MORE ABOUT "THE GREATEST GAME IN THE WORLD"
One by one, the boys filed in through the Silvey gateway, to squat outside the club-house entrance until their roster was complete. Bill glanced nervously at Sid and cleared his throat.
"It's baseball time," he began abruptly. "And we've got to elect our captain and manager. Any—" he paused and looked at John.
"Nom'nations?" said the latter promptly.
There was an awkward silence. Sid tightened his grasp on a handful of the fresh, green turf. John looked meaningly at Red Brown, who spoke up as he had been instructed.
"I nom'nate John Fletcher. He was captain last year 'n he ought to be this."
"Any one else?" asked Silvey.
"I want to be captain," said Sid, curtly.
"Can't nom'nate yourself," ruled the president. "Somebody's got to do it for you."
"Somebody's got to second it, too," supplemented John.
Sid gazed helplessly about. Truly this newly made maze of parliamentary law was bewildering. "Nobody's seconded John's," he said at last.
"Second John's nom'nation," said Skinny Mosher promptly.
"All those in favor of John as captain—"
Sid sprang to his feet. "Wait a minute," he snapped. "You fellows think you're smart, but let me tell you something. I said I was going to be captain, and I am."
"You!" sneered John. "Why, you lost the game with Room Six's team 'cause you couldn't stop an easy grounder. Let it roll between your legs, you did."
"Don't care," was the stubborn reply. "I'm going to be captain. Whose league ball did the team use last year?"
"Yours," admitted Silvey, reluctantly.
"And the two bats, the second baseman's glove, and two fielders' mitts were mine, too, weren't they? Didn't my dad buy 'em for me? Well, go ahead and have Johnny for your old captain if you want. But if I can't run the team, the team can't use my things!"
There was an astounded silence. Those astute politicians, John and Bill, had never dreamed of such a barefaced threat. They sat looking blankly at him, while Red Brown laughed disagreeably.
"And you're the kid who went home crying 'cause you were hit on the shin with a baseball. Fine captain, you'll make."
"Captain and the gloves, or you play without 'em," came the arrogant ultimatum. "Which do you want?"
He could see by the thoughtful faces around him that his words were not without effect. Last year, the team had owned a reputation for being blessed with proper equipment, and to go back to the cheap, undersized balls, and scantily padded private mitts would be no small privation. John sighed wearily.
"Guess you can be captain if you want to," he said, finally.
A reluctantly assenting chorus sanctioned his consent. Bill broached the subject of the baseball park improvements, and Sid shook his head emphatically. The idea was his rival's and therefore to be fought.
"The park diamonds are lots better," he argued. "Take us all year to fix the lot up."
"But it'd be our own," Red broke in enthusiastically. "Think of playing the 'Jeffersons' on the 'Tigers' Home Grounds.' 'Tain't every team could say that, could it?" Which was the truth, for the vacant lots of the neighborhood were being rapidly supplanted by flat buildings and room for boyish playgrounds was becoming more and more scarce.
Sid considered the matter a moment. Certainly it would add to the team's, and his, prestige.
"Well, maybe," he said, with seeming reluctance that his change of front might not seem too obvious. "Let's go over and see what the place is like."
"First across the tracks," shouted Red, as he sprang to his feet. In a moment, the whole tribe was up and after him, climbing the wire railroad fence with a vigor which threatened destruction to the meshes. They scampered across the expanse of cinders and rails, broken here and there by a struggling bit of plant life, and scrambled out on the untidy field.
The broken glass and old milk-bottle tops from the dairy had crept further out from the low, tar-paper building during the winter. Boards from the boxes and barrels which had formed the fortress for the cucumber fight were scattered to the four corners of the field, and the sparse, fresh grass blades sprang up to sunlight and life through the dead, gray-brown vegetation of the preceding autumn. Neither trace of baseball diamond nor football gridiron could be found. Yet the "Tigers" purposed to make the place the talk of the juvenile population and they turned to their captain for advice.
"Oh, fix 'er up someway," said that gentleman vaguely. John glared at him in futile anger.
"Get the rubbish out of the way, first," he broke out.
Sid shrugged his shoulders. "John'll tell you what to do. I'm captain, but so long as the park's fixed up, I don't care who does it."
"Get your rake, Bill, and you, too, Skinny. I'll go after ours. Rest of you kids pick up the tin cans and wood and things while we're gone. Come on, fellows. Beat you over the tracks."
John dropped his rake over the fence on his return, and glanced at his watch as a precaution. It was nearly five! Blame the paper business anyway! Never did he start some important project but what time flew so swiftly that he had to leave just when things were getting interesting. He called an explanatory "paper time!" to his team mates, turned his implement over to Red, and left for the little delicatessen store.
