CHAPTER XX. HOW ALL THINGS CAME OUT AT LAST.
When the spring of Junior year came around, Frank Armstrong enrolled himself in the baseball squad. The rest of nearly a year had apparently completely cured his arm, and he became at once one of the leading candidates for pitcher. Coach Quinton had engaged the services of a professional pitcher from one of the big leagues for the early practice, and from this man Frank learned much about the art of pitching. Quinton was careful, however, not to work him in cold weather, fearing a return of the trouble in his pitching arm. The result of this careful handling was that he rounded into form in mid-season, and was the mainstay of the nine in the box. Turner was the receiving end of the battery, and together they became the terror of opposing nines.
At the end of a season which was only partly successful, with a victory from Princeton and a defeat by Harvard, the latter caused by Yale's inability to hit the ball with men on bases, Frank Armstrong was unanimously elected captain for Senior year.
"I think the way you two fellows are hogging the Ys and captaincies around here is disgraceful," complained the Codfish one night. "Armstrong ought to be ashamed. Turner is bad enough with football and baseball, but Armstrong is nothing short of a Y trust, with three different kinds of them. Why aren't you modest like I am?"
Frank laughed.
"Some are born Ys," paraphrased the Codfish, "some achieve Ys and some have Ys thrust upon them."
"You ought to be put out for that," said Frank. "But I say, how would you like to score for us next year?"
"To cover up your errors, eh?"
"No, just to keep you quiet."
"In that case, I'm on, but you need look for no favors in the scoring from me. I'm an impartial gink. No friends when I'm on the job. Do I get a southern trip?"
"Sure, you do. But you must keep away from hired automobiles."
"Forget it," said the Codfish, who didn't like to be reminded of the Norfolk experience.
Frank and Jimmy spent their summer together at Seawall, and renewed old acquaintances. Many hours the two boys spent together going over plans for their teams, while with swimming and rowing they kept themselves in the pink of physical condition.
"My ambition is to win both the Princeton and Harvard series," Frank said one evening as they sat on the veranda of the Armstrong cottage, their eyes wandering over the Bay with its twinkling lights. "And that's the reason I'm going to ask you to let me out of football work this fall."
"I don't like it at all, Frank," returned the football captain. "I need you. You've had the experience and I, too, have ambitions."
"Yes, but look at that bunch of Freshman material from last year's Freshman eleven. It would make a whole 'Varsity team in itself—Squires, Thompson, Williams, Weatherly and the rest. Great Scott, I wouldn't be in it with that bunch. You know you don't need me. I've got a lot of material to whip into shape, and with both of us out of the nine, Quinton wouldn't be pleased. But I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll go out and work with my own team, and if you have to have me, I'll go over and take my medicine. But if you don't need me, then I'll keep on with my own work."
That was the arrangement the captains made between themselves, and although it was something of a sacrifice, Captain Turner, fortunately well supplied with end material, went through his season with flying colors, ending with two glorious victories over Yale's dearest foes, and writing his name, in the doing of it, large on Yale's page of football history.
When the spring of Senior year rolled around, it found Frank making progress with the team he hoped would be called a championship nine. The Easter trip was an unqualified success, with only one defeat recorded, and that by the Norfolk Leaguers. All the college games were won handily, and the nine returned to New Haven with a prestige for clever all-around play.
Through the season of preliminary home games, the nine acquitted itself well. Besides himself, Captain Armstrong had two pitchers, a man named Read and of only ordinary ability, and another, Whittaker, a big, raw-boned westerner, who was a tower of strength in the box. On the latter Frank depended as his substitute in the championship series with Princeton and Harvard, for the games, owing to a combination of circumstances, ran so closely together that no one man could possibly pitch them all.
Four days before the first championship game, evidence was handed to the captain which made him doubt the amateur standing of Whittaker. The testimony was that Whittaker had played professional ball in a western town. The captain and coach called the pitcher over to the former's room for an explanation. The westerner admitted at once that he had pitched ball for money for three seasons before coming to Yale, but since he had used the money to defray his expenses it was not plain to him that he was not eligible.
"I'm mighty sorry," said Frank, "but you can't pitch any more for Yale. In any interpretation of the rules you are a professional, and not eligible for an amateur nine."
"Yes, but no one knows it at Princeton or Harvard, do they?"
