A SHUT-OUT
Bill turned to Sadler. “You’re with us?”
“Sure, Siebold has a substitute for right field.”
“I’m with you, too,” said Dixon. “Put Longy in my place, Cap.”
Siebold grew angry. “You fellows have been kickers all along, and now you think that will weaken us. Well, if Ritter can’t take a fly better than you can, you big stiff, I’ll assassinate him; and Long is as good a short stop as you are, Dixon.”
“We have four other substitutes and I’ll promise three of them for our scrub team, Brown,” Sadler declared.
“All right; that’s seven fellows and we can pick up two more, surely. Let’s hunt them up right now,” demanded Bill.
They did. As it was clearing, they went to the diamond and after a little practice all round at town ball, Bill watching closely, they got into the places best suited to each player and then elected Bill manager and Sadler captain. The big fellow and Dixon had discarded their suits for plain shirt and trousers, and a small collection was taken up for pants and some extra gloves. Mr. Gay gave them a catcher’s mask and some bats.
The next afternoon, the challenge having been formally given, the match between the regulars and scrubs took place, Siebold winning the toss and taking the bases, Mr. Gay acted as umpire.
Maxwell seemed to be in better form than usual. Perhaps because he found a “ragged lot of players,” as Bill put it. The scrubs had not fully got together and they went out, two on strikes, and Sadler’s fly was caught. The regulars went to bat, laughing, Siebold straddling the plate.
Gus stood in the box, smiling. He nodded to little Kerry behind the bat and Kerry inclined his head to the left. Sadler and Dixon were watching closely. Could the new pitcher on whom Brown appeared to stake so much really do anything? If he could send them over the way he boxed, thought Sadler, “good night”! Brown was all the time springing something worth while. That was just why he and Dixon had been willing to make a final kick at Siebold’s arbitrary rulings. And now here was Siebold himself, one of the surest batters in the team, facing the unknown quantity.
Gus put on no gimcracks nor did he make fancy swings. He merely made a step forward, raised his arm to throw and held it about two seconds—then there came across the plate something more like a streak than a ball—so it seemed to Siebold—and little Kerry, who had been squatting, nearly went over backward with the loud plop in his glove. Siebold stood, dazed.
“One strike!” called the umpire.
The ball went back to Gus who took it out of the air as if he were plucking at a snowflake. Again the step forward, the raised arm and the ball came along swiftly at first, then slower, much slower, but keeping up. Siebold’s heart sang. He would take this thing on the end of his bat and lift it beyond any hopes of a fielder’s reaching it—it meant a two-bagger sure. He struck; there was no contact of bat and ball; a fraction of a second later the sound of the ball in Kerry’s glove told him he had “missed it by a mile,” as Sadler bawled it out.
“Two strikes!”
Siebold looked mad now. He was being tricked—that was certain. He would show this fellow if he could do that again! The ball came along swiftly, but too high. It was “one ball,” and he waited. The next was fairly swift, but it was going to bounce before it struck, yet it lifted and passed right over the plate almost a foot high and Siebold wondered why he had not swiped at it.
“Striker out!” called the umpire, and the captain of the regulars angrily threw down his bat.
Wilde came next. He was the regulars’ catcher, and the best batter of the team. Siebold stood, watching closely, a scowl on his face. Almost the same tactics were played, without Wilde ever knowing where the ball was! Another chose three bats before he got one to suit him—this fellow was Kline, the bunter. More than once he had made his base and let fellows on bases in by bunting one at his own feet and in such a manner that it rolled slowly toward the pitcher.
Three balls were called against Gus. The regulars commenced to smile and Siebold’s eyes sparkled. Then three streaks came, all over the plate, waist high and “striker out” sounded the third time. The regulars went to the field, the captain walking slowly and thoughtfully.
Gus went to bat and struck out. Little Kerry lifted a fly to left field that the fielder muffed and let roll, so that Kerry slid into second when the sphere was coming back again. Morton, a new man, struck out as though he were not sure whether he was fighting bears, or was merely in a debate, and Dixon hit a grounder to second and was caught out on first. Still no runs.
Gus always had the short step forward, always the uplifted arm that did not double forward at once. It was possibly confusing, instead of a notice to the batter to get ready, as one might have imagined. Quite a number of balls were called against Gus—fast, slow ones, up-shoots—but never four. Three batters went out in quick succession.
In the third inning Maxwell slowed up a little and the scrubs became wider awake. One of the new men who had, he declared, played ball very little and never shown a genius for hitting, sent a liner between pitcher and first that put him on his base. One of the regulars’ former substitutes hit another grounder that let him on first and the new man on second. The third and fourth man, their second time at bat, struck out again and then came big Sadler to the plate. His very first crack sent a fly so high and wide that the center and left fielders fell all over themselves in their effort to get it, while the center man made a wild throw, so that Sadler rather easily accomplished a home run.
It was three runs for the scrubs, as Gus again struck out. The third at the bat for the regulars proved to be “ancient history,” another expression of Sadler’s, with this difference: Siebold took his base on four balls, but he didn’t get any farther than first.
Little Kerry knocked another liner and this the man on second dropped, the short-stop getting it too late to first. Morton again went out. Dixon hit a liner for two bases that let Kerry in and again the new genius proved himself such by getting in a fly that on errors put him on third. Once more a substitute who after two fouls knocked a ball almost within reach over the first baseman’s head, made another home run on errors. The fourth was caught out on a foul, the fifth struck out and Sadler knocked another fly that was caught. Six runs for the scrubs—the regulars nothing.
Smiling, Gus came again to the box. Three batters in quick succession, after only three balls were called for two of them, struck out. They seemed to have no idea where the balls were passing, and little Kerry staggered back with every one sent in, though he, too, was smiling. And then, before the regulars could again take their places, something else occurred.
Siebold merely said: “Hold on, fellows!” He walked straight up to Gus, caught him by the arm and pulled him over toward Bill and Mr. Gay.
“See here,” said Siebold; “I’m no piker. I’ve been dead wrong and nobody has to tell me. So, Grier, honestly I never saw such pitching outside of the national leagues. And if you’ll let me, I want to be friends, and I want you on the team. Mr. Gay, you’re right: Maxwell on first and you, Grier, in the box. Are you with us?”
Siebold extended his hand and Gus shook it warmly. The captain turned to Bill. “You, too. We have to thank you for this business, the best stroke of luck we have ever had.”
Bill shook Siebold’s hand with as much gusto as he would have that of any downright hero. A fellow who could muzzle his pride and do the square thing in this manner, especially after he had been licked in a way that hurt, was a real man.
“And look here, Brown! I’ve generally messed up this captain business and the managing too; and you have got together a team in short order that I wouldn’t have believed could have slammed us for six runs. Will you manage us? I’ll see that you are elected. Grier can be cap——”
“No, sir,” said Bill. “Gus doesn’t want to be captain. You’ll remain captain, Siebold, or we’ll both take our doll clothes and go home. But I will try my hand at advising, if you wish. ‘Two heads,’ you know——”
“Hurrah!” shouted Siebold. “Brown is manager! And we’ve got a pitcher now! We’re going to lick those Guilford fellows so bad they’ll think they’ve got brain fever!”