MARTY BROWN--MASCOT
Copyright, 1898, by THE CENTURY CO. All rights reserved.
Martin--more familiarly "Marty"--Brown's connection with the SummervilleBaseball Club had begun the previous spring, when, during a hotlycontested game with the High School nine, Bob Ayer, Summerville'scaptain, watching his men go down like nine-pins before the puzzlingcurves of the rival pitcher, found himself addressed by a smallsnub-nosed, freckle-faced youth with very bright blue eyes and verydusty bare feet:
"Want me ter look after yer bats?"
"No."
"All right," was the cheerful response.
The umpire called two strikes on the batsman, and Bob muttered hisanger.
"I don't want nothin' fer it," announced the boy beside him,insinuatingly, digging a hole in the turf with one bare toe.
Bob turned, glad of something to vent his wrath upon. "No! Get out ofhere!" he snarled.
"All right," was the imperturbable answer.
Then the side was out, and Bob trotted to first base. That half inning,the last of the seventh, was a tragedy for the town nine, for the HighSchool piled three runs more on their already respectable lead, andwhen Bob came in he had well-defined visions of defeat. It was his turnat the bat. When he went to select his stick he was surprised to findthe barefooted, freckle-faced youth in calm possession.
"What--?" he began angrily.
Marty leaped up and held out a bat. Bob took it, astonished to findthat it was his own pet "wagon-tongue," and strode off to the plate,too surprised for words. Two minutes later, he was streaking towardfirst base on a safe hit to center field. An error gave him second, andthe dwindling hopes of Summerville began to rise again. The fellowsfound the High School pitcher and fairly batted him off his feet, andwhen the side went out it had added six runs to its tally, and lackedbut one of being even with its opponent. Meanwhile Marty rescuedthe bats thrown aside, and arranged them neatly, presiding over themgravely, and showing a marvelous knowledge of each batsman's wants.
Summerville won that game by two runs, and Bob Ayer was the first todeclare, with conviction, that it was all owing to Marty. The luck hadchanged, he said, as soon as the snub-nosed boy had taken charge of theclub's property.
Every one saw the reasonableness of the assertion, and Marty wasthereupon adopted as the official mascot and general factotum of theSummerville Baseball Club. Since then none had disputed Marty's rightto that position, and he had served tirelessly, proudly, mourning thedefeats and glorying in the victories as sincerely as Bob Ayer himself.
Marty went to the grammar-school "when it kept," and in the summerbecame a wage-earner to the best of his ability, holding insecurepositions with several grocery and butcher stores as messenger and"special delivery." But always on Saturday afternoons he was to befound squatting over the bats at the ball-ground; he never allowedthe desire for money to interfere with his sacred duty as mascot andcustodian of club property. Every one liked Marty, and he was asmuch a part of the Summerville Baseball Club as if one of the nine.His rewards consisted chiefly of discarded bats and balls; but hewas well satisfied: it was a labor of love with him, and it is quiteprobable that, had he been offered a salary in payment of the serviceshe rendered, he would have indignantly refused it. For the rest, hewas fifteen years old, was not particularly large for his age, stillretained the big brown freckles and the snub nose, had lively andhonest blue eyes, and, despite the fact that his mother eked out ascanty living by washing clothes for the well-to-do of the town, hada fair idea of his own importance, without, however, risking hispopularity by becoming too familiar. The bare feet were covered now bya pair of run-down and very dusty shoes, and his blue calico shirt andwell-patched trousers were always clean and neat. On his brown hairrested, far back, a blue-and-white baseball cap adorned with a big S,the gift of Bob Ayer, and Marty's only badge of office.
To-day Marty had a grievance. He sat on a big packing-box in front ofCastor's Cash Grocery and kicked his heels softly against its side.Around him the air was heavy with the odor of burning paper and punk,and every instant the sharp sputter of fire-crackers broke upon hisreverie. It was the Fourth of July and almost noon. It was very hot,too. But it was not that which was troubling Marty. His grief sprungfrom the fact that, in just twenty minutes by the town-hall clock upthere, the Summerville Baseball Club, supported by a large part of thetown's younger population, would take the noon train for Vulcan to playits annual game with the nine of that city; and it would go, Martybitterly reflected, without its mascot.
