CHAPTER VIII
ON DIAMOND AND RIVER
The track meet was over, and Hopevale had scored three points towardthe cup. Another victory, either in the ball game or the boat race,and the competition would be ended. And this victory they were bent onwinning, while the other two schools were equally determined to wipeout defeat, and to overcome their rival's lead, in the three contestswhich remained.
On the Saturday after the track games came the first round in thebase-ball league. Luck was with Fenton; they had the good fortune todraw the bye, and the small party of boys who went to see the gamebetween Clinton and Hopevale was composed largely of experts, anxiousto "get a line" on the opposing teams, and to note the strong and weakpoints in their play.
Until the last two innings it was a close and interesting contest.Prescott, the Clinton pitcher, proved a puzzle to his opponents,but his support was none of the best; and thus, while the Clintonteam hit the Hopevale pitcher freely, the home nine, on the otherhand, put up a splendid fielding game, and for seven innings the scorewas a tie, five to five. And then, in the eighth, there came, forHopevale, one of those unhappy times, when things go from bad to worsewith the rapidity of lightning. A base hit, a base on balls, and asacrifice put men on second and third, with only one out; and then aclean two-bagger between center and right scored them both. Afterwhich the Hopevale team, in the slang of the game, "went up into theair."
On the next play their short-stop, in an endeavor to catch the runnercoming from second base, threw wild to third; another base on ballsfollowed; and then, just at the psychological moment, Ferguson, theheavy hitter of the Clinton team, sent a screaming three-bagger farover the center-fielder's head. Altogether, by the time Hopevale hadsteadied again, and the inning had ended, they found the score elevento five against them; and although they made one run in the eighth,and another in the ninth, that was all, and it was Clinton's game,eleven to seven. Supporters of both Fenton and Clinton breathed again.One of them would win, and the other lose, but Hopevale, their commonenemy, had not yet secured the cup.
The succeeding Saturday was the banner day of the sports. Ten o'clockin the morning was the time set for the final ball game; and the boatrace was scheduled for three in the afternoon. The ball game wasplayed on the Clinton grounds, yet four carloads of spectators wentdown from Fenton to cheer for their nine, and filled a good-sizedsection of the grandstand with their crimson flags. Jim Putnam, withthe rest of the crew, stayed at home, to store up the last final ounceof energy for the afternoon. Dick, Allen, Brewster and Lindsay sattogether, watching the tall and ungainly Prescott going through hisgyrations as he warmed up for the game. He appeared, as Allenremarked, to be a "tough proposition." His delivery was so deceptivelyeasy that one scarcely realized the speed and power behind it, untilthe ball struck, with a vicious "thut," in the catcher's glove. Andhis curves looked as formidable as his speed. Brewster sighed as hewatched him. "Now how are they going to hit a fellow like that?" heasked.
Allen, the optimistic, made haste to answer, "Oh, you can't tell," hesaid, "he may get tired before he gets through. And we've got a betterfielding team than they have, I know. Besides, when you're talkingabout pitchers, Ed Nichols is no slouch. You can bet they won't knockhim out of the box. Our show is as good as theirs."
As he spoke, the umpire consulted for a moment with Jarvis, the Fentoncaptain, and Crawford, the leader of the Clinton team. Then the coinspun upward into the air, and immediately the Clinton playersscattered to their positions in the field, and the Fenton nine tooktheir places on the visitors' bench. "There," said Brewster, "bad luckto start with. We've lost the toss."
There followed the tense hush which always precedes the beginning of achampionship game. The umpire tossed out a new ball, which theelongated Prescott at once proceeded to deface by rubbing it around,with great thoroughness, in the dirt. Abbot, the Fenton short-stop,stepped to the plate, and the umpire gave the time-honored command,"Play ball!"
The redoubtable Prescott eyed the batsman for an instant with whatseemed to the Fenton crowd a glare of hate, held the ball extendedbefore him, then, in Allen's phrase, "tied himself up into a number ofdouble bow-knots," and let fly. Abbot made no attempt to strike atthe ball; it appeared to be traveling too high; yet just before itreached the plate it shot quickly downward, and the umpire called,"Strike--one."
At the second ball Abbot made a terrific lunge, but met only the air,and a moment later, as Stevens, the Clinton catcher, moved up behindthe bat, a fast inshoot neatly cut the corner of the plate, and withthe words, "Strike--three--striker out," Abbot walked dejectedly backto the bench.
