At the Old Ballgame Page 6

  Then those Chicago sluggers began to take notice. Pat Tebeau saw that the boy he mistook for a clown was a real jewel in the rough. The boy won that game. He made the White Stockings look like a young simian trying to shave. That night the young lad’s name was on every tongue. He was Cy Young, farmer, who became a famous baseball pitcher in one day, and who has been making good ever since.

  Young is a farmer yet. He cultivates his broad acres in Ohio and is well off.

  Varsity Frank

  Burt L. Standish

  A day or two later came the very thing that had been anticipated and discussed, since the freshman game at Cambridge. Merriwell was selected as one of the pitchers on the “Varsity nine, and the freshmen lost him from their team.

  Putnam came out frankly and confessed that he had feared something of the kind, all along, and Frank was in no mood to kick over his past treatment, so nothing was said on that point.

  In the first game against a weaker team than Harvard, Merriwell was tried in the box and pitched a superb game, which Yale won in a walk.

  Big Hugh Heffiner, the regular pitcher, whose arm was in a bad way, complimented Merriwell on his work, which he said was “simply great.”

  Of course Frank felt well, as for him there was no sport he admired so much as baseball; but he remained the same old Merriwell, and his freshmen comrades could not see the least change in his manner.

  The second game of the series with Harvard came off within a week, but Frank got cold in his arm, and he was not in the best possible condition to go into the box. This he told Pierson, and as Heffiner had almost entirely recovered, Frank was left on the bench.

  The ‘Varsity team had another pitcher, who was known as Dad Hicks. He was a man about twenty-eight years old, and looked even older, hence the nickname of Dad.

  The man was most erratic and could not be relied upon. Sometimes he would do brilliant work, and at other time children could have batted him all over the lot. He was used only in desperate emergencies, and could not be counted on in a pinch.

  During the whole of the second game with Harvard Frank sat on the bench, ready to go into the box if called on. At first it looked as if he would have to go in, for the Harvard boys fell upon Heffiner and pounded him severely for two innings. Then Hugh braced up and pitched the game through to the end in brilliant style, Yale winning by a score of ten to seven.

  Heffiner, however, was forced to bathe his arm in witch hazel frequently, and as he went toward the box for the last time he said to Frank with a rueful smile:

  “You’ll have to get into shape to pitch the last game of the series with these chaps. My arm is the same as gone now, and I’ll finish it this inning. We must win this game anyway, regardless of arms, so here goes.”

  He could barely get the balls over the plate, but he used his head in a wonderful manner, and the slow ball proved a complete puzzle for Harvard after they had been batting speed all through the game, so they got but one safe hit off Heffiner that inning and no scores.

  There was a wild jubilee at Yale that night. A bonfire was built on the campus, and the students blew horns, sang songs, cheered for “good ole Yale,” and had a real lively time.

  One or two of the envious ones asked about Merriwell—why he was not allowed to pitch. Even Hartwick, a sophomore who had disliked Frank from the first, more than hinted that the freshman pitcher was being made sport of, and that he would not be allowed to go into the box when Yale was playing a team of any consequence.

  Jack Diamond overheard the remark, and he promptly offered to bet Hartwick any sum that Merriwell would pitch the next game against Harvard.

  Diamond was a freshman, and so he received a calling down from Hartwick, who told him he was altogether too new. But as Hartwick strolled away, Diamond quietly said:

  “I may be new, sir, but I back up any talk I make. There are others who do not, sir.”

  Hartwick made no reply.

  As the third and final game of the series was to be played on neutral ground, there had been some disagreement about the location, but Springfield had finally been decided upon, and accepted by Yale and Harvard.

  Frank did his best to keep his arm in good condition for that game, something which Pierson approved. Hicks was used as much as possible in all other games, but Frank found it necessary to pull one or two off the coals for him.

  Heffiner had indeed used his arm up in the grand struggle to win the second game from Harvard—the game that it was absolutely necessary for Yale to secure. He tended that arm as if it were a baby, but it had been strained severely and it came into shape very slowly. As soon as possible he tried to do a little throwing every day, but it was some time before he could get a ball more than ten or fifteen feet.

  It became generally known that Merriwell would have to pitch at Springfield, beyond a doubt, and the greatest anxiety was felt at Yale. Every man had confidence in Heffiner, but it was believed by the majority that the freshman was still raw, and therefore was liable to make a wretched fizzle of it.

  Heffiner did not think so. He coached Merriwell almost every day, and his confidence in Frank increased.

  “The boy is all right,” was all he would say about it, but that did not satisfy the anxious ones.

  During the week before the deciding game was to come off Heffiner’s arm improved more rapidly than it had at any time before, and scores of men urged Pierson to put Old Reliable, as Hugh was sometimes called, into the box.

  A big crowd went up to Springfield on the day of the great game, but the “sons of Old Eli” were far from confident, although they were determined to root for their team to the last gasp.

  The most disquieting rumors had been afloat concerning Harvard. It was said her team was in a third better condition than at the opening of the season, when she took the first game from Yale; and it could not be claimed with honesty that the Yale team was apparently in any better shape. Although she had won the second game of the series with Harvard, her progress had not been satisfactory.

