Arrival of Jimpson, and Other Stories for Boys about Boys

by Ralph Henry Barbour

  THE FATHER OF A HERO

  The Hero sat in the window-seat, and nursed his knee and frowned. Hewas rather young to be a hero, he lacked a month of being twenty; helooked eighteen. He had a round face, with a smooth, clear skin, overwhich spring suns had spread an even coat of tan that was wonderfullybecoming. His eyes were blue, and his hair was as near yellow as hairever is. For the rest, he was of medium height, slim, and well-built.His name was James Gill Robinson, Jr. Throughout college he wasknown as "Rob"; on the baseball diamond, the players, according himthe respect due a superior, called him "Cap." His father, with theprivilege of an extended acquaintance, called him "Jimmie."

  The father leaned back in a dark-green Morris chair, one gray-gaiteredfoot swinging and his right thumb reposing between the second and thirdbuttons of his white vest. This was a habit with the thumb, and meantthat Mr. James Gill Robinson, Sr., was speaking of weighty matters, andwith authority. The father was well this side of fifty and, like hisson, looked younger than he was, for which an admirable complexion wasto be thanked. He wore side-whiskers, and the brows above the sharpblue eyes were heavy and lent emphasis to the aggressive characterof the lower part of his face. But if he was aggressive he was alsofair-minded, and if he was obstinate he was kind-hearted as well; andnone of these are bad qualities in a lawyer. And of course he wassmart, too; as the father of James Gill Robinson, Jr., he couldn't havebeen anything else.

  Through the open window the length of the Yard was visible, intenselygreen and attractively cool. Fellows with straw hats adorned withfresh new bands of all colors and combinations of colors, fellowsflannel-trousered and vestless, lounged on the grass or intersected theverdant, tree-shaded oblong, bearing tennis racquets or baseball bats.It was mid-June, warm, clear, and an ideal Saturday.

  The Hero turned from a brief survey of the outside world and faced hisfather again, listening respectfully to the latter's remarks, but quiteevidently taking exception to the gist of them. At length he was movedto defense.

  "But look here, dad, seems to me the showing I made last year provesthat I haven't neglected study."

  "That's not the point, sir. I'll acknowledge that you--ah--diduncommonly well last year. I was proud of you. We all were. And I takeit for granted that you will do equally well, if not better, this year.I expect it. I won't have anything else, sir! But you don't gather mymeaning. This is an old subject of controversy between us, Jimmie,and it does seem to me that by this time you should have come to anunderstanding of the position I take. But you haven't; that's clear,sir, and so I'll state it once more."

  He paused, and glanced at a massive gold watch.

  "It is twelve minutes after two; I'm not detaining you?" he asked, witha broad suggestion of sarcasm.

  "No, sir, I have ten minutes yet," answered the Hero.

  "Ah, thank you. Well, now--" Mr. Robinson drew his eyebrows togetherwhile he silently marshaled his arguments. Then--"I have never," hesaid, "opposed athletic sports in moderation. On the contrary, I thinkthem--ah--beneficial. Mind you, though, I say in moderation, distinctly'_in moderation!_' In fact, in my own college days I gained somereputation as an athlete myself."

  The Hero suppressed a smile. His father's reputation had been gainedas short-stop on a senior class nine that, with the aid of pistols,old muskets, and brass bands, had defeated, by a score of 27 to 16, asophomore team, his father having made three home runs by knocking theball into a neighboring back yard. The Hero had heard the history ofthat game many times.

  "But you, sir," continued Mr. Robinson, severely, "you, sir, areoverdoing it. You are allowing athletics to occupy too much of yourtime and thought. I take to-day to be an average one?"

  "Hardly, sir," answered the Hero. "Saturday is always busier thanweek-days, and to-day we have one of our big games."

  "I am glad to hear it, very glad. I reached here at eleven o'clock,and you dragged me out to the field while you practised batting. Attwelve you had a recitation. At one you took me to the training table,where I sat among a large number of very--ah--frivolous young men whoconstantly talked of things I do not, and do not care to understand.You have now kindly allowed me a half-hour of your society. In a minuteor two you will tear off to the field again, to be there, so you tellme, until half past five. Now, sir, I ask you, is what I have describedan equable adjustment of study and athletics, sir?"

  "I'm very sorry, dad," replied the Hero, earnestly. "If I'd known youwere coming to-day I could have fixed things a little differently. Butas it was, I couldn't very well give you much time. I wish you'd comeout to the game, sir. It's going to be a thundering good one, I think.Princeton is after our scalps."