Crosby, the second man up, had slightly better fortune, for, as Allenremarked, in an endeavor to keep up the courage of the others, "he hada nice little run for his money," hitting an easy grounder to secondbase, and being thrown out at first. Sam Eliot, the third man to facePrescott, followed Abbot's example, and struck out. The Fenton half ofthe inning ended in gloom.
Now came Clinton's turn at the bat. Bates, the first man up, had twostrikes called on him, and then hit a clean, swift ball over secondbase, and reached first in safety. Crawford, the Clinton captain,bunted, advancing Bates to second. Then Nichols settled down to work,and Davenport, the third batsman, was retired on strikes. Two out, aman on second, and Ferguson, the much-dreaded heavy hitter, at thebat, Nichols and Jarvis held consultation, and as a result Fergusonwas given his base on balls. It seemed good generalship, yet in thesequel, it proved unfortunate, for Gilbert, the next man up, made atremendous drive far out into center field and never stopped runninguntil he had reached third, while Bates and Ferguson crossed theplate. The Clinton section of the grandstand became delirious withenthusiasm, in the midst of which Manning, the sixth man at bat forthe home team, hit weakly to Nichols, and was thrown out at first. Twoto nothing. It looked like Clinton's day.
Nor did Fenton's chances seem brighter in the second. Again three mencame to bat, and again they were retired, without one of them reachingfirst. Yet there was comfort in the latter half of the inning, forNichols steadied down, and proved as much of a puzzle as Prescotthimself. The Clinton men, in their turn, went out in one, two, threeorder, and the hopes of the Fenton supporters faintly revived.
Four more innings passed without another run being scored. It was agenuine pitchers' battle, man after man, on either side, striking out,hitting easy grounders to the infield, or popping up abortive flies.The beginning of the seventh, however, brought a change. Jarvis wasthe first man at bat for Fenton, and he started things auspiciously bymaking a pretty single, close along the third base foul line. Itseemed like the time for taking chances, and on the next ball pitched,he started for second, and aided by a poor throw by Stevens, theClinton catcher, made it in safety. Taylor, the next man at bat,struck a sharp, bounding grounder toward second base, and the Hopevalesecond-baseman ingloriously let it go through his legs. The Fentoncrowd in the grandstand, long deprived of a chance to cheer, shoutedthemselves hoarse. A man on third, and one on first, and no one out.The chances for tying the score looked bright.
At this point, however, Prescott exerted all his skill. Warren,coached to hit the ball at any cost, tried his best, but in vain. Onestrike--one ball--two strikes--two balls--three strikes, and out. Itwas Clinton's turn to exult. Nichols, the weakest batsman on theFenton team, was next in order, and to the surprise of friends andfoes alike, he made as pretty a single over short-stop's head as onecould have wished to see, scoring Jarvis and advancing Taylor tosecond. Then came Abbot's turn, and this time he had his revenge fortwo successive strike-outs by making a long drive between left andcenter, good for two bases, and bringing Taylor and Nichols home.Fenton was in the lead, and the grandstand became a mass of blazingcrimson. Such a batting streak, however, was too good to last. Crosbyhit a pop fly to Prescott, and Eliot struck out. Yet Fenton was wellcontent. Three to two; and only two innings and a half to play.
Clinton's half of the seventh
resulted in no score; and in the eighthboth sides retired in order, Prescott and Nichols again on theirmettle, and pitching as if their very lives depended on the outcome ofthe game. In the ninth Fenton made a splendid effort to increase theirlead. With two out, and with men on second and third, Crosby hit aliner that looked good enough to score both men, and then Bates, theClinton short-stop, pulled off the star play of the game, leaping highinto the air, and getting his right hand on the ball just at the onepossible moment--a clean, sensational catch that set the followers ofboth schools cheering, and stopped the Fenton scoring where it stood.
Then came the last of the ninth. The inning opened well for Fenton.Prescott hit a long fly to center field, which Irwin captured withoutdifficulty. Bates bunted, and aided by his fleetness of foot, beat theball to first. Crawford struck out. The game was almost won, and thencame one of those sudden plays, that in a flash changes a defeat intoa victory. Davenport swung on the first ball pitched, met it fair andsquare, with a crack that sounded like a rifle shot, and lifted it, asif on wings, clear over the left field fence. Red and black had itsturn; flags waved; throats grew hoarse with cheering; Bates joggedhome, and Davenport made the circuit of the bases at sprinting speed,while the crowd poured out on the field and bore him away on theirshoulders in triumph. The game was ended--four to three--and Clintonwas even with Hopevale for the cup. It was a silent procession ofFenton followers who walked down from the field, to take the train forhome.