Vulcan was a good way off--as Marty viewed distance--and the fare forthe round trip was $1.40, just $1.28 more than Marty possessed. He hadhinted to Bob Ayer and to "Herb" Webster, the club's manager, the realneed of taking him along--had even been gloomy and foretold a harrowingdefeat for their nine in the event of his absence from the scene. ButSummerville's finances were at low ebb, and, owing to the sickness ofone good player and the absence of another, her hopes of capturing theone-hundred-dollar purse which was yearly put up by the citizens of therival towns were but slight. So Marty was to be left behind. And thatwas why Marty sat on the packing-case and grieved, refusing to join inthe lively sport of his friends who, farther up the street, were firingoff a small brass cannon in front of Hurlbert's hardware store.
Already, by ones and twos, the Vulcan-bound citizens were toilingthrough the hot sun toward the station. Marty watched them, and scowleddarkly. For the time he was a radical socialist, and railed silently atthe unjust manner in which riches are distributed. Presently a groupof five fellows, whose ages varied from seventeen to twenty-one, cameinto sight upon the main street. They wore gray uniforms, with blue andwhite stockings and caps of the same hues, and on their breasts werebig blue S's. Two of them carried, swung between them, a long leatherbag containing Marty's charge, the club's bats. The players spied theboy on the box, and hailed him from across the street. Marty's replywas low-toned and despondent. But after they had turned the cornertoward the station, he settled his cap firmly on his head and, slidingoff the box, hurried after them.
The station platform was well filled when he gained it. Bob Ayer wastalking excitedly to Joe Sleeper, and Marty, listening from a distance,gathered that Magee, the Summerville center-fielder, had not put in hisappearance.
"If he fails us," Bob was saying anxiously, "it's all up before westart. We're crippled already. Has any one seen him?"
None had, and Bob, looking more worried than before, strode off throughthe crowd to seek for news. Of course, Marty told himself, he didn'twant Summerville to lose, but, just the same, if they did, it wouldserve them right for not taking him along. A long whistle in thedistance sounded, and Bob came back, shaking his head in despair.
"Not here," he said.
A murmur of dismay went up from the group, and Marty slid off thebaggage-truck and approached the captain.
"Say, let me go along, won't yer, Bob?"
Bob turned, and, seeing Marty's eager face, forgot his worry for themoment, and asked kindly: "Can you buy your ticket?"
"No." Marty clenched his hands and looked desperately from one toanother of the group. The train was thundering down the track besidethe platform. "But you fellows might buy me one. And I'd pay yer back,honest!"
"Say, Bob, let's take him," said Hamilton. "Goodness knows, if we everneeded a mascot, we need one to-day! Here, I'll chip in a quarter."
"So'll I," said Sleeper. "Marty ought to go along; that's a fact."
"Here's another." "You pay for me, Dick, and I'll settle with you whenwe get back." "I'll give a quarter, too."
"All aboard!" shouted the conductor.
"All right, Marty; jump on," cried Bob. "We'll find the money--though Idon't know where your dinner's coming from!"
Marty was up the car-steps before Bob had finished speaking, and washauling the long bag from Wolcott with eager hands. Then they troopedinto the smoking-car, since the day-coaches were already full, andMarty sat down on the stiff leather seat and stood the bag beside h
im.The train pulled out of the little station, and Marty's gloom gaveplace to radiant joy.
The journey to Vulcan occupied three-quarters of an hour, duringwhich time Bob and the other eight groaned over the absence of Mageeand Curtis and Goodman, predicted defeat in one breath and hopedfor victory in the next, and rearranged the batting list in elevendifferent ways before they were at last satisfied. Marty meanwhile,with his scuffed shoes resting on the opposite seat, one brown handlaid importantly upon the leather bag and his face wreathed in smiles,kept his blue eyes fixedly upon the summer landscape that slid by theopen window. It was his first railway trip of any length, and it wasvery wonderful and exciting. Even the knowledge that defeat was theprobable fate ahead of the expedition failed to more than tinge hispleasure with regret.
At Vulcan the train ran under a long iron-roofed structure, noisywith the puffing of engines, the voices of the many that thronged theplatforms, and the clanging of a brazen gong announcing dinner in thestation restaurant. Marty was awed but delighted. He carried one endof the big bag across the street to the hotel, his eager eyes staringhither and thither in wide amaze. Vulcan boasted of a big bridge-worksand steel-mills, and put on many of the airs of a larger city. Bob toldMarty that they had arranged for his dinner in the hotel dining-room,but the latter demurred on the score of expense.