"True, but that makes no difference. I say again, 'I'm mighty sorry but you can't pitch for Yale,'" and while he said it, his heart sank for he well knew that Read would never be able to stem the tide of a championship match, and besides Read there was no one but himself. To make matters worse he had recently felt a twinge in his pitching arm when delivering certain curves. It might be a recurrence of the old trouble!
"That about settles us," said Frank after Whittaker had taken his departure, a sentiment which was echoed by the college men when it became known that Whittaker was ineligible.
"We'll pitch Read in the first Princeton game and take a chance," was Quinton's advice. "It will be the second game that's the teaser."
Fortune favored Captain Armstrong, for Princeton very kindly played away off-form, and allowed Yale to get such a lead in the early part of the game that even though Read began to weaken toward the end and was hit hard, Yale kept her lead without difficulty. Captain Armstrong played in right field, and was ready to go in at a moment's notice, but fortunately there was no need for it. Read, the second string man, had come through with credit, but the Princeton batters had given sufficient evidence in the last inning or two what would be likely to happen to him if he faced them again.
"It seems to be up to you, Captain," said Quinton, "to clean this up at Princeton next Saturday. If you do, our chances are better for the Harvard series, for there will be a little time for rest. If you don't win, then there has to be a tie in New York, and that runs us right on top of the first Harvard game in Cambridge."
"I've been thinking it over," said Frank, "and you're dead right. That game at Princeton must be taken, and I'm going to take it if I can. You put that down in the book."
The college, well knowing the state of the pitching staff, but with great confidence in the hard-hitting and fast-fielding team and its captain, backed it loyally, and sent a thousand men to Princeton to cheer.
The game was an exciting one from start to finish, with a great deal of hitting on both sides. Captain Armstrong, who was in the box, pitched wonderful ball throughout, and kept hits well scattered. But it was noticed that he used very little but a straight ball, his effectiveness being due to a continual change of pace which baffled the Princeton batters. Now and then in a critical moment, he put over a curve, but curves were the exception.
Coach Quinton watching narrowly from the bench, knew the significance of the captain's action. It was the old trouble.
Every man played his position like a veteran that day, and in spite of the strange ground and the boundless enthusiasm of the Princeton thousands back for Commencement celebration, Frank, before the sun went down, had accomplished half, at least, of his dearest ambition, a double championship for Yale, by beating Princeton with a margin of two runs.
The night before the team left for Cambridge to play the first game of the Harvard series, there was a long conference in the captain's room as to the best way of disposing of Yale's forces.
"I want to pitch Read in that first game," said Frank. "The chances are against us there anyway, and it would be better, I think, to let my arm rest for the second game in New Haven."
"You might start the game," suggested Coach Quinton, "or be ready to jump in if Read shows signs of blowing up, but it will depend on how you feel that day."
"I know how I'll feel," Frank replied, "and I know how this old wing of mine feels now. I know that if I pitch in Cambridge, that's the end of me. I can't throw a ball hard enough now to break a pane of glass, and I'll be lucky to be able to stay in the game at all."
Quinton tilted back in the chair and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"Well, then, Read it will be for the game on Thursday, and he'll have to go through it, win or lose," he announced. "You will play in right field and lob them in if they come in your direction."
"I'd be glad to sit on the bench if you think Barrows could come through with a hit or two. He's a better fielder than I am. I want the strongest nine we can get in there on Thursday," said Frank.
"Not on your life," said Quinton with determination. "With one arm you are better than Barrows with three. He can't hit anything."
And so it was settled that the captain should play in the field and that Read should go into the box. It was the best thing to do under the circumstances.
For three innings, Read held the Harvard batters hitless, and hope began to grow in the team and in the hearts of the team's supporters that he would last to the end. Turner's home run drive with a man on base put Yale in the lead with two runs, in the second inning. But in the fourth, Read, in trying to get a ball over the inside corner of the plate, hit a batter, and in the endeavor to retrieve his error by catching the man napping off first base, threw wild to the first baseman. The result was that before the ball was recovered the runner was perched, grinning, on third base.
The double error unsteadied Read, who in his endeavor to strike out the next two batters who were both good waiters, passed them both. The bases were filled with none out. Then came Harvard's hard-hitting catcher with a three-base hit which drove in three runs. That ended Read's efficiency. In the same inning he was hit for a single and two doubles in succession. The net result of this slaughter, coupled with a base on balls and two infield errors, gave Harvard six runs before the side was retired.