  "No, Jimmie, I refuse to lend countenance to the proceedings. You areoverdoing it, sir, overdoing it vastly! Why, confound it, sir, who areyou here at Harvard? What do I see in the morning paper? 'Robinson isconfident.' 'Plucky captain and first-baseman of the Harvard nine looksfor a victory over the Tigers.' That's the sort of stuff I read, sir! Awhole column of it! That's who you are, sir; you're just the baseballcaptain; you're not James Robinson, Jr., not for a minute! And thepapers are full of silly talk about you, and refer to you as 'Rob.'It's disgraceful, if nothing else!"

  "Well, dad, I don't like that sort of notoriety any better than you do,but I don't think it's fair to blame me for it. When you win a big caseat home it's just the same, sir; the papers even print your picturesometimes, and that's more than they do with mine, because they can'tget it."

  His father glared silently. It was too true to bear contradiction. Buthe wasn't one to back down any further than was absolutely necessary.

  "Maybe, sir, maybe. But let me inform you that winning an importantcase in the courts is decidedly different from winning a game ofbaseball before a lot of shouting, yelling idiots with tin horns andflags! Eh? What?"

  "Well, I don't altogether agree with you there, dad. In either caseit's a matter of using your brain and doing your level best and keepingyour wits about you. The results may not be on a par as to importance,sir, although--" he smiled slightly--"maybe it depends some on thepoint of view. I tell you what, sir," he went on, "you come out to thePrinceton game this afternoon and if, when it's over with, you say thattrying to win a big game of college baseball isn't worth doing, why,I'll give up the captaincy and have nothing more to do with such thingsnext year! What do you say, sir?"

  "I refuse to enter into any such agreement, sir. Moreover, I have nointention of sitting on a plank in the hot sun and watching a lot ofidiots run around the bases. No, sir, if you've got to take part inthat game, as I suspect you have, you go ahead and I'll look aftermyself. Only I must have at least one undisturbed hour with you beforemy train goes."

  "Certainly, dad; I'll be with you all the evening. I hope you'll becomfortable. You'll find the library at the Union very pleasant if youwant to read. I will be back here at about half after five. I do wish,though, you'd come out, sir."

  "You've heard me on that subject, Jimmie," replied Mr. Robinson,severely. "Naturally, you--ah--have my wishes for success, but I mustdecline to make myself miserable all the afternoon."

  After the Hero had gone, Mr. Robinson, with much grumbling, stroveto make himself comfortable with a book. But he had looked upon hisjourney to Cambridge as something in the way of a holiday, and sittingin a Morris chair didn't conform to his idea of the correct way ofspending it. The Yard looked inviting, and so he took the volume andwent out under the trees. But he didn't read. Instead he leaned theback of his immaculate gray coat against a tree-trunk and fell tothinking. From where he sat he could see, at a distance, the windowof the room that he had occupied during his last two years in the LawSchool. That window suggested memories.

  Presently he heard a voice near by. A fellow passing along in front ofMatthews was hailing another.

  "Aren't you going over to the game?" he asked.

  "Sure. What time is it?"

  "Ten of three. Better come along now. I'll wait for you."

  A moment later the other emerged fr
om the doorway.

  "How are you betting?" he asked.

  "Even that we win."

  "Think so? Princeton's got a wonderful young nine, they say."

  "So have we. 'Rob' says we're going to win, and what he says goes, myboy."

  "Yes, he knows his business all right."

  "Well, I guess! He's the best captain Harvard's had for years andyears, and he's as level-headed as they make them. All ready?"

  They went off in the direction of the Square. Mr. Robinson watchedthem and wondered what they would say if they knew "Rob's" father hadoverheard them. He rather wished they could have known who he was.Then he frowned impatiently as he realized that in a moment of weaknesshe had coveted glory in the role of "Rob's" father. But he was glad hehad overheard that conversation. Even if Jimmie was paying altogethertoo much attention to baseball and too little to the graver featuresof college life, still he was glad that Jimmie was a good captain. Hewas--yes, he was proud of that.

  It was very cool and restful there on the grass, with the whisperingof the little breeze in the leaves above him, and he laid the bookcarefully aside, folded his hands, and closed his eyes. The Yard wasdeserted now save for the squirrels and the birds, and so for quite anhour none disturbed Mr. Robinson's slumber. Once his hat fell off, andafter a sleepy attempt to find it he let it go. His trousers graduallyparted company with his gaiters, exposing a length of thin, black-cladankle. Altogether he presented a most undignified spectacle, and asquirrel who ran down the tree-trunk and surveyed him from a position afoot or two above his head chattered his disapprobation. Perhaps it wasthis that woke Mr. Robinson up.