  A monster crowd had gathered to witness the deciding game. Blue and crimson were the prevailing colors. On the bleachers at one side of the grandstand sat hundreds upon hundreds of Harvard men, cheering all together and being answered by the hundreds of Yale men on the other side of the grand stand. There were plenty of ladies and citizens present and the scene was inspiring. A band of music served to quicken the blood in the veins which were already throbbing.

  There was short preliminary practice, and then at exactly three o’clock the umpire walked down behind the home plate and called: “Play ball!”

  Yale took the field, and as the boys in blue trotted out, the familiar Yale yell broke from hundreds of throats. Blue pennants were wildly fluttering, the band was playing a lively air and for the moment it seemed as if the sympathy of the majority of the spectators was with Yale.

  But when Hinkley, Harvard’s great single hitter, who always headed the batting list, walked out with his pet “wagon tongue,” a different sound swept over the multitude, and the air seemed filled with crimson pennants.

  Merriwell went into the box, and the umpire broke open a pasteboard box, brought out a ball that was wrapped in tin foil, removed the covering, and tossed the snowy sphere to the freshman pitcher Yale had so audaciously stacked up against Harvard.

  Frank looked the box over, examined the rubber plate, and seemed to make himself familiar with every inch of the ground in his vicinity. Then he faced Hinkley, and a moment later delivered the first ball.

  Hinkley smashed it on the nose, and it was past Merriwell in a second, skipping along the ground and passing over second base just beyond the baseman’s reach, although he made a good run for it.

  The center fielder secured the ball and returned it to second, but Hinkley had made a safe single off the very first ball delivered.

  Harvard roared, while the Yale crowd
was silent.

  A great mob of freshmen was up from New Haven to see the game and watch Merriwell’s work, and some of them immediately expressed disappointment and dismay.

  “Here is where Merriwell meets his Waterloo,” said Sport Harris. “He’ll be batted out before the game is fairly begun.”

  That was quite enough to arouse Rattleton, who heard the remark.

  “I’ll bet you ten dollars he isn’t batted out at all,” spluttered Harry, fiercely. “Here’s my money, too!”

  “Make it twenty-five and I will go you,” drawled Harris.

  “All right, I’ll make it twenty-five.”

  The money was staked.

  Derry, also a heavy hitter, was second on Harvard’s list. Derry had a bat that was as long and as large as the regulations would permit, and as heavy as lead; yet, despite the weight of the stick, the strapping Vermonter handled it as if it were a feather.

  Frank sent up a coaxer, but Derry refused to be coaxed. The second ball was high, but Derry cracked it for two bags, and Hinkley got around to third.

  It began to seem as if Merriwell would be batted out in the first inning, and the Yale crowd looked weary and disgusted at the start.

  The next batter fouled out, however, and the next one sent a red-hot liner directly at Merriwell. There was no time to get out of the way, so Frank caught it, snapped the ball to third, found Hinkley off the bag, and retired the side without a score.

  This termination of the first half of the inning was so swift and unexpected that it took some seconds for the spectators to realize what had happened. When they did, however, Yale was wildly cheered.

  “What do you think about it now, Harris?” demanded Harry, exultantly.

  “I think Merriwell saved his neck by a dead lucky catch,” was the answer. “If he had missed the ball he would have been removed within five minutes.”

  Pierson, who was sitting on the bench, was looking doubtful, and he held a consultation with Costigan, captain of the team, as soon as the latter came in from third base.

  Costigan asked Frank how he felt, and Merriwell replied that he had never felt better in his life, so it was decided to let him see what he could do in the box the next inning.

  Yedding, who was in the box for Harvard, could not have been in better condition, and the first three Yale men to face him went out in one-two-three order, making the first inning a whitewash for both sides.

  As Merriwell went into the box the second time there were cries for Heffiner, who was on the bench, ready to pitch if forced to do so, for all of the fact that it might ruin his arm forever, so far as ball playing was concerned.

  In trying to deceive the first man up Merriwell gave him three balls in succession. Then he was forced to put them over. He knew the batter would take one or two, and so he sent two straight, swift ones directly over, and two strikes were called.

  Then came the critical moment, for the next ball pitched would settle the matter. Frank sent in a rise and the batter struck at it, missed it, and was declared out, the ball having landed with a “plunk” in the hands of the catcher.

  The next batter got first on a single, but the third man sent an easy one to Frank, who gathered it in, threw the runner out at second, and the second baseman sent the ball to first in time to retire the side on a double play.

  “You are all right, Merriwell, old man,” enthusiastically declared Heffiner, as Frank came in to the bench. “They haven’t been able to score off you yet, and they won’t be able to touch you at all after you get into gear.”

  Pierson was relieved, and Costigan looked well satisfied.

  “Now we must have some scores, boys,” said the captain.

  But Yedding showed that he was out for blood, for he allowed but one safe hit, and again retired Yale without a score.

  Surely it was a hot game, and excitement was running high. Would Harvard be able to score the next time? That was the question everybody was asking.

  Yedding came to the bat in this inning, and Merriwell struck him out with ease, while not another man got a safe hit, although one got first on the shortstop’s error.

  The Yale crowd cheered like Indians when Harvard was shut out for the third time, the freshmen seeming to yell louder than all the others. They originated a cry which was like this:

  “He is doing very well! Who? Why, Merriwell!”

  Merriwell was the first man up, and Yedding did his best to get square by striking the freshman out. In this he was successful, much to his satisfaction.

  But no man got a hit, and the third inning ended as had the others, neither side having made a run.

  The fourth opened in breathless suspense, but it was quickly over, neither side getting a man beyond second.

  It did not seem possible that this thing could continue much longer, but the fifth inning brought the same result, although Yale succeeded in getting a man to third with only one out. An attempt to sacrifice him home failed, and a double play was made, retiring the side.

  Harvard opened the sixth by batting a ball straight at Yale’s shortstop, who played tag with it, chasing it around his feet long enough to allow the batter to reach first. It was not a hit, but an error for short.

  This seemed to break the Yale team up somewhat. The runner tried for second on the first ball pitched, and Yale’s catcher overthrew, although he had plenty of time to catch the man. The runner kept on to third and got it on a slide.

  Now Harvard rejoiced. Although he had not obtained a hit, the man had reached third on two errors, and there was every prospect of scoring.

  Merriwell did not seem to lose his temper or his coolness. He took plenty of time to let everybody get quieted down, and then he quickly struck out the next man. The third man, however, managed to hit the ball fairly and knocked a fly into left field. It was gathered in easily, but the man on third held the bag till the fly was caught and made a desperate dash for home.

  The left fielder threw well, and the ball struck in the catcher’s mitt. It did not stick, however, and the catcher lost the only opportunity to stop the score.

  Harvard had scored at last!

  The Harvard cheer rent the air, and crimson fluttered on all sides.

  Frank struck out the next man, and then Yale came to bat, resolved to do or die. But they did not do much. Yedding was as good as ever, and the fielders gathered in anything that came their way.

  At the end of the eighth inning the score remained one to nothing in Harvard’s favor. It looked as if Yale would receive a shut out, and that was something awful to contemplate. The “sons of Old Eli” were ready to do anything to win a score or two.

  In the first half of the ninth Harvard went at it to make some more runs. One man got a hit, stole second, and went to third on an error that allowed the batter to reach first.

  Sport Harris had been disappointed when Merriwell continued to remain in the box, but now he said:

  “He’s rattled. Here’s where they kill him.”

  But Frank proved that he was not rattled. He tricked the man on third into getting off the bag and then threw him out in a way that brought a yell of delight from Yale men. That fixed it so the next batter could not sacrifice with the object of letting the man on third home. Then he got down to business, and Harvard was whitewashed for the last time.

  “Oh, if Yale can score now!” muttered hundreds.

  The first man up flied out to center, and the next man was thrown out at first. That seemed to settle it. The spectators were making preparations to leave. The Yale bat-tender, with his face long and doleful, was gathering up the sticks.

  What’s that? The next man got a safe hit, a single that placed him on first. Then Frank Merriwell was seen carefully selecting a bat.

  “Oh, if he were a heavy hitter!” groaned many voices.

  Yedding was confident—much too confident. He l
aughed in Frank’s face. He did not think it necessary to watch the man on first closely, and so that man found an opportunity to steal second.

  Two strikes and two balls had been called. Then Yedding sent in a swift one to cut the inside corner. Merriwell swung at it.

  Crack! Bat and ball met fairly, and away sailed the sphere over the head of the shortstop.

  “Run!”

  That word was a roar. No need to tell Frank to run. In a moment he was scudding down to first, while the left fielder was going back for the ball which had passed beyond his reach. Frank kept on for second. There was so much noise he could not hear the coachers, but he saw the fielder had not secured the ball. He made third, and the excited coacher sent him home with a furious gesture.

  Every man, woman and child was standing. It seemed as if every one was shouting and waving flags, hats, or handkerchiefs. It was a moment of such thrilling, nerve-tingling excitement as is seldom experienced. If Merriwell reached home Yale won; if he failed, the score was tied, for the man in advance had scored.

  The fielder had secured the ball, he drove it to the shortstop, and shortstop whirled and sent it whistling home. The catcher was ready to stop Merriwell.

  “Slide!”

  That word Frank heard above all the commotion. He did slide. Forward he scooted in a cloud of dust. The catcher got the ball and put it onto Frank—an instant too late!

  A sudden silence.

  “Safe home!” rang the voice of the umpire.

  Then another roar, louder, wilder, full of unbounded joy! The Yale cheer! The band drowned by all the uproar! The sight of sturdy lads in blue, delirious with delight, hugging a dust-covered youth, lifting him to their shoulders, and bearing him away in triumph. Merriwell had won his own game, and his record was made. It was a glorious finish!

  “Never saw anything better,” declared Harry. “Frank, you are a wonder!”

  “He is that!” declared several others. “Old Yale can’t get along without him.”