “Rather an interesting chap I ran into this morning,” said Mr. Bingham, responding to Clif’s mute inquiry. “Cooper, I think his name is.”

“There’s a Cooper on the scrub team,” answered Clif. “Jack Cooper. Maybe his father. Doesn’t look like Jack much, though.”

“Probably is, however. At least, I gathered that he’s staying at the Inn more or less permanently. For that matter, son, you don’t look an awful lot like your dad.”

“I don’t suppose I do,” said Clif. “I favor mother more, don’t I?”

Mr. Bingham nodded, thoughtfully studying his son’s face. Tom, supposedly deaf, burst into speech. “Heck, Clif, you and your father are dead ringers, only you’ll never be as good looking as he is.”

Mr. Bingham laughed. “Thanks, Tom,” he said. “I appreciate that even though I recognize it as rank flattery. When you reach forty you become grateful for any kind word.”

“’S all right,” replied Tom stoutly. “I know what I’m talking about. When we came in here all the girls, and the old dames, too, began to sit up and take notice, and I’ll bet it wasn’t Clif that made ’em do it, nor me either!”

Well, Mr. Bingham _was_ a fine-looking man, and if he was forty――or nearly forty――you’d never have suspected it. Clif was very proud of his father, and Tom’s compliment, even if a bit crude, pleased him. Looking about the room he saw that Mr. Cooper’s gaze was directed toward their table. The gaze was courteously but unhurriedly withdrawn the next instant, and Clif tried to discover a resemblance between the lean, pleasantly grave countenance and the round, freckled face of the second nine catcher, and failed. Probably Jack Cooper, too, took after his mother, he reflected.

After dinner, while Mr. Bingham smoked a short cigar on the porch before taking his guests to ride, Walter Treat brought his father and mother up and there were introductions all around. When they had presently departed Mr. Bingham looked about searchingly. “Wonder where that Cooper chap is,” he said. “Told him I’d like to have him meet you, son, and he seemed quite anxious to. But he doesn’t appear to be about.”

“Maybe,” responded Clif, “he will be around when we get back, dad.” He was far more concerned with the approaching automobile ride than with meeting strangers, no matter how interesting the latter might seem to his father. Tom, tilted back in a porch chair, was somnolent, but Clif watched his father’s cigar and reflected that he had never seen one which diminished more slowly. Eventually, though, Mr. Bingham arose with a sigh and dropped the cigar over the railing.

“Well, boys, let’s go,” he said. “What part of the world do you want to see to-day?”

It was after four when they returned to the Inn. The elusive Mr. Cooper was not in sight, and presently Mr. Bingham said good-by and sped away, the boys waving him out of sight before turning their steps toward school. With a long sigh for the departed glories of the day, Tom thrust an inquiring finger under his belt, “That was a great feed, Clif,” he murmured.