An hour later Dick entered Putnam's room, to find his classmatestretched, resting, on the bed. He looked up eagerly. "Well?" hequeried.
Dick shook his head. "They licked us," he answered, "but there's nokick coming. It was a dandy game. I never want to see a better one. Itlooked as if we had it--" and he went over the whole story forPutnam's benefit, detailing every play, as it had occurred. "And sothey licked us," he concluded, "and now, Jim, it seems to be mosteverlastingly up to you."
Putnam rose and began to pace up and down the room. "That's about thesize of it," he answered, "and, thank goodness, we've got no hard luckstories to tell. We're in good shape--every one of us--and right onedge, too. If we're licked, it's because they've got better crews.But, by golly," he added, "they've got to go some, Dick. I don't careif I row the whole crew out, and we don't come to for a week, butwe'll do our darndest, anyway. It's make or break, now."
Dick nodded. "Yes, it's win or nothing," he said; "but I'm glad of onething. I guess Clinton's got a better crew than Hopevale, and if we_can't_ win, then the cup goes to Clinton. And our old friend, Dave,can win all the Pentathlons he likes; it won't do him any good then.But we won't back down till we have to. You may lick 'em, after all."
Putnam squared his shoulders. "Dick," he said solemnly, "you watch usin the last half-mile, and if you can come to me afterward, and tellme that I didn't hit things up to the last notch, then you can hold myhead under water till I drown. If I don't do my level best, and thensome, I'm a Dutchman."
Dick laughed. "I'll watch you, all right," he answered, "but not tocriticize; only to yell for all I'm worth, whether you're ahead orbehind. We're with you, Jim, win or lose. The crowd of us have hired alaunch, so if our moral support is going to help you any, on your waydown the river, why you'll know you've got it."
The time before the race dragged away somehow, and shortly beforethree, the launch, with Allen, Brewster, Lindsay and Dick on board,came to a halt, with a dozen other craft, off the starting buoys,marking the beginning of the two-mile course. It was the perfection ofracing weather, the water calm and smooth as a mirror, yet with thesky overcast, so as to temper the heat of the sun. One by one thecrews came paddling out from the big boat-house on the shore. Firstcame Hopevale, their blue-bladed oars dipping prettily together, andthe blue cap on their coxswain's head making them easy to distinguishfrom the others. After them came Clinton, the winners of the previousyear, a rangy, speedy-looking crew, their red and black jerseyslooming up more prominently than the quieter colors of their rivals.And last of all, their own boat left the shore, Blagden at bow,Selfridge at two, "Big" Smith at three, and Putnam at stroke. Little"Skeeter" Brown, the eighty-pound coxswain, sat in the stern,megaphone strapped around his head, his big, long-visored crimsonjockey cap pulled down about his ears.
The referee's launch tooted a warning blast. The three crews increasedtheir speed a trifle, and one by one took up their positions, Hopevaleon the outside, Clinton in the middle, Fenton nearest the boat-houseshore. The coxswains gripped the starting-lines, the referee talkedbriefly to the three captains in turn, and then, backing his launch,made ready to give the signal for the start. It was a pretty sight:the rival crews, tense and ready, awaiting the word; the little fleetof pleasure craft which was to follow in their wake; on shore theeager enthusiasts who were to pursue them on bicycles or in motorsalong the bank. And Dick, as he gazed around him, could not but thinkof that other crowd, waiting so eagerly at the finish, two miles away,and turning the sober old river into a garden of variegated color,with the flags and ribbons of the different schools.
The referee's right arm was outlined in silhouette against the sky. Amoment's silence and then the pistol cracked, the little wreath ofsmoke curled upward, and the twelve oars caught the water like one. Atooting of whistles, a medley of shouts and cheers; the race was on.
The boys stood well forward, as the bow of their launch cut throughthe water, their eyes fixed on the three crews, as they shot away downstream. Clinton had the lead, that was already evident. They hadgained it in the first half-dozen strokes, and had increased it, firstto a quarter length, then to a half, Hopevale and Fenton fighting, bowand bow, for second place. For a quarter-mile they kept the samepositions, and then, all at once, Hopevale--the crew the boys hadrated as the least dangerous--took a sudden spurt. Quickening theirstroke perceptibly, they drew away from Fenton, then came even withClinton, and finally were a clear length in the lead. "Look at 'em!"cried Lindsay. "I didn't know they could row like that. Look at 'emgo!"