All the next Monday afternoon the boys labored while their captain stood around with his hands in his pockets and watched condescendingly. John picked up Bill on his return from the paper route, and went over to the lot to inspect the carefully combed playing area. The broken glass, rain-soaked paper caps, sticks, boards, and dead grass had been carefully assembled in conical heaps near the railroad fence, and he beamed his approval.
"It's going to be peachy, Silvey," he broke out.
"Yes, and Sid'll say he did it," his chum commented bitterly.
"What do we care? We'll put the home plate here," he indicated a spot some fifty feet north of the dairy buildings. "Then the sun won't get in our eyes. I'll borrow dad's big tapeline to measure off the other bases, and the grand stand can go here. It'll be big enough to hold 'most fifty people!"
Silvey listened in amazement. He could run a football team as quarter-back to perfection, or break through the opposing line time and again, as he had done last autumn, but this fertile foresight was something beyond his comprehension.
"You talk as if you see it," he said finally.
"Why, I do." John dismissed the matter as worthy of no further comment. "But before we do any of these things, we've got to cut the grass and see where the bumps in the ground are."
For two afternoons the whirr of lawnmowers was heard over the "Tigers' Home Grounds." When the many hollows and hummocks in the uneven turf came to light, the youthful construction boss ordered that shovels be brought, and another day passed in transporting dirt and leveling the obstructions off. Pail after pail of water was carried from the dairy buildings to wet down and harden the new, loose earth, and it was Saturday morning before the distances between the various bases and the pitcher's box could be measured off.
"We'll start filling in the paths with cinders now," said John, as Silvey drove a peg into the ground to mark the location of the home plate.
"Won't they hurt when you slide on them?" drawled Perry Alford.
"But there's nothing else to use, is there?"
"They're starting a flat building next old lady Meeker's on Southern Avenue," the boy suggested. "Why not get sand from there?"
John shot him a glance of approval and called to the team members. "Everybody get a pail and meet at Silvey's," he concluded, as they started for the railroad tracks.
"I'll sit here and watch the tools," said Sid, brazenly.
"Aren't you going to work at all?" broke out Silvey impatiently.
"Don't have to," was the unperturbed reply. "I'm the captain."
They left their nominal leader to do as he desired and scattered to commandeer the various family buckets and fiber pails. Skinny, who lived farthest from the Silvey's, came up at last with his utensil, and they set off, single file, past Neighborhood Hall and the corner grocery stores, and around to quiet, sedate Southern Avenue, beating a crude marching rhythm on the tins as they went. At the sight of the ten-foot sandhill which the excavations for the apartments had formed, John broke into a run.
"Beat you there!" he shouted.
Away they went after him, pell-mell, and dashed up the yielding sides to bury their pails deep in the golden particles. Silvey braced himself, tugged his load free, and staggered along the walk for perhaps thirty feet. John caught up with him and also halted for a rest.
At last they started again, but it was no light-hearted, carefree, return trip for the "Tigers." The sand-filled buckets weighed too much to be used as drums, and they retraced their steps slowly, dropping them every few minutes to ease their aching wrists. In front of Neighborhood Hall, Skinny found a blister on one of his hands.
"Think we'll ever get back?" he asked, despairingly.
"It isn't so far now," John encouraged him. "We've only got to go another block before we turn. Then it's a half-block down to the hole in the fence. Come on. I'll stump you to carry yours as far as the railroad tracks."
Thus by making it a matter of athletic prowess the boys carried their loads to the destination. But the little heaps on the dusty earth looked pitifully insignificant. Skinny borrowed a pin and lanced the white protuberance at the base of his second finger.
"Jiminy," he mourned, as he squeezed the water out. "It's going to be an awful lot of work, fellows."
They raked the sand level along the path from the plate to first base. Not by the wildest stretch of imagination could they seem to reach even a quarter of the distance, and protruding grass blades showed that the covering was far too scanty.
"Where's your wagon, John?" asked Red Brown suddenly.
"Busted," said John, reproachfully. "Have you forgotten?"
During the summer preceding, a fever of wagon building had seized the boys. Every spare wheel and tricycle frame in the block had been requisitioned for the construction of a half-dozen little vehicles which suddenly appeared to scud down the sidewalks and over the smooth macadam street. There had been discussions and disputes as to speed, and John's wagon, a long, well-oiled affair with a coat of red, discarded house paint on its framework, had come to grief in a collision with Brown's, one sunny afternoon. Even Silvey, the optimist, who had furnished the motive power, had looked at the wreckage in well-founded despair.
"Where's yours?" Red turned abruptly to the Harrison boys.
"In the basement."