  He yawned, arranged his trousers, recovered his hat, and looked at hiswatch. It was just four o'clock. He felt rather stiff, but the naphad rested him, and so he returned the book to the room with the ideaof taking a walk. Swinging his gold-headed cane jauntily, he passedthrough the Square and made his way toward the river. The breezes wouldbe refreshing, he told himself. But long before he reached the bridgedisturbing sounds came to him, borne on the little west wind that blewin his face:

  "Ha-a-ar-vard! Ha-a-ar-vard! Ha-a-ar-vard!"

  He crossed the bridge, left the river behind and went on. Now from theright, around the corner of the Locker Building, came wild, confusedcries:

  "That's pitching, old man; that's pitching!" "Now, once more; make himhit it!" "Put it over; you can do it!" "Hai, hai, hai! Now you're off!Down with his arm! On your toes, on your toes!" "_Look out!_ Twentyminutes, Mr. Umpire!" "_He's out at first!_"

  Then the cheering began again.

  Mr. Robinson frowned, but kept on his way. He was back of the standsnow. The scene was hidden from the street by a long strip of canvas.He looked about him; the road was deserted hereabouts. He stooped andstrove to look under the canvas, but he saw only a pair of sturdy,red-stockinged legs. The cheering became wild and incoherent, and waspunctuated with hand-clapping and the stamping of many feet on theboards. Mr. Robinson went on at a faster gait, something of excitementappearing in his face. At the gate a few loiterers stood about. Mr.Robinson approached one of them and asked with elaborate indifference:

  "What--ah--what is the score?" "Seven to six in favor of Princeton.They've knocked Miller out of the box."

  "Indeed?" Mr. Robinson glanced at his watch. "I--ah--suppose the gameis about over?"

  "Last of the sixth. There, that's three out. This is the seventh now."From the left somewhere came cheers for Princeton.

  "Thank you." Mr. Robinson turned and went on, followed by long,inspiriting "Ha-a-ar-vards!" But the scenery was not attractiveand the breeze was no longer cool. He stopped, frowned, and gazedabsorbedly at the sidewalk, drawing figures with the end of his cane inthe gravel.

  "It must be very close," he muttered. Then, after a moment, "Jimmiewill be badly disappointed if they're beaten."

  With sudden resolution he stuck his cane under his arm, pulled hiswaistcoat free of wrinkles, and walked quickly, determinedly, back tothe entrance. At the ticket booth he drew a bill from his pocketbookand, in the act of purchasing, recalled his informant of a few minutesbefore. He was still there, craning his head and listening.

  "Here, do you want to see the last of this?" he asked.

  "Yes, sir," was the eager answer.

  "Two tickets, please."

  Mr. Robinson strode through the gate followed by a freckle-faced,rather tattered youth of sixteen, and sought a seat.

  "You come along with me," he said to the boy. "I may want to know whosome of these fellows are."

  Seats were hard to find, but in the end they obtained them on a standback of third base. Mr. Robinson settled his stick between his kneesand looked about him. The triangle of stands was crowded with excitedmen and women; men in straw hats and all sorts of vivid shirts, womenin cool cotton dresses, with here and there a touch of crimson ribbon.The field stretched away green and level as a carpeted floor to theriver and the boathouse. Princeton was at the bat. Mr. Robinson turnedto his new acquaintance.

  "Seven to six, you said?" The boy glanced at the little blackscore-board.

  "Yes, sir, that's right. See? Harvard made three in the first and twoin the third and one in the fifth, and Princeton made three in thethird and four in the fifth. That's when they didn't do a thing toMiller. Gee, I could hear 'em hittin' him outside there! I'd like tobeen inside then, wouldn't you?"

  "Hm, yes," replied Mr. Robinson.

  "Say, what made you so late?" asked the other with a suspicion of agrievance in his voice. "Gee, if I'd been going to this game I bet youI'd been on time!"

  "I--ah--I was detained," replied Mr. Robinson. He realized that theboy held him in some contempt, and knew that it would never do to tellthe whole truth about it; the other would simply look upon him as alunatic. Clearly, too, he owed his acquaintance an apology. "I amsorry that I didn't get here sooner," he said, "so that you could haveseen--ah--more of the contest."

  "So'm I," was the frank response. Then, "Still, maybe if you'd comebefore you wouldn't have taken me in with you?"

  "That's true; maybe I wouldn't have--ah--noticed you. So perhaps it'sjust as well, eh?"

  "Yep. _Hi-i-i!_"

  Mr. Robinson gave attention to the game in time to see the secondPrinceton batter thrown out at first. The stands subsided again, andthe ushers waved their hats and the cheering broke out afresh.