"Yer see, I want ter pay yer back, Bob, and so I guess I don't want tergo seventy-five cents fer dinner. Why, that's more'n what three dinnerscosts us at home. I'll just go out and get a bit of lunch, I guess.Would yer lend me ten cents?"
Marty enjoyed himself thoroughly during the succeeding half-hour:He bought a five-cent bag of peanuts and three bananas, and aideddigestion by strolling about the streets while he consumed them, atlast finding his way to the first of the wonderful steel-mills andwandering about freely among the bewildering cranes, rollers, and otherponderous machines. He wished it was not the Fourth of July; he wouldlike to have seen things at work. Finally, red-faced and perspiring, hehurried back to the hotel and entered a coach with the others, and wasdriven through the city to the ball-ground. This had a high board fenceabout it, and long tiers of seats half encircling the field. Therewere lots of persons there, and others were arriving every minute.Marty followed the nine into a little dressing-room built under thegrand stand, and presently followed them out again to a bench in theshade just to the left of the home plate. Here he unstrapped his bagand arranged the bats on the ground, examining them carefully, greatlyimpressed with his own importance.
The Vulcans, who had been practising on the diamond, trotted in, andBob and the others took their places. The home team wore gray costumeswith maroon stockings and caps, and the big V that adorned the shirtswas also maroon. Many of them were workers in the steel-mills, and toMarty they seemed rather older than the Summervilles. Then the umpire,a very small man in a snuff-colored alpaca coat and cap, made hisappearance, and the men at practise came in. The umpire tossed a coinbetween Bob and the Vulcans' captain, and Bob won with "heads!" and ledhis players into the field. A lot of men just back of Marty began tocheer for the home team as Vulcan's first man went to bat.
It were sorry work to write in detail of the disastrous firstseven innings of that game. Summerville's hope of taking theone-hundred-dollar purse home with them languished and dwindled, andfinally faded quite away when, in the first half of the seventh inning,Vulcan found Warner's delivery and batted the ball into every quarterof the field, and ran their score up to twelve. Summerville went to batin the last half plainly discouraged. Oliver struck out. Hamilton hitto second base and was thrown out. Pickering got first on balls, but"died" there on a well-fielded fly of Warner's.
Vulcan's citizens yelled delightedly from grand stand and bleachers.Summerville had given a stinging defeat to their nine the year beforeat the rival town, and this revenge was glorious. They shouted gibesthat made Marty's cheeks flush and caused him to double his fistswrathfully and wish that he were big enough to "lick somebody"; andthey groaned dismally as one after another of the blue-and-whiteplayers went down before Baker's superb pitching. Summerville's littleband of supporters worked valiantly against overwhelming odds to maketheir voices heard, but their applause was but a drop in that sea ofnoise.
The eighth inning began with the score 12 to 5, and Stevens, captainand third-baseman of the Vulcans, went to bat with a smile of easyconfidence upon his face. He led off with a neat base-hit pastshort-stop. The next man, Storrs, their clever catcher, found Warner'sfirst ball, and sent it twirling skyward in the direction of leftfield. Webster was under it, but threw it in badly, and Stevens gotto third. The next batsman waited coolly and took his base on balls.Warner was badly rattled, and had there been any one to put in hisplace he would have been taken out. But Curtis, the substitutepitcher, was ill in bed at Summerville, and helpless Bob Ayer groundhis teeth and watched defeat overwhelm him. With a man on third,another on first, and but one out, things again looked desperate.
Warner, pale of face, wrapped his long fingers about the ball and facedthe next batsman. The coaches kept up a volley of disconcerting adviceto the runners, most of it intended for the pitcher's ear, however.On Warner's first delivery the man on first went leisurely to second,well aware that the Summerville catcher would not dare to throw lestthe runner on third should score. With one strike against him and threeballs, the man at bat struck at a rather deceptive drop and started forfirst. The ball shot straight at Warner, hot off the bat. The pitcherfound it, but fumbled. Regaining it quickly, he threw to the homeplate, and the Vulcan captain speedily retraced his steps to third. Butthe batsman was safe at first, and so the three bases were full.
