“And the luck,” laughed Sidney. “‘Lucky’ Faulkner is your real name, I guess. Well, I hope your luck keeps on. If it does, maybe you’ll get what you want on the team!”
The gong put an end to the talk and they hurried off to their rooms. Whether that was the beginning of it Joe never knew, but a month later he suddenly awoke to the fact that he was very generally known throughout school as “Lucky” Faulkner! He was inclined to dislike the nickname at first, since to him it seemed to preclude more desirable attributes, but Jack insisted that to be called lucky was a great compliment because, after all, what was called luck was in reality the reward for skill or forethought or some other quality of merit. Jack didn’t put it in quite those words, but that was the idea he managed to convey, and Joe, considering it, became reconciled. It was perhaps just as well he did, for by that time the nickname had come to stay, and his approval or disapproval would have had small effect.
That Monday afternoon it was a gay-hearted lot of fellows who gathered at the field, which lay some ten blocks north of the high school. To be out of doors again filled everyone with delight and neither coach nor captain had any cause for complaint that day on the score of laziness. The way the ball was sped around was a fair indication of the candidates’ eagerness. Practice was rudimentary. There was some batting at the net, with Toby Williams and Carl Moran doing the tossing, a half-hour of fielding, Coach Talbot hitting to the infield, and Manager Mifflin knocking fungoes to the outfield, and, finally, a short period of work on the paths. The weather gave them of its best. The March sun shone warmly and, although there was still a tinge of winter in the air, spring was genuinely in possession. The sod was not yet dry and the base-paths were pretty soft, but no one minded a bit; not even “Buster” Healey when, in a desperate attempt to get from second to third on the throw to the plate, he lost his footing and reached the bag flat on his back. Practice was delayed while most of the infield scraped the mud from him.
Joe had a session with Tom Pollock in front of the backstop. Sam Craig was catching at the plate, Speyer taking the throws for Mifflin, and so Bat told Joe to get a glove and let Tom pitch to him. Joe was doubtful of his ability to hold the redoubtable Mr. Pollock, but he got along very well. Tom used little speed and, although some of the breaks and hooks were at first confusing, Joe soon discovered that the ball might be depended on to straighten out before it reached him. After that he was put on second and handled Sam’s throw-downs fairly well and found that his own throwing arm was quite equal to the task of snapping the ball across to first or third or back to the plate. Frank Foley held down first base today and Joe secretly admired and envied the easy, finished way in which that tall youth with the long reach handled the throws. The work was pretty crude, which was natural enough, and Coach Talbot had plenty to say, but when practice ended at a little before five everyone was in the best of spirits and the fellows, as they made their way back home, discussed eagerly the first game of the year, which was due in less than two weeks. This contest was to be, as usual, with the Amesville Grammar School nine, and while it was not looked on as more than an opportunity for practice, still it was anticipated with pleasure. Grammar School was already predicting what it would do to High School, and was awaiting the fray with equal eagerness.
High School had arranged a schedule calling for seventeen games this Spring, eight of which were to be played away from Amesville. Aside from Petersburg High School, Amesville High’s real rival in athletics, whom she played the final game with the last of June, the only notable foes were Lynton High School and Crowell Academy. There were two games scheduled with Lynton and one with Crowell. Besides the scheduled contests there were others which might or might not eventuate; as, for instance, a game with the nine from the carpet mill and a second, possibly a third meeting with the grammar school. Until the middle of May only Saturdays were scheduled, but after that midweek games were down for the balance of the season.
Outdoor practice continued uninterruptedly for the rest of the first week. Then, on Sunday, began a four-day stretch of wretched weather and the fellows went disgustedly back to the cage. On Sunday it blew a gale and swept a hard rain from the southwest. On Monday the rain turned to snow for a while, later changing to sleet and, finally, back to rain again. Tuesday it drizzled. Wednesday was a day of mist and fog. Thursday noon the sun came out. But by that time the field was a quagmire again and all hope of playing the game with Grammar School on Saturday had to be abandoned. Consequently the contest was put over until Tuesday at four, and Manager Thad Mifflin, who was popularly believed to be accountable for weather conditions and the state of the diamond, found life a burden.
Meanwhile Joe had performed, if not brilliantly, at least satisfactorily as a substitute baseman. He had been tried at first, second and third bases, and, on one occasion, had pulled down flies in centre field. At the bat he had so far signally failed to distinguish himself. Perhaps he did as well as most of the substitutes, but he found that trickling bunts across the floor of the cage was not the same as standing in front of Tom Pollock, or even Carl Moran, and trying to connect with their various offerings. The best Joe could expect, or, so he told himself, was a place on the Second Team—The Scrubs, they called them—when that was formed. Jack was plainly disappointed in the proficiency of his chum, although he tried not to show the fact, and never ceased to offer encouragement.
“You’ll find your batting eye presently,” Jack would assert stoutly. “A fellow can’t play decent ball, anyway, until the weather settles down and gets warm. I never could. Along about the middle of May——”
Joe interrupted with a laugh. “Along about the middle of May,” he replied, “will be a bit late, Jack. If I’m going to do anything this year I’ll have to do it pretty quick, I’m thinking.”
“Ye-e-es—I’ll tell you, Joey, the trouble is you don’t go at it right; batting, I mean.”