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Frank Merriwell's Son; or, A Chip Off the Old Block, a fiction by Burt L. Standish |
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Chapter 8. The Substitutes |
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_ CHAPTER VIII. THE SUBSTITUTES After looking through the baths and the cozy little clubhouse, Bart and Berlin mounted the stairs to the observation cupola of the latter. From this point they could look down on the field or back toward Farnham Hall and Merry Home. "Truly a most fascinating spot. That's a grand old house of Frank's. Makes me think of the fine old colonial mansions of the South." "That was Merry's idea in remodeling it," nodded Hodge. "Although born in the North, Frank is a man of the whole country. He's cosmopolitan. He has absorbed the spirit of the South, the East, and the West. He's in every way what you may call a representative American. There's no question about the home atmosphere of those old colonial houses. They make one feel sorry for the dinky, finicky, filigree houses built by most people in these days." There was a shout from the baseball field below, and, looking down there, they saw several boys scampering round the diamond. "Somebody made a great hit then," observed Berlin. "It was a homer, and evidently the bases were full." "That's the regular team at bat," exclaimed Hodge. "It's playing the second team." "How many teams are there?" "Four in all, although beyond the second team the other two are not particularly strong. The second team fancies it's as good as the regulars, and it has beaten the regulars once. Let's go down." A few minutes later they walked onto the field, where a hot dispute seemed to be taking place. Guy Featherstone, the pitcher of the second team, was furiously arguing with the umpire, who threatened to put him out of the game. "Put me out! put me out!" dared Feather. "You're robbing us, anyhow! You're giving Sparkfair's bunch everything! You passed Bemis when I had him fairly struck out, and that gave Sparkfair a chance to make that hit. Before that we had three to one and were trimming them in great shape. Now they're two runs ahead of us. I suppose you've fixed it up with Spark. He's bound to win, if he has to make a deal with the umpire to do it." Dale Sparkfair, a handsome lad with blue eyes, broke into a merry laugh. "Featherstone, your head is as light as the front part of your name and as thick as the rear end of it," he declared. "You know I'm not given to making deals with umpires. All I ever ask for is a square show, and I'll have that or take to the warpath." "Well, what do I get, what do I get?" snarled Feather, showing his teeth. "You can't bully everybody, Dale Sparkfair! I demand a square show myself. I can tell when I strike a man out. I put the third strike over fairly, and Bemis never wiggled at it. Kilgore called it a ball and filled the bases." The umpire was a boy with a queer, crooked mouth, one corner of which twisted up while the other drooped. "You seem to think everybody's crooked, Featherstone," he said angrily. "I'm not umpiring this game for fun, but because you--you asked me to." "I didn't suppose you were another of Sparkfair's sycophants!" flung back Featherstone. "You're as crooked as your mouth!" An instant later, had not Sparkfair and others held them apart, Kilgore would have struck Featherstone. "Stop where you are, both of you!" commanded Dale sternly. "We'll have no fighting here on this field." "He'll have to swallow his words, or I'll punch him for them!" "I'll play no further with that fellow umpiring!" declared Featherstone. "I am going to stop right here, and I think some of the rest feel the same. Come on, boys, let's quit." "The quitters will quit," came from Sparkfair; "but I don't believe there are many quitters here, Feather." Guy walked out and called for his men to follow him off the field. "I'm with you," said one of them. "I think you're right, Feather, and I'm done." "Yes, take Booby along with you, Feather," said Dale. "I thought likely he might hoist the white flag." "We'll stop the game!" sneered Featherstone. "The team can't play without us. Kilgore can forfeit to you, and you may feel as proud as you like over your victory." "Perhaps we'll be able to pick up a pitcher and a second baseman to fill the vacancies," said Sparkfair, looking around. "Who'll volunteer? Any one will do. We want to finish out this practice game." "Come, Carson," urged Hodge, "let's you and I go into that game. I'll pitch, and you play second." "I'm all out of practice," said Berlin. "And I'm not a pitcher, you know," reminded Hodge. "We can limber up and have some amusement, anyhow." He offered their services, and his offer was promptly accepted by the second team, not a little to the dissatisfaction and dismay of Featherstone. "I'm the captain of that team," cried Guy, "and