"Home run! Home run, O'Brien!" shrieked the throng as the next man, ared-haired little youth, gripped his stick firmly. O'Brien was quiteevidently a favorite as well as a good player. Warner and Oliver,Summerville's catcher, met and held a whispered consultation to theaccompaniment of loud ridicule from the audience. Then the battery tooktheir places.
"Play for the plate," cried Bob at first base.
Warner's first delivery was a wide throw that almost passed thecatcher. "Ball!" droned the umpire. The men on bases were playingfar off, and intense excitement reigned. On the next delivery Warnersteadied himself and got a strike over the plate. A shout of applausefrom the plucky Summerville spectators shattered the silence. Anotherstrike; again the applause. O'Brien gripped his bat anew and lookedsurprised and a little uneasy.
"He can't do it again, O'Brien!" shrieked an excited admirer in thegrand stand.
But O'Brien didn't wait to see. He found the next delivery and sentit whizzing, a red-hot liner, toward second. Pandemonium broke loose.Sleeper, Summerville's second-baseman, ran forward and got the ballhead high, glanced quickly aside, saw the runner from first speedingby, lunged forward, tagged him, and then threw fiercely, desperatelyhome. The sphere shot like a cannonball into Oliver's outstretchedhands, there was a cloud of yellow dust as Stevens slid for the homeplate, and then the umpire's voice droned: "Out, here!"
Summerville, grinning to a man, trotted in, and the little handful ofsupporters yelled themselves hoarse and danced ecstatically about. Eventhe Vulcan enthusiasts must applaud the play, though a bit grudgingly.For the first time in many innings, Marty, squatting beside the bats,drew a big scrawling 0 in the tally which he was keeping on the ground,with the aid of a splinter.
It was the last half of the eighth inning, and Bob Ayer's turn at thebat. Marty found his especial stick, and uttered an incantation beneathhis breath as he held it out.
"We're going to win, Bob," he whispered.
Bob took the bat, shaking his head.
"I'm afraid you don't work as a mascot to-day, Marty," he answeredsmilingly. But Marty noticed that there was a look of resolution in thecaptain's face as he walked toward the box, and took heart.
Summerville's admirers greeted Bob's appearance with a burst ofapplause, and Vulcan's captain motioned the field to play farther out.Vulcan's pitcher tossed his arms above his head, lift
ed his right footinto the air, and shot the ball forward. There was a sharp _crack_,and the sphere was sailing straight and low toward center field. Bobtouched first and sped on to second. Center field and left field, eachintent upon the ball, discovered each other's presence only when theywere a scant four yards apart. Both paused--and the ball fell to earth!Bob, watching, flew toward third. It was a close shave, but he reachedit ahead of the ball in a cloud of dust, and, rising, shook himselfin the manner of a dog after a bath. Summerville's supporters wereagain on their feet, and their shouts were extraordinary in volume,considering their numbers. Vulcan's citizens, after a first burst ofanger and dismay, had fallen into chilling silence. Marty huggedhimself, and nervously picked out Howe's bat.
The latter, Summerville's short-stop and a mere boy of seventeen, wasonly an ordinary batsman, and Marty looked to see him strike out. Butinstead, after waiting with admirable nerve while ball after ballshot by him, he tossed aside his stick and trotted to first base onballs, amid the howls of the visitors. Summerville's first run for fourinnings was scored a moment later when Bob stole home on a passed ball.
Summerville's star seemed once more in the ascendant. Howe was nowsitting contentedly on second base. "Herb" Webster gripped his batfirmly and faced the pitcher. The latter, for the first time during thegame, was rattled. Bob, standing back of third, coached Howe with anincessant roar:
"On your toes! Get off! Get off! Come on, now! Come on! He won't throw!Come on, come on! That's right! That's the way! _Now! Wh-o-o-a!_ Easy!Look out! Try it again, now!"
Baker received the ball back from second, and again faced the batsman.But he was worried, and proved it by his first delivery. The ball wentfar to the right of the catcher, and Howe reached third base withouthurrying. When Baker again had the ball, he scowled angrily, made afeint of throwing to third, and, turning rapidly, pitched. The ballwas a swift one and wild, and Webster drew back, then ducked. The nextinstant he was lying on the ground, and a cry of dismay arose. Thesphere had hit him just under the ear. He lay there unconscious, hisleft hand still clutching his bat, his face white under its coat oftan. Willing hands quickly lifted him into the dressing-room, and adoctor hurried from the grand stand. Bob, who had helped carry him offthe field, came out after a few minutes and went to the bench.
