DIPLOMACY THAT FAILED
“Gus, I can’t get it out of my head,” said Bill one day, “that we’re not, as they say in diplomatic language, entirely persona grata here. At least, not as we should want to be if we have the proper loyalty to the school. We have our friends, of course, among seniors, freshmen and even some of the sophs, but the sophs generally have very little use for us. Even some of our own class, in the sports, have a big leaning toward Siebold and his bunch, and they like to go along with the shouters.”
“Well, I guess they’ll have to go along, then,” remarked Gus indifferently.
“But Gus, it’s a reflection on us. We ought to be in as good fellowship as anybody. Now that we’ve made out so well in our radio work and are not nearly so busy, with the rest of the term all lectures and exams, you know, we might gee in a little with the social end of it. And sports, too, Gus. I can’t do anything but look on and shout, but you——”
Bill’s remarks were inspired by a glimpse across the greensward at a bunch of fellows on the ball field, evidently at town ball and practice. With the coming of spring and warm weather the Tech ball team had been newly organized and put at practice. The next month would see them crossing bats with Guilford Academy, Springdale School and other nearby institutions. There was great rivalry between the home team and Guilford Academy, which had a strong team, and was much the better of the two, except that the Tech School had acquired, through Siebold’s efforts, a very good outside pitcher who kept the Academy lads guessing much of the time. The winning of games, therefore, during the preceding season had been pretty even, Guilford leading by one.
And then, at the behest of older and more judicial heads, representatives of the League of Schools had met and decided that each team must play only with members of its student body, hiring no semi-professional pitchers, or even coachers, thus making the contests entirely fair.
A result of this was that in the games of this season Guilford, with a pitcher from among its fellows who had previously given his services to other teams as well, simply ran away with Marshallton Tech, winning one game by the score of fifteen to two and the other was a shut-out.
“Gus, I’ve bought a ball and I’ve got Sam Kerry, who says he used to catch for his home team somewhere in the west, to agree to keep his mouth shut and pass a few with you, off somewhere where nobody will see.”
“Righto, old Bill! Anything you say—but what’s the idea?”
“Well, Gus, I don’t like Guilford’s swamping this team in the way it has, and I propose to try to stop it.” Bill’s lips were compressed and he had that look in his eyes that meant determination.
“But Siebold—” began Gus.
“Doesn’t entirely run this school, nor its ball team, even if he is captain and general high muck-a-muck,” declared Bill.
It was with extreme satisfaction that Bill sat on a log at one side of a path in the woods and watched little Kerry, who proved to be no mean hand at stopping all kinds of balls, nearly knocked off his feet by the machine-gun-like pitches of “that other fellow from Freeport,” as Gus was sometimes called.
One early afternoon the gym instructor also sat by Bill and watched the performance. Mr. Gay had promised secrecy, but not to refrain from comment.
“I’ll say he has not only got command of his ball and three good styles, but he also knows some tricks that ought to worry any man at the bat. Throw that waiting ball again, Grier!” the instructor called. “I want to watch that—oh, fine! It looks like a hard one and a fellow will strike over it nine times out of ten. Well, I’ve got this to say: If we expect to win any games we’ve got to have a fellow like Grier in the box, but Siebold will stick to Maxwell who is about a fifth rater—at his best.”
“But has Siebold all the say?” Bill queried.
“A good deal of it. You see his father backs up the boy in everything, and he has put the club on its feet financially, in a bigger way than even the Guilford team. Moreover, the elder Siebold’s money built our grandstand, the dressing-rooms and hired our pitchers for quite a while. So young Siebold can afford to play politics and insure a following, which nobody, even the professors, can stop. And the faculty and the Doctor don’t bother over the matter. That chap is going to be a state senator, or a Congressman some day, I have no doubt.”
“It won’t work, though, Mr. Gay,” declared Bill, “because it isn’t justice. Others besides Siebold are interested in and loyal to the school. We want to see our team win, don’t we?”