I order it off the field!" Bart walked up to the angry boy, placed a hand on his shoulder, and looked straight into his eyes. "I'm afraid you're just what Sparkfair has called you, my son--a quitter," said Hodge, in a low tone. "The rest of the boys are going to play. You and your friend had better run over to the Hall. Trot along, now." Muttering and growling, Featherstone turned away. Hodge and Carson removed their coats, vests, collars, and neckties, and prepared for business. "How does the game stand?" asked Bart, as he walked out to the pitcher's position. "Score is five to three against you, and this is the sixth inning," answered Sparkfair. "You have your last turn at bat." "How many men out?" "Two." "Come here, catcher," invited Bart. "I'll have to know your signals." Walter Shackleton hurried to meet Hodge and explained his system of signals. Bart listened and nodded. "Give me a few minutes to get the kinks out of my arm, Sparkfair?" he asked, as he again resumed the position at the pitching plate. "Sure, sure," smiled Dale. "Go ahead and unbend your wing." Hodge threw a dozen balls to Brooks at first. Then, with Lander, the next batter, standing back, he sent two or three over the plate to Shackleton. "All right," he finally nodded. "Play!" called Kilgore. Jake Lander stepped into the batter's box and smashed the first ball pitched by Bart. He drove it whizzing past Hodge, who did not have time to touch it. Carson trapped it cleanly, scooped it up, and threw it to Higgins at first. "Out!" shouted Kilgore. "Great support, Berlin, old boy!" laughed Bart, as the second team trotted in, and Sparkfair's nine took the field. "Now we want to take a little fire out of this bright Spark, boys," said Bart. "We need a couple of runs right off the reel. Who's the first hitter?" "I am," answered Sam Higgins. "What's your position on the list?" "Third." "All right. Play your own game." Higgins stepped out and swiped rather wildly at the first two balls, missing them both. "Make him get it over, my boy!" urged Bart. With Sam anxious to hit, Sparkfair did his best to "pull" him on wide ones, but Higgins let them pass, and three balls were called. "Now you have him where you want him," came from Hodge. "If he doesn't cut the pan, you will saunter." Sparkfair attempted to cut the pan with a swift one, but Higgins hit it. It was a hot grounder to Netterby, who fumbled it long enough for Hungry Sam to arrive at first in safety. Tommy Chuckleson and Sam Scrogg were on the coaching lines. "We're off again!" shouted Scrogg. "Off again, on again, gone again!" piped Chuckleson. "It's up to you, Balloon! Don't take an ascension!" Abe Bunderson, nicknamed "Balloon," was the next man to strike. Ere he left the bench, Hodge whispered in his ear: "Bunt, my boy. You know what Joe Crowfoot can do throwing. Higgins can't steal. Sacrifice him to second." Balloon nodded. He obeyed instructions, bunting rather awkwardly, yet skillfully, and sacrificing himself at first, while Higgins took second. "Hodge next!" called the scorer. "You're up against it now, Sparkfair," came from Lawrence Graves, as Bart stood forth to the plate. "I'm scared to death!" laughed Dale. "See me tremble! See me vibrate!" The infielders crept in for a bunt, while Sparkfair pitched a swift, high ball. Hodge attempted to drop the ball just inside the first-base line, but made a foul tip, and the sphere plunked into young Joe Crowfoot's mitt. "Don't pick 'em right off the bat, Joseph," remonstrated Bart. "If you get so close, you'll catch the ball before I have time to hit it." The Indian boy smiled grimly. "Mebbe that keep you from tying score," he said. Sparkfair worked cautiously with Hodge, and, as a result, two balls were called after this first strike. "Walking is easier than running, Spark," reminded Bart. "Then I think I'll let you chase," said Dale. "I hope you chase the ball instead of chasing round the bases." Hodge was watching Dale's every movement. He saw Sparkfair hold the ball, covered by his hands, close to his mouth. Evidently the pitcher intended to use the spit ball. Nevertheless, something warned Bart that Dale had turned the ball over and grasped the dry side. His pretense of trying a spit ball was all a bluff. Whiz! The ball came whistling from Spark's fingers. Crack! Hodge met it fairly on the trade-mark. Away, away, away sailed the sphere, passing far over the head of Thad Barking, the center fielder, who had turned and was running as fast as his legs would carry him. Guy Featherstone and Booby Walker had paused at a distance to watch the game a few moments. Featherstone uttered a furious exclamation of anger. "I'm glad he hit that ball, and yet it makes me mad!" he grated. "I might have done the same myself. Just look at that--just look at it! It's a home run! It ties the score!" He was right. _ |
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