Skinny Mosher's, too, was still in existence. All the rest of the morning and afternoon, the two wagons ran merrily toward the Southern Avenue sand hill, or creaked slowly and laboriously back to the "Tigers' Home Grounds," with such good effect that but a scant ten feet of path remained to be filled in when John's paper route called him.
Silvey and he sauntered over that evening after supper to make the final inspection of the work.
"Just like the park diamonds, isn't it?" he asked, as Silvey stretched a pair of weary arms.
"And Sid said he was glad he thought of it. And we worked like everything while he stood around!"
John scarcely heard him as he stood, eyes a-dream, looking over the even, carefully raked turf. "The grand stand comes next, Bill. Do you think we ought to tear down the shack for lumber?"
Bill demurred. That shaky building occupied too great a place of importance in the boys' lives to justify such a sacrifice. Surely there were enough new buildings being erected in the neighborhood without that.
Sid made an announcement on the following Monday which made the postponement of that last bit of construction work imperative.
"Saw the captain of the 'Jeffersons,'" he beamed as the little group gathered about him on the baseball diamond. "We're going to play 'em this Saturday."
"What?" John exploded. Sid nodded his head.
"They've got the best team around," Silvey broke out. "And they've been practicing in the park ever since the snow melted. How can we lick 'em now?"
Sid shrugged his shoulders aggravatingly.
"Haven't you any brains at all?" John stormed.
"I'm captain," Sid snapped back at the insurgents. "I'm running this team. If you don't like it, you can quit!"
The voice of Skinny Mosher, the peacemaker, broke in: "Aw, kids, never mind. 'Tain't so bad as it looks. Let's start practicing now, and maybe we can beat 'em anyway."
It was excellent advice, and the boys scampered over the tracks for home, to return singly and in pairs with their baseball paraphernalia. John took up his old position at first, and Silvey donned his catcher's mitt to receive and return imaginary balls thrown by the other players. Red Brown and Perry Alford stationed themselves at second and shortstop respectively, while the Harrison boys stood around and waited until duty should call them to the outfield.
"Where's Skinny and Sid?" asked John as he glanced around.
"There's Mosher, now," exclaimed Silvey, as a tall and diminutive figure made their way down the railroad embankment. "Kid brother with him as usual."
"Had to bring him," the unfortunate elder boy exclaimed when he reached the diamond. "Ma wouldn't let me come unless I did."
They accepted the affliction resignedly. "He can watch," said Silvey. "Come on, John. Toss up your little ball while we're waiting."
Accordingly, the first baseman brought out a lopsided ten-cent ball and threw it toward third. Skinny Mosher dropped the sphere as if it were a hot coal.
"Go easy," he cautioned. "Sid hasn't brought my glove yet."
The elder Harrison boy who aspired to fill Joe Menard's place, ran over to the pitcher's box, and the tossing was resumed. From third to first, second to pitcher, and then to Silvey, and back again. Muscles became limbered and arms more certain of their mark. Skinny misgauged a swift throw from John and caught the ball on the tip of his fingers.
"Jiminy!" he yelled. "What you think you're doing?"
"Butter fingers, butter fingers!" came the taunting reply.
"Don't care. I'm going to wait for my glove. Here's Sid now."
The team turned as one man and stared in astonishment. Their captain had delayed his return to don his new baseball suit, and from the spikes on his shoes to the visor of his red-trimmed cap, he was a perfect miniature of a professional player. Even John was unable to restrain an envious stare at the natty flannel shirt and knickerbockers, and the maroon and white stockings.
"Cost eight dollars, it did," Sid announced, as he acknowledged the unconscious homage with a satisfied smile. "Dad gave it to me 'cause I was captain. Here's the gloves and the ball and the bat. Let's start practice."
They ran back to their positions. Sid, bat in hand, stood by the plate, tossed the league ball high in the air, and knocked the sphere easily toward third base. Skinny, with the confidence engendered by a well-padded hand, scooped the ball with surprising accuracy and returned it. Again Sid repeated the process.
Red pranced impatiently up and down on the sand path. "Give me one this time," he begged. "Don't send 'em all to Skinny."
The captain of the "Tigers" nodded and hit the descending ball with all his force a little too far for Red to reach. A quick glance showed the impending catastrophe.
"Hey, kid, get out of the way," he yelled. The warning came too late. The ball skimmed over the grass, struck a hummock which had been overlooked by the builders of the diamond, and ricochetted upward into the hapless Mosher youngster's stomach.
Yells filled the air. Skinny, unwilling slave, stooped over his prostrate brother. "Hurt much?" he queried anxiously. John glanced at his watch in boredom, for such occurrences had lost their novelty long months ago.
"Paper time," he called, as he made for the tracks. A last glance back before the dairy buildings cut off the view, showed the wailing infant trudging sturdily toward the walk. Every line of his figure indicated maddened determination to tell his mother on the whole team.