Allen eyed them critically. Their boat did not move as smoothly as theothers; there was a perceptible roll from side to side; there was somesplashing by bow and two; yet for all that, the crew was made up ofbig, strong oarsmen, and despite their evident lack of form, theydrove their shell ahead at a tremendous pace. But Allen shook hishead. "They won't last," he said. "They'll be rowed out at a mile."
Dick hastened to dissent. "I don't believe it, Harry," he replied. "Atwo-mile race isn't like a four-mile. I think they can hold that pace,and if they do, they'll win. Look at 'em 'dig. There! There goesClinton after 'em! Why doesn't Jim hit 'er up, too? There! Now he'squickened. Oh, good boy, Jim! That's the stuff! Soak it to 'em!"
He was shouting as if he fancied Putnam could hear every word he said,unmindful of the fact that every one else around him was shouting aswell. Hopevale had drawn away still more, and then, as a half-lengthof open water showed between them and Clinton, the Clinton crew had atlast begun to quicken in their turn. Slowly they drew up on theleaders, and then, just as Dick had begun his yells of encouragement,for the first time Putnam had raised his stroke, and the three boatspassed the mile-post with Hopevale a length ahead, and Clinton ahalf-length in front of the Fenton crew.
For another quarter-mile there was practically no change. Brewsterbegan to worry. "Why doesn't Jim spurt?" he cried. "If Hopevale keepsit up, they win. It's only a quarter-mile to the turn."
Sure enough, they could see, ahead of them, the bend that marked thelast half-mile of the course. Yet still Putnam did not quicken; infact, he dropped back a trifle, and the boys' hearts sank like lead.Only Dick, remembering what Putnam had said to him that morning, keptrepeating to himself, "The last half-mile; the last half-mile."
And now, into the swarm of boats along the banks, into the noise anddin of the crowds, the three crews steered around the bend, andsquared away for home. The race between Clinton and Hopevale was soclose and pretty to watch that for a moment the boys had taken theireyes off their own crew; and then, suddenly, Dick
began shouting likea maniac, "Oh, Jim, give it to 'em! That's the boy, Jim! Give it to'em! That's the boy!"
With one accord the others turned, and the next moment were joining inRandall's frenzied cries. For the spurt had come at last. Putnam hadcut loose with every ounce of power at his command; Big Smith at threewas backing him gallantly, passing forward the heightened stroke, andSelfridge and Blagden were quickening like heroes in their turn. Norwere the boys in the launch the only ones to note the change. All theshouts of the crowd had been, "Hopevale! Clinton!" Yet now there camea roar from the banks, "Oh, well rowed! Well rowed, Fenton! Go in! Goin and win!"
Never did Randall forget that last half-mile. Gallantly the Hopevaleboys stuck to their work, yet the smooth, persistent power of theClinton boat was not to be denied, and a quarter-mile from homeHopevale was a beaten crew. And then, as they fell back, defeated, butgame, all eyes were turned on the boys from Fenton. Never for aninstant did Putnam falter; such a stroke as he was setting had notbeen seen on the river for many and many a year. And strive as Clintonwould, they fell back, inch by inch, foot by foot, and the finish buttwo hundred yards away. Now the bows of the shells were even, now foran instant Clinton showed again in the lead, and then, with one finaleffort, the Fenton shell leaped forward again and again. A wild burstof whistles, shrieking horns, shouting hundreds on the shore, and by aquarter boat length, the Fenton crew had won.
Half an hour later, Putnam was riding home with his friends, tired,exhausted, but happy as a boy could be. "Well, old man," Dick said tohim, "I'm not going to drown you. You did what you said you'd do. Thelast half-mile; that's where you fixed 'em."
Putnam nodded. "Thank goodness," he said, "for once I rowed just therace I meant to. I couldn't have beaten that time a second for amillion dollars. And, golly, wasn't it close? I don't see how we didit. But we did. Three points apiece, and only the Pentathlon left.Dick, old man, the rest of us have done our darndest. And now it'syour turn; it's up to you."
Dick Randall, the Young Athlete Page 8