"He's all right now," he announced. "That is, he's not dangerouslyhurt, you know. But he won't be able to play again to-day. Doctor sayshe'd better go to the hotel, and we've sent for a carriage. I wish togoodness I knew where to find a fellow to take his place! Think of ourcoming here without a blessed substitute to our name! I wish I hadMagee for a minute; if I wouldn't show him a thing or two! Warner,you'd better take poor Webster's place as runner; I'll tell the umpire."
In another moment the game had begun again, Warner having taken theplace of the injured left-fielder at first base, and Sleeper havinggone to bat. Vulcan's pitcher was pale and his hands shook as he oncemore began his work; the injury to Webster had totally unnerved him.The immediate result was that Sleeper knocked a two-bagger that broughtHowe home, placed Warner on third and himself on second; and theultimate result was that five minutes later, when Oliver fouled out toVulcan's third-baseman, Sleeper and Wolcott had also scored, and thegame stood 12 to 9.
Bob Ayer meanwhile had searched unsuccessfully for a player to take theinjured Webster's place, and had just concluded to apply to Vulcan'scaptain for one of his substitutes, when he turned to find Marty at hisside.
"Are yer lookin' fer a feller to play left field?"
"Yes," answered Bob, eagerly. "Do you know of any one?"
Marty nodded.
"Who?"
"Me."
Bob stared in surprise, but Marty looked back without flinching. "Ican play, Bob; not like you, of course, but pretty well. And, besides,there ain't no one else, is there? Give me a show, will yer?"
Bob's surprise had given place to deep thought. "Why not?" he askedhimself. Of course Marty could play ball; what Summerville boycouldn't, to some extent? And, besides, as Marty said, there was no oneelse. Bob had seen Marty play a little while the nine was practising,and, so far as he knew, Marty was a better player than any of theSummerville boys who had come with the nine and now sat on the grandstand. The other alternative did not appeal to him: his pride revoltedat begging a player from the rival club. He turned and strode to thebench, and Marty eagerly watched him conferring with the others. In amoment he turned and nodded.
A ripple of laughter and ironic applause crept over the stands asMarty, attired in his blue shirt and unshapen trousers, trotted outto his position in left field. The boy heard it, but didn't care. Hisnerves were tingling with excitement. It was the proudest moment of hisshort life. He was playing with the Summerville Baseball Club! And deepdown in his heart Marty Brown pledged his last breath to the strugglefor victory.
Vulcan started in on their last inning with a determination to addmore runs to their score. The first man at bat reached first base ona safe hit to mid-field. The second, Vulcan's center-fielder and apoor batsman, struck out ingloriously. When the next man strode to theplate, Bob motioned the fielders to spread out. Marty had scarcely runback a half dozen yards when the sharp sound of ball on bat broke uponthe air, and high up against the blue sky soared the little globe,sailing toward left field. Marty's heart was in his mouth, and for themoment he wished himself back by the bench, with no greater duty thanthe care of the bats. It was one thing to play ball in a vacant lotwith boys of his own age, and another to display his powers in a biggame, with half a thousand excited persons watching him. At first basethe runner was poised ready to leap away as soon as the ball fell intothe fielder's hands--or to the ground! The latter possibility broughta haze before Marty's eyes, and for an instant he saw at least a dozenballs coming toward him; he wondered, in a chill of terror, which wasthe real one! Then the mist faded, he stepped back and to the rightthree paces, telling himself doggedly that he _had_ to catch it, put uphis hands----
A shout of applause arose from the stands, and the ball was dartingback over the field to second base. Marty, with a swelling heart,put his hands in his trousers pockets and whistled to prove hisindifference to applause.
The batsman was out, but the first runner stood safely on third base.And then, with two men gone, Vulcan set bravely to work and filledthe remaining bases. A safe hit meant two more runs added to Vulcan'sscore. The fielders, in obedience to Bob's command, crept in. The grandstand and the bleachers were noisy with the cheers of the spectators.Warner glanced around from base to base, slowly settled himself intoposition, and clutched the ball. The noise was deafening, but hisnerves were again steady, and he only smiled carelessly at the effortsof the coaches to rattle him. His arms shot up, and a straight deliverysent the sphere waist high over the plate.