  "Supposing you tell me who some of the men are," suggested Mr. Robinson.

  "Sure thing. That's Hanlon pitching. He's pretty good, but he ain't asgood as Miller, they say. I guess 'Mill' must have had an off day. Andthat's Morton catching. Say, he's a peach!"

  "Indeed?"

  "You bet; a regular top-of-the-basket peacherina! You just keep youreye on him."

  "Thank you, I will," answered the listener. "And the small fellow atfirst base?"

  The boy turned and stared at him, open-eyed and open-mouthed. Then hewhistled softly but with emphasis.

  "Say!" he exclaimed, finally, "where've you been?"

  "Well, I--" Mr. Robinson faltered, and the other gave a grunt ofdisgust.

  "Gee, I thought everybody knew 'Rob'!"

  "Knew----?"

  "'Rob.' His name's Robinson; they call him 'Rob' for short. He's thecaptain, of course. Didn't you know that?"

  "Well, yes, I did, now that you mention it," answered the man humbly."Is--is he pretty good?"

  "Pretty good! Why, he's a star! He's a wonder! He's--" Words failedhim. "Say, you must live in Chelsea!" he said at last.

  "Chelsea?" repeated Mr. Robinson. "No, I don't live there."

  "Anybody'd think you did," muttered the boy.

  The third man went out on a long fly to center field, and Harvardtrotted in to bat.

  "If Harvard loses this game," said the boy, "it'll break her record.She ain't lost one this year. That's Greene going to bat. He ain't muchgood at hittin'; he generally strikes out."

  Greene sustained his reputation, and a tall youth, whom Mr. Robinsonwas informed was Billings, the left-field
er, made a hit to short-stopand reached first by a bad throw. Harvard filled the bases in thatinning and the excitement became intense. A base-hit would bring inthe desired two runs. But the Princeton pitcher wound himself intoknots and untangled himself abruptly and threw wonderful balls, and theumpire, a short, round, little man with a deep voice, yelled "Strike!""Strikes!" "Striker's out!"

  "Aw, thunder!" lamented Mr. Robinson's companion. "That's two gone.Ain't that mean?"

  Mr. Robinson, sitting on the edge of his seat, clutching his canedesperately with both hands, nodded. Over on the other stands, acrossthe diamond, they were standing up and cheering grimly, imploringly.The Harvard short-stop took up his bat and faced the pitcher. Back ofsecond and third bases the coaches were yelling loudly:

  "On your toes, Charlie, on your toes! Go down with his arm! Now you'reoff! _Whoa-a-a!_ Look out for second-baseman! All right! He won't throwit! _Whoa-a-a!_"

  "Strike!" called the umpire.

  "Aw, gee!" muttered the boy.

  "Now, lively. Watch his arm! Come on, come on! _Hi, hi, hi!_ Look outfor passed balls! _Now you're off!_"

  "Strike two," called the umpire.

  Mr. Robinson thumped the boards with his cane.

  Then there came a _crack_ as the batsman found the ball, and the menon bases rushed home. But the arching sphere fell softly into theleft-fielder's hands, and the nines again changed places. Mr. Robinsonand his acquaintance exchanged looks of disgust.

  "Wasn't that rotten?" asked the boy with the freckled face.

  "Awful!" answered Mr. Robinson.

  Nothing happened in either half of the eighth inning, but the suspenseand excitement were intense, nevertheless. Princeton reached secondonce, but that was the end of her chances. Harvard got her first manto first, but the succeeding three struck out. The cheers were hoarse,incessant. The ushers waved hats and arms wildly. And Princeton went tobat for the first of the ninth.

  "Now, then, fellows, get together!" Mr. Robinson recognized his son'svoice, cheerful, hopeful, inspiriting. The Hero was trotting to hisplace at first. "Ginger up, everybody, and shut them out!"

  "All right, Cap!" "We've got them on the run, Cap!" "Lucky ninth, Rob!"The in-fielders were answering with the same cheerful assumption ofconfidence. To the right of Mr. Robinson a section of the stand waswaving orange and black streamers and flags, and cheering joyously. ThePrinceton pitcher stepped to the plate.

  But Hanlon, if he wasn't the equal of the deposed Miller, was on hismettle. The batter had two strikes called on him, and then struckat a deceptive drop. The ball thumped into the hands of Morton, the"top-of-the-basket peacherina."

  "Striker's out," droned the little man in black.

  Then came a long hit over short-stop's head and the batsman reachedfirst without hurrying. A moment later he had stolen second. The nextman sent him to third, but was put out himself at first.