“Yes, of course. I’m going to shoot that at Siebold and, if you’ll let me, I’m going to hint that we have a pitcher among us who outranks his choice in all the high points.”
It was on the next afternoon, which was rainy, that Bill found the library pretty full of readers and among them were six or seven of the ball team. He took a seat beside Dixon and directly across the table from Siebold and Sadler. He turned to Dixon:
“When is the next ball game?” he asked.
“We play Springdale next Saturday, but they’re easy. The last game with Guilford is Saturday week.”
“It’s too bad that we get licked so unmercifully when there’s no need for it,” Bill remarked.
“No need for it? No, there’s no need for it, but——”
“I suppose we have needed it to put some sense into us, but no longer. It would be pretty easy to clean that bunch if we went at it right.”
“How easy?” asked Dixon.
“Why, you know without asking that. Putting a good man in the box and another behind the bat, of course.”
“Where’d you get your good man?”
“Here in the school.”
“Who?”
“I guess you’ll have to keep your eyes open. Anybody ought to——”
“Listen to this, Siebold.” Dixon leaned over the table. “Brown says we’ve got pitching material——”
“Well, what of it? Don’t I know it?”
“It’s a blamed sure bet he doesn’t know it, or if he does he ought to be jailed for conspiracy to beat the school team,” laughed Bill, still addressing Dixon.
“How’s that, Brown? What’s your dope?” ventured Sadler, who alone really dared to question Siebold’s authority. Bill went on, in forcible language, for he was aware that Siebold was listening, and repeated what he had said to Mr. Gay and to Dixon. The argument about every one in the school being interested in the success of the ball team seemed to strike home, and several boys gathering round began to make comments favorable to the sentiment. The librarian came over and objected to the talking.
“Let’s go down to the gym and talk this thing over,” said Sadler. “Brown will spring this man on us if we’ll try him—eh, Brown?”
“Why, sure,” said Bill, rising.
“Come on, Siebold.”
“Too busy reading. Nothing to it, anyway.” Siebold didn’t even look up from his book.
“Is that so?” Sadler was angry. It was evident that he was willing to oppose the captain. Bill thought he saw an opportunity right here.
“He has only one vote,” he said, “and I understand that all of us who care to may have a say. I know several fellows who——”
Bill got no further. Siebold began to see that it might be best to permit no defection from his ranks and no outside interference. He followed the others out and across the campus, no word being said all the way by the several boys who, in part, made up the executive committee on baseball. They filed into the gym and got Mr. Gay into their conference.
“Now, then, Brown, what have you got under your skin?” said Siebold testily.
“You heard me in the library,” said Bill.
“Balderdash! There isn’t a fellow in the school who can pitch like Maxwell.”
“Oh, yes, there is, Siebold,” said Mr. Gay. “There’s no one who can play first base like Maxwell and your first baseman says he has a glass arm and is done. We have a pitcher who can pitch.”
“That’s the cheese!” said Maxwell. “I’ve told Siebold all along he ought to replace me.”
“Who is this wonderful guy?” asked Siebold.
“I’ll bet it’s that other fellow from Freeport,” put in one of the captain’s staunch supporters.
“Call it off in that case,” Siebold demanded.
“No, we won’t call it off. We’ll try him at practice,” said Sadler.
“Who’s captain of this team? We’ll play in our present positions, all of us, or we won’t play at all.”
“That’s right,” echoed two or three followers. Bill laughed.
“Will you accept a challenge to play a school scrub team?”
“No, nor that. Waste of time——”
“That’s nothing but silly stubbornness,” said Sadler, with rising wrath. “Wouldn’t it be just like practice? You’re a fatheaded——”
“Oh, now, see here, Siebold,” interposed the instructor. “You can’t refuse that. It will only bring out the best players and strengthen the team.”
“Well, then, if Mr. Gay says so,” Siebold agreed, “we’ll play you and we can shut out any bunch you can get together.”