That winter was a mild one in that part of Ohio, although there was one fierce blizzard in late February which marooned Mr. Cummings, Joe Gillig, Miss Miller, and Tom in the store all one night! It was not until five in the morning that the storm abated sufficiently to allow Miss Miller to get home and the men to wade to the restaurant across the street and eat what was their first real meal in fifteen hours! The snow stayed on the ground nearly a week and thereby prolonged the winter sports considerably. It was one evening at that time that Tom had his first breath-taking ride down Sumner’s Hill on Sidney’s toboggan. He didn’t forget it for a long while, for it was as nearly like flying as anything he ever expected to experience. They made three trips up the hill that evening and as many down, while a big white moon sailed overhead and seemed to look down companionably on them. Tom would have had a perfectly dandy time all the evening had not Sidney insisted on filling the toboggan to its capacity with girls on the second trip. Tom tried to escape, but Sidney insisted that he was needed at the back, and so Tom, with what little grace he could find, squatted behind May Warner, who was his particular detestation, and almost dropped off when half-way down the long, steep hill because he refused to hold on to May and there wasn’t much else he could reach!
March came in like a lion, but soon tamed down, and a week of mild, sunny days set the boys thinking of baseball. Even before this the candidates for the high school team had been at work in a desultory sort of way. There was no real baseball cage at their command, but a long room in the basement of the school had been converted to their use by placing wire screens over the high windows, and here a certain amount of pitching and batting practice was gone through with. Owing, however, to the poor light down there, this indoor work could hardly be said to be very beneficial.
The baseball leader this year was Frank Warner, brother of May, a senior-class fellow and not particularly popular. There was nothing much wrong with him, save that he was what the fellows called “chesty.” His father was president of the Traders’ National Bank, the largest institution of the sort in that part of the state, and Frank couldn’t forget the fact, it seemed. His “chestiness” made him scornful of advice and impatient of authority. But he could play ball; there was no doubt about that; and it was to that fact that he owed his election to the captaincy. He played second base and was the best batsman the team had possessed in many years. As a leader he was as yet an unknown quantity, and it was an open secret that the athletic association had hesitated some time before endorsing his