  "Gee, a hit will bring him in, won't it?" asked the boy. "But there'stwo out. Maybe----"

  The man at bat had found a high ball and had sent it whizzing down thebase-line, eight feet or more in the air. The man on third was speedinghome, the runner racing for first. The Hero threw his arms over hishead and jumped lightly off his toes. The next instant he was rollinghead over heels, but one hand was held triumphantly aloft and in it wasthe ball.

  "_He's out!_" called the umpire.

  The panting, weary crimson-legged players trotted in amid a salvo ofapplause. Mr. Robinson was beaming proudly, delightedly across at theHero. The boy was shouting absurdly and beating the planks with hisheels.

  "Gee, if they can only make two runs they'll have 'em beaten!" hecried, excitedly.

  "Yes," said Mr. Robinson; "do you think they can?"

  "I dunno. Maybe they can. Say, didn't I tell you that 'Rob' was acorker? Did you see that catch? That wasn't anything for him; I've seenhim do better stunts than that; that was just ordinary, that was!"

  Now had come Harvard's last chance. After the one round of cheeringthat greeted the first man at the plate, silence fell. The man wasMorton, the catcher, and he struck out miserably, and turned awaytoward the bench with wobegone countenance. The Harvard second-basemantook his place. With two strikes and two balls called on him, he hitout a straight grounder between second-baseman and short-stop andreached first by a good margin. The next man struck at the first balland it passed the catcher. The man on first took second. Then thePrinceton pitcher steadied down.

  "Strike two," said the umpire.

  Then the batter hit at a low ball and popped it high and straight overthe base. The audience held their breath. Down--down it came plump intothe catcher's hands.

  "Two gone," groaned the boy with the freckled face. And then, "Hi! Herecomes 'Rob'!"

  The Hero was picking out a bat, carefully, calmly, and the stands wereshouting "_Robinson! Robinson! Robinson!_" hoarsely, entreatingly. TheHero settled his cap firmly, wiped his hands in the dust and grippedhis bat. Then he stood, blue-eyed, yellow-haired, smiling, confrontingthe Princeton pitcher. The latter doubled and unbent.

  "Ball," droned the umpire. The Hero tapped the base and smiledpleasantly. The pitcher studied him thoughtfully, while the catcherknelt and beat his mitten in signal for a "drop." Again the pitcherwent through his evolutions, again the ball sped toward the plate. Thenthere was a loud, sharp _crack_!

  High and far sailed the sphere. The Hero's crimson stockings twinkledthrough the dust as he turned first and raced for second. The man whohad been on second crossed the plate. The stands were sloping banksof swaying, shrieking humanity. Far out in the green field beyond thecenter's position the ball fell, a good ten feet beyond the franticpursuers. Then the center-fielder seized it and hurled it in toshort-stop with a hard, swift throw that made the runner's chances ofreaching the plate look dim. But he was past third and still runninglike a twenty-yard sprinter, while along the line beside him ran andleaped and shouted two coaches:

  "_Come on, Cap! Come on! You can do it, Cap! You can do it! Run hard!Hard!_"

  Short-stop swung, and threw straight and sure toward where the catcher,with outstretched arms and eager white face, awaited it above thedust-hidden plate. Ball and runner sped goalward. The stands werebedlams of confused shouts and cries. Mr. Robinson was on his feet withthe rest, his hat in one hand, his gold-mounted cane in the other. Hehad been shrieking with the rest, stamping with them, waving withthem. His face was red and his eyes wide with excitement. And now hemeasured the distance from ball to plate, from plate to runner, withdarting glances, and raised his voice in one final, triumphant effort:

  "_Slide, Jimmie! Slide!_"

  Above the riot of sound arose that despairing command. The ballthumped against the catcher's mit and his arm swung swiftly outwardand downward. But it didn't hit the runner. He was sprawling face downabove the plate in a cloud of brown dust. Jimmie had slid.

  "Safe!" cried the umpire.

  * * * * *

  Two hours later the Hero and his father were at dinner in a Bostonhotel. Mr. Robinson dropped a crumb into his empty soup-plate andsmiled across the table in the manner of one well pleased with theworld.

  "I haven't seen a game of baseball like that, Jimmie," he said, "sincewe won the class championship back in '73." He looked reminiscent for amoment; then asked suddenly: "By the way, didn't you say they'd makeyou captain again next year?"

  "They will, if I'll take it, sir."

  "If you'll take it! What's to prevent your taking it? Don't be a fool,Jimmie!"

  The Hero applied his napkin to his lips to hide a smile.

  "Very well, sir," he replied, gravely, "I won't."