Yale added a run in the fifth, but Harvard, now hitting like demons, and with Read at their mercy, slammed the ball for three more runs. Yale continued to play with dogged determination against overpowering odds, striving to hold down the score as low as it might be. The fielders worked faithfully, but Read was now being hit at will and many of the balls went safely.
"Let me go in and try to stop this," Frank suggested, as he came to the bench in the eighth inning.
"No use now," said Quinton. "It's Harvard's day and the game is gone. Stay where you are and we'll take this back again next Tuesday."
In the eighth and ninth, Read steadied down, but then it was too late, in spite of a dogged up-hill fight by Yale. The final score stood 14 to 5.
Read had no appetite that night at the training table.
"Never mind it, old fellow," said Frank, laying his hand on Read's shoulder. "That happens to the best of them once in a while; forget it; we'll get them next Tuesday. They had all the breaks of luck, anyway. It was their day."
"Yes, they had me; I was the best man on they had; I'm disgusted with myself," and the big pitcher hung his head.
"Forget it," said Frank, and nothing more was said; but in spite of the assumed cheerfulness it was a quiet lot of ball-players who took the train for New Haven.
During the next four days, the captain's arm was a subject for the careful attention of the trainers, who rubbed and kneaded the strained member at every possible opportunity. Nearly every known remedy was tried, for well everyone knew that on Armstrong depended the next game—the great Commencement game—which drew back thousands of graduates. The worried coach spent most of his time with Captain Armstrong, and when he had exhausted his own knowledge of arm treatments, went to old Yale ball-players who were flocking back to give what assistance they could in the crucial game. The newspapers deprecated Yale's chances, but the college was behind its team to a man.
"Armstrong has a glass arm," wrote the sporting writers in the daily prints. "Little hope for the Bull-dog; Harvard expects to clean up on Tuesday."
"We may fool 'em yet," said Frank, as he threw down a paper he had been reading, "eh, Turner? This old wing feels better to-night and I'm dying to get a chance at them."
"And we are with you," said Turner. "I want to get away from the memory of the fourteen to five business up at Cambridge."
The great day came. Although the game was not called till three o'clock, the big wooden stands at the Field were filled an hour before that time. The spectators had gathered early to watch the antics of the returning uniformed classes of graduates, whose parade behind a score of bands is always one of the features of the day.
Joyfully the long line of the parade wound around the field, the younger graduates capering to the ringing music of the bands, the older ones more sedate and garbed more soberly. Gradually the classes were ushered to their seats and half an hour before the game the grounds were cleared.
Harvard had a fast and snappy practice. When Armstrong led his men on to the diamond for the Yale practice, the cheer-leaders led the packed thousands in a tremendous ovation.
"They seem to be with us, anyway," said Frank, who was standing with Coach Quinton by the home plate.
"You can bet everything you own, they are," returned Quinton, "and we must give them what they are looking for—a victory."
"I'd give my arm to do it," said Frank. And he meant it.
All the preliminaries over, there was a hush as the captains at the plate with the two umpires talked over ground rules. It was Harvard first to bat, and as the Yale team trotted to their positions in the field and the captain took up his place in the box, a roar swept the stands, while the cheer-leaders bawled through their megaphones: "Make more noise, you fellows, we can't hear you."
That was a game long to be remembered. The very first of the red-stockinged batters met squarely the first ball Captain Armstrong delivered, and drove it between left and center for three bases.
"Same old story," sang out the Harvard cheer-leader. "Give them a cheer; we'll make a dozen the first inning."
But he was mistaken. The next two batters, the strongest of the team, fell before Frank's shoots, and the third put up a foul fly which Turner captured close to the stand. This gave the Yale men a chance to let loose some enthusiasm.
In Yale's half of the inning, a single and an error put two men on bases with one out. But the necessary hits were not forthcoming, and although the men reached third and second, the side was retired before a runner crossed the plate.
Nip and tuck, the teams played for five innings with no runs scored on either side. Armstrong was pitching brilliant ball. No one in the stands and but few on the team itself, knew the price he was paying. Slow and fast he mixed them up, with an occasional curve which sent twinges of pain from finger tips to shoulder. In tight places, he steadied his team and was always the Captain, inspiring and resourceful.
Coach Quinton well knew what Frank was going through. "Can you stick it out?" he said, when the game was more than half over.
"I don't know. I'm pitching and praying at the same time," was the answer.