"Strike!" crooned the umpire. Applause from the Summerville deputationwas drowned in renewed shouts and gibes from the rest of the audience.Warner received the ball, and again, very deliberately, settled histoe into the depression in the trampled earth. Up shot his arms again,again he lunged forward, and again the umpire called:
"Strike two!"
The batter stooped and rubbed his hands in the dust, and then grippedthe stick resolutely. The ball went back to Warner, and he stepped oncemore into the box. For a moment he studied the batsman deliberately, aproceeding which seemed to worry that youth, since he lifted first onefoot and then the other off the ground and waved his bat impatiently.
"Play ball!" shrieked the grand stand.
Warner smiled, rubbed his right hand reflectively upon his thigh,glanced casually about the bases, lifted one spiked shoe from theground, tossed his arms up, and shot the ball away swiftly. Straightfor the batsman's head it went, then settled down, down, and to theleft as though attracted by Oliver's big gloves held a foot above theearth just back of the square of white marble. The man at bat, hiseyes glued to the speeding sphere, put his stick far around, and then,with a sudden gasp, whirled it fiercely. There was a thud as the ballsettled
cozily into Oliver's leather gloves, a roar from the onlookers,and above it all the umpire's fatal:
"Striker--out!"
Marty, watching breathless and wide-eyed from the field, threw ahandspring and uttered a whoop of joy. The nines changed places, andthe last half of the last inning began with the score still 12 to 9 infavor of Vulcan.
"Play carefully, fellows," shouted Vulcan's captain as Hamilton went tobat. "We've got to shut them out."
"If youse can," muttered Marty, seated on the bench between Bob andWolcott.
It looked as though they could. Bob groaned as Hamilton popped a shortfly into second-baseman's hands, and the rest of the fellows echoed themournful sound.
"Lift it, Will, lift it!" implored Bob as Pickering strode to theplate. And lift it he did. Unfortunately, however, when it descendedit went plump into the hands of right field. In the stand half thethrong was on its feet. Bob looked hopelessly at Warner as the pitcherselected a bat.
"Cheer up, Bob," said the latter, grinning. "I'm going to crack thatball or know the reason why!"
The Vulcan pitcher was slow and careful. They had taken the weariedBaker out and put in a new twirler. Warner let his first effort passunnoticed, and looked surprised when the umpire called it a strike. Buthe received the next one with a hearty welcome, and sent it speedingaway for a safe hit, taking first base amid the wild cheers of thelittle group of blue-and-white-decked watchers. Hamilton hurried acrossto coach the runner, and Bob stepped to the plate. His contributionwas a swift liner that was too hot for the pitcher, one that placedWarner on second and himself on first. Then, with Hamilton and Sleeperboth coaching at the top of their lungs, the Vulcan catcher fumbleda ball at which Howe had struck, and the two runners moved up. Therestive audience had overflowed on to the field now, and excitementreigned supreme. Another strike was called on Howe, and for a momentSummerville's chances appeared to be hopeless. But a minute later thebatter was limping to first, having been struck with the ball, and thepitcher was angrily grinding his heel into the ground.
"Webster at bat!" called the scorer.
"That's you, Marty," said Wolcott. "If you never do another thing, myboy, _swat that ball_!"
Marty picked out a bat and strode courageously to the plate. A roar oflaughter greeted his appearance.
"Get on to Blue Jeans!" "Give us a home run, kid!" "Say, now, sonny,don't fall over your pants!"
It needed just that ridicule to dispel Marty's nervousness. He wasangry. How could he help his "pants" being long? he asked himself,indignantly. He'd show those dudes that "pants" hadn't anything todo with hitting a baseball! He shut his teeth hard, gripped the battightly, and faced the pitcher. The latter smiled at his adversary,but was not willing to take any chances, with the bases full. And so,heedless of the requests to "Toss him an easy one, Joe!" he delivered aswift, straight drop over the plate.
"Strike!" droned the little umpire, skipping aside.
Marty frowned, but gave no other sign of the chill of disappointmentthat traveled down his spine. On the bench Wolcott turned to his nextneighbor and said, as he shook his head sorrowfully:
"Hard luck! If it had only been some one else's turn now, we might havescored. I guess little Marty's not up to curves."
Marty watched the next delivery carefully--and let it pass.
"Ball!" called the umpire.
