Payson appeared on Monday and took up his lodgings in the village. But, as events proved, he might just as well have delayed his arrival for another week, for on Sunday morning it began to rain as though it meant to flood the country, and it continued practically without interruption until Wednesday night. By that time the river was over its banks, Meeker’s Marsh was a lake, the athletic field was like a sponge, and outdoor practice was impossible. The work in the cage went on, but the fellows were getting tired of it, and longed for sod under foot and sky overhead. Payson didn’t waste that week, by any means, but, with the first game only a fortnight off, the enforced confinement to the gymnasium was discouraging.
John Payson was about thirty years of age, and weighed in the neighborhood of two hundred pounds. He was large, broad-shouldered, and, in spite of his weight, alert and quick of movement. He had played baseball and football in his[160] college days, first at Cornell, and later, as a graduate student, at Yale. “Whopper” Payson was his name in those days, and for two years he had made the All-America Football team as a guard. While at Cornell he had caught for two years on the Varsity Baseball nine, and they still remember him there as one of the best. During his five years as coach at Yardley he had helped at three football and two baseball victories over Broadwood. It would be an exaggeration to say that Payson was universally popular at Yardley. He was a good deal of a martinet, had a quick temper and a sharp tongue. But he was just in his dealings with the fellows, was a hard worker, and as unsparing of himself as of his charges. The older boys, those who had known him longer, liked him thoroughly, while the younger fellows, many of whom blamed him for their inability to make the teams, called him hard names.
The baseball candidates finally got out of doors a week later than expected. By this time the April sky appeared to have emptied itself of rain, and a warm sun was busy drying up the sodden land. The fellows felt and acted like colts that first afternoon. It was bully to feel the springy turf underfoot, to smell the moist fragrance of growing things, and to have the west wind capering about the field. Even a full hour and a half[161] of hard work failed to quench their spirits, and they swarmed into the gymnasium at half-past five as jolly as larks. The next afternoon practice ended with a four-inning game between the first and second teams, and Dan played during two of the innings in center-field. He had but one chance and accepted it. At his single appearance at bat he got to first on fielder’s choice, having knocked a miserable little hit half way to third base, and was caught ingloriously in an attempt to steal second. And yet he could congratulate himself on having made as good an appearance as any of the other dozen or so candidates for fielding positions. By the middle of the week practice had settled down to hard work, and on Friday the first cut was made. Some twenty candidates were dropped from the squad, only enough being retained to compose two nines and substitutes. Dan found himself on the second nine, playing when the opportunity offered at right or center-field. But he felt far from secure, for it was well known that a further reduction of the squad was due some time the following week.
Meanwhile Gerald had astounded Dan and the rest of his friends, not yet many in number, by winning a place on the Fourth Class team. I think Gerald must have been a natural-born baseball[162] player, if there is such a thing; otherwise he would never, with his slight experience, have made the showing he did. Perhaps the standard of excellence required of a candidate for admission to the team wasn’t very high, but there were many fellows amongst those trying for places who had played ball for two or three years. Gerald showed unsuspected alertness in handling the ball, accuracy in throwing, and a good eye at the bat. And so, a week after the class teams had begun work, Gerald found himself playing shortstop on his nine. Naturally, he was in the seventh heaven of bliss, and talked baseball, thought baseball, and dreamed baseball. Alf amused Dan and Tom by claiming some of the credit. Personally, I think there was reason in his contention. At all events he made out a good case.
“Oh, you may laugh,” said Alf earnestly, “but it’s so. If Gerald hadn’t had those boxing lessons he wouldn’t have made good. They taught him to see quick and act quick, and they taught him accuracy. When you come to think of it, boxing and baseball aren’t so much unalike. In boxing you have a fellow’s glove to stop and your own to get away, and get away quick and accurately. In baseball you have the ball to stop and to get away. In either case it’s quickness and[163] accuracy of eye and brain and body that does the trick.”
“Pooh!” scoffed Tom. “If Gerald ever gets to be President you’ll try to show that it was because you gave him boxing lessons when he was a kid.”
But whether or not part of the credit was due to Alf, it remains a fact that Gerald was about the proudest and happiest youngster in the whole school, with only one thing to worry him. That thing was the fact that devotion to baseball was playing hob with his lessons. It was Kilts who first drew his attention to the fact. He asked him to remain behind the class one morning.