Tuesday and Wednesday sped past. It became more and more apparent that a substitute for Joe Menard must be found if the "Tigers" were to have even a fighting chance of holding their own with the ancient enemy. Time and again Haldane Harrison took his place to whip a few slightly curving balls down to the critical Silvey, only to realize that his knowledge of the art was sadly deficient. They all had a try at it, eventually, while Sid stood by with a sarcastic grin on his face and watched their futile efforts.
The next noon, John walked home with Louise, a custom sadly broken since the baseball season had begun, and passed a stockily built lad who was bouncing a baseball against the side of a house but a few doors from the Martin's apartment. On the way back, he stopped to watch. The newcomer returned his stare with equal interest.
"'Lo," said John, as he walked nearer.
"'Lo," said the boy with an ingratiating smile.
"My name's John Fletcher."
"Mine's Francis Yager," spoken with equal curtness.
"Live here?" asked the first baseman of the "Tigers." The boy admitted that such was the case. "There's my house," explained John, pointing with an inkstained finger.
There was an awkward silence. Francis bounced his ball against the side of the house a few times.
"Ever play baseball?" asked John, as the boy made a difficult catch of an erratic return from a drain pipe. The newcomer turned, his face lighted with interest.
"Just bet you!" he beamed. "Back home we had a team and I played—"
"Pitcher?" asked John, breathlessly. The new boy nodded. Truly the fates were proving kind to the "Tigers" that day.
"What can you throw?"
"An 'in,' and an 'out,' and a 'slow ball.'" The expert paused in the summary of his attainments. "Last year, I was just getting so's I could pitch a drop. But it didn't work very well."
Dinner, maternal lectures, all were forgotten as John poured out the tale of the "Tigers'" woes to his new friend. Arm in arm, they made their way up to Silvey's house. That catcher tried out the new recruit, while John watched eagerly, and pronounced him all and more than he had claimed for himself.
"We'll fix the 'Jeffersons' now," John shouted confidently. "You can hold 'em, Francis, old boy."
He marched the new member over the tracks to the ball grounds, that afternoon, and introduced him to the delighted team. Sid heard Silvey's tale of the pitcher's prowess with ill-disguised resentment.
"He can play in the outfield," he said shortly. "I'm going to do it myself."
"You!" shrieked John.
"Yes, me!"
"You couldn't hit the broad side of a barn with a baseball. Pitch! Only reason we let you play at all last year was because—" He checked himself suddenly. Sid only smiled.
"I'm captain," he replied, as John finished. "I'm running this team. I'm going to pitch, and if you don't like it, you can quit." He walked over to the position, leaving a dazed and resentful first baseman behind him.
That evening, John returned from the paper route to eat supper listlessly and skip up to Silvey's as soon as he had finished. The team, his team which he had built up with such care last year, was going to the dogs, and he craved sympathy from Bill about it.
"He's crazy," his chum sighed when John's outburst had slackened. "You should a' seen him when you'd gone for the papers, today. First he threw over my head, and then to one side, 'most out of my reach. He hit the ground twice before he could throw a fast one over the plate, and Francis laughed at him. 'Well,' says Sid, 'I guess I can learn before Saturday. I've got a book at home that tells all about it.'"
"Maybe—" said John, thoughtfully.
"Maybe what?"
"Maybe the 'Jeffersons' 'll make so many runs in the first inning that he'll have to quit. Then Francis can play, and perhaps we can catch up with them."
"But he won't let Francis learn my signals," Silvey complained. "Says he's captain and we've got to do just what he says."
"Get Francis to come down to your yard tomorrow noon," John counseled, as he stood up and stretched himself. "Teach him then."
Thus it came about that, unknown to Sid, two small figures rehearsed for a good hour, such intricacies as "Two fingers against the glove means a swift one," "when I pound like this, it means an 'out,'" and "this means an 'in'" until Francis became letter-perfect in them.
That Friday afternoon, the "Tigers" gathered for the final practice before the first and most important game of the season. Silvey knocked grounders innumerable to the different members of the infield who handled them with uncanny dexterity, or sent long flies out to the waiting players until he grew tired and Sid supplanted him. Red Brown and one or two of the fleeter spirits of the team raced from base to base, practicing a little trick of sliding which Red had noticed at a park baseball game, and Sid took his position as pitcher for a few minutes' erratic practice with Silvey. John left them for the night, wavering between confidence and despair as to the result of the morrow. Everything had gone marvelously well with the exception of Sid.
"If he quits early," Silvey consoled him as they sat on the Fletcher front steps just before bed time, "we'll win after all."
"We'll have to," said John, stubbornly, as he rose in answer to his mother's call. "So-long, Bill."