The break came in the sixth, and it was in Harvard's favor. With one out, Kingston, the big Harvard first baseman, hit a liner to the pitcher's box, which Frank partly blocked with his gloved hand. The ball bounded to the left and fell dead twenty feet behind him, and before the second baseman, who had come in with all possible speed, could field it, Kingston had crossed first base. The next man up singled over second. With two on, Captain Armstrong tightened up and struck out the following batter, while the stands roared their approval; but the next man hit a low liner to left field, which scored Kingston. Frank was pitching now slowly and deliberately. His arm was numb, but somehow he got over the third strike on the last man and saved more runs.
Yale fought hard to win the run back and got a man to third, but a stinging liner to short-stop was perfectly handled and the side was out. Nothing happened in the eighth for either side, and Harvard began the ninth, one run to the good, steady and confident.
Armstrong was pitching now on nerve alone. His arm, subjected to a hard strain through the preceding eight innings, was what the newspapers had called "glass," but the brain that directed it was cool and calculating. Fortunately for him, the first man fouled out to the third baseman on the second ball pitched, but the second batter caught one of the Yale pitcher's slow lobs and made a safe hit. The third bunted down the third base line and was also safe. It was now or never, and gathering up his fast waning forces, Frank struck out the next man, while the shooting pains in his arm brought the cold sweat out on his forehead.
Confidently the last Harvard batter faced him, swinging his bat. Frank tried a curve which went outside the plate. A foul followed, and then a strike. Twice he threw high to tease the batter, and then with all the vigor he had left, he snapped over a straight ball, close to the knees. The batter swiped desperately at it.
"You're out," came the sharp tones of the umpire; and as the batter threw his bat wickedly towards the bench, the Yale stands rose en masse and yelled their approval.
"We've got to win it now," commanded Captain Armstrong at the bench. "It's our last chance. I can't pitch another ball."
At that command the team galvanized into action. The first man up bunted the ball of the hitherto invincible pitcher down the first base line, and was safe. Then came the reliable Turner, gritting his teeth and pawing the ground at the plate. Twice he let the ball pass on strikes, and then the Harvard man pitched one to his liking—a swift, straight ball at about the shoulder. Turner met it with all the force of his vigorous young body, well towards the end of the bat, full and square. The ball started low, like a well-hit golf ball from the tee, rising as it traveled. Out and up it went, while the runner on first, after one look, scudded for home.
Just what became of that ball, no one ever knew. It was never found. Some say it struck an automobile on the far side of the outfield fence, and some even say it continued its flight on down to the river. But it did not matter. It was a clean home-run, Turner following his galloping teammate more leisurely, trotting across the plate with the winning run.
Down from the stands poured the thousands. They dashed on the field and swept up Captain Armstrong and his gallant warriors. Then when the first transports of joy were over, the classes broke into the zigzag step, arms on shoulders, to the crash of a score of bands. And no one thought the outburst extravagant, for Yale had won.
Four days later, after almost superhuman efforts to improve Captain Armstrong's arm, Yale again met Harvard on neutral grounds and again won, thus clinching the championship.
Thus was Frank Armstrong's hope of a double championship realized. His name is still pointed to by admiring aspirants for pitching honors in the old college, and his skill and pluck are part of the traditions of baseball.
There is little left to tell of our story. The day after Captain Armstrong's great baseball victory at New Haven he joined in the imposing exercises of Commencement day. With others of the Senior class, he marched in solemn academic procession through the historic Campus and city common, and later took his degree from the hands of the President of the college on the broad platform of Woolsey Hall, crowded with black-robed dignitaries.
Undergraduate life was a thing of the past, and as our three friends walked slowly back to their room to begin packing for their departure, there was little joy in their bearing. Even the irrepressible Codfish was temporarily subdued.
"Well, was it worth it, eh, Frank?" said Turner as he began throwing things into his trunk.
"Was it worth it? Why, Jimmy, it is worth half a man's life to be here four years."
"My sentiments, too," broke in the Codfish.
"And mine," said a deep voice at the door. It was David Powers, one of the big forces in the undergraduate world, who had won his way to prominence in literary work while his friends were climbing athletic heights.
"Let's pledge ourselves, then, to old Yale," said Frank, and the four boys grasped hands.
"We may never meet like this again, fellows, but let us not forget that wonderful old line——
"'For God, for country and for Yale.'"
THE END.