Again he held himself in, although it was all he could do to keep fromswinging at the dirty-white globe as it sped by him.
"Two balls!"
"That's right, Marty; wait for a good one," called Wolcott, hopingagainst hope that Marty might get to first on balls. Marty made noanswer, but stood there, pale of face but cool, while the ball spedaround the bases and at last went back to the pitcher. Again the spheresped forward. Now was his time! With all his strength he swung hisbat--and twirled around on his heel! A roar of laughter swept acrossthe diamond.
"Strike two!" cried the umpire.
But Marty, surprised at his failure, yet undaunted, heard nothing savethe umpire's unmoved voice. Forward flew the ball again, this timeunmistakably wide of the plate, and the little man in the snuff-coloredalpaca coat motioned to the right.
"Three balls!"
Bob, restlessly lifting his feet to be off and away on his dash tothird, waited with despairing heart. Victory or defeat dependedupon the next pitch. A three-bagger would tie the score, a safe hitwould bring Sleeper to the bat! But as he looked at the pale-faced,odd-looking figure beside the plate he realized how hopeless it allwas. The pitcher, thinking much the same thoughts, prepared for hislast effort. Plainly the queer little ragamuffin was no batsman, anda straight ball over the plate would bring the agony to an end. Upwent his hand, and straight and sure sped the globe.
Now, there was one kind of ball that Marty knew all about, and that wasa nice, clean, straight one, guiltless of curve or drop or rise, thekind that "Whitey" Peters pitched in the vacant lot back of Keller'sLivery Stable. And Marty knew that kind when he saw it coming. Fairand square he caught it, just where he wanted it on the bat. All hisstrength, heart, and soul were behind that swing. There was a sharp_crack_, a sudden mighty roar from the watchers, and Marty was speedingtoward first base.
There was one kind of ball that Marty knew all about.]
High and far sped the ball. Center and left fielder turned as one manand raced up the field. Obeying instructions, they had been playingwell in, and now they were to rue it. The roar of the crowd grew involume. Warner, Bob, and Howe were already racing home, and Marty,running as hard as his legs would carry him, was touching second. Farup the field the ball was coming to earth slowly, gently, yet far tooquickly for the fielders.
"A home run!" shrieked Wolcott. "_Come on--oh, come on, Marty, myboy!_"
Warner was home, now Bob, and then Howe was crossing the plate, andMarty was leaving second behind him. Would the fielder catch it? Hedared look no longer, but sped onward. Then a new note crept into theshouts of the Vulcans, a note of disappointment, of despair. Up thefield the center-fielder had tipped the ball with one outstretchedhand, but had failed to catch it! At last, however, it was speedinghome toward second base.
"Come on! Come on, Marty!" shrieked Bob.
The boy's twinkling feet spurned the third bag and he swung homeward.The ball was settling into the second-baseman's hands. The latterturned quickly and threw it straight, swift, unswerving toward theplate.
"_Slide!_" yelled Bob and Warner, in a breath.
Marty threw himself desperately forward; there was a cloud of browndust at the plate, a _thug_ as the ball met the catcher's gloves. Thelittle man in the alpaca coat turned away with a grin, and picked uphis mask again.
"_Safe, here!_"
The score was 13 to 12 in Summerville's favor; Marty's home run hadsaved the day!
In another minute or two it was all over. Sleeper had popped a highfly into the hands of the discomfited center-fielder, and the crowdsswarmed inward over the diamond.
* * * * *
It was a tired, hungry, but joyous little group that journeyed back toSummerville through the soft, mellow summer twilight. Marty and theleather bat-case occupied a whole seat to themselves. Marty's freckledface was beaming with happiness and pride, his heart sang a paean oftriumph in time to the _clickety-click_ of the car-wheels, and in onehand, tightly clenched, nestled a ten-dollar gold piece.
It was his share of the hundred-dollar purse the nine had won, Bob hadexplained, and it had been voted to him unanimously. And next spring hewas to join the team as substitute! And Marty, doubting the trustinessof his pockets, held the shining prize firmly in his fist and grinnedhappily over the praise and thanks of his companions.
"It wasn't nothin', that home run; any feller could have done that!"And, besides, he explained, he had known all along that they weregoing to win. "Why,--don't you see?--the other fellers didn't have nomascot!"
Arrival of Jimpson, and Other Stories for Boys about Boys Page 3