“What’s wrong, lad?” he asked kindly. Gerald hesitated a moment, trying to find a plausible excuse. In the end he decided that the truth would do better than anything else.
“It’s baseball, sir,” he answered frankly. “I’m on my class team, and—and I guess I haven’t been studying very hard.”
“Well, well, that won’t do,” said Kilts gravely. “Baseball is a fine game, I have no doubt, but you mustn’t let it come between you and your studies, lad. Better let baseball alone a while, I’m thinking, until you can do better work than you’ve been doing the last week. Baseball and all such sports belong outdoors; they’re well[164] enough there; but when you take them into class with you—” Kilts shook his head soberly—“you’re brewing trouble. You know I’m right, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” Gerald answered. “I’ll try and—and do better.”
“That’s the lad! Youth must have its pleasures, but there’s work to do, too. Ye ken what Bobby Burns said?
“‘O man! while in thy early years, How prodigal of time! Misspending all thy precious hours, Thy glorious youthful prime!’
“He was no the hard worker himself, was Bobby,” added Mr. McIntyre with a chuckle, “but he sensed it right, I’m thinking. Well, run along, lad, and remember, I’m looking for better things from you.”
So Gerald ran along, just as the next class began crowding into the little recitation room, and when study time came that evening, instead of leaning over his books with one hand in a fielder’s glove, as had been his custom of late, he put glove and ball out of sight behind a pillow on the window seat before he sat down. Dan saw, and breathed easier.
The second cut in the Varsity squad came, and Dan survived it. The first game, a mid-week[165] contest with Greenburg High School, found the Yardley team somewhat unprepared. Kelsey, a second string pitcher, was in the box and was extremely erratic. Greenburg had no difficulty in connecting with his delivery, and the Yardley outfield was kept pretty busy during the six innings which were played before a sharp downpour of rain sent the teams and spectators scurrying from the field. Dan didn’t get into the game, much to his regret, for there were lots of chances for the outfielders that afternoon. Yardley managed to pull the game out of the fire in the fifth inning, and won, 8-6.
So far Dan had not flaunted his ambition to play on one of the bases. But the following Monday he found himself sitting on the bench beside Stuart Millener. Millener was watching the base-running practice, his place on first being occupied for the time by a substitute. He asked Dan where he had played before, and learned that at Graystone Dan had occupied second base.
“Well,” said Millener, “Danforth is making pretty good at second, and unless something happens, he will stay there, I guess. But there’s no harm in being prepared, Vinton, and I’ll let you see what you can do there.”
Millener was as good as his word, and when practice began Dan found himself in Danforth’s[166] place. Of course, he was rusty, and he and Durfee, shortstop, failed to work together at first. But he made no bad plays, and shared in a speedy double with Millener. At the bat Dan was still rather weak. After practice Payson called him.
“You’ve played on second before, Millener says, and so I’m putting you down for a substitute baseman, Vinton. You’d rather play there, wouldn’t you?”
“Much,” answered Dan. “But I’d rather make good as a fielder than try for a base and not make it.”
“Well, you see what you can do. I don’t believe you’ll have much show for second, but you might possibly make third. Ever play there?”
“No, sir, but I guess I could.”
“Well, we’ll see. You want to be a little shiftier on your feet, though, Vinton. You haven’t got as much time to make up your mind in the infield as you have in the out.”
Dan told Alf of his promotion while they were dressing in the gymnasium.
“That’s good,” said Alf. “I guess Payson means to get you on third. Condit isn’t much; Lord beat him out for the place last year, and would have had it this if he’d returned. I guess Payson thinks he owes you something for pulling[167] us out of the hole in the Broadwood game last Fall.”
“Oh, well, I don’t believe I want to get it that way,” said Dan thoughtfully.
“What way?”
“I mean I don’t want to get it by favor.”
“Piffle! Don’t you worry. If you get it, it’ll be because you deserve it. Payson may help you, Dan, but you needn’t worry about having the place presented to you on a plate. Payson isn’t that sort. He never lets his liking for a fellow influence him much. I rather wish he did. He and I are pretty good friends, and I’d rather like to play shortstop. But nothing doing.”
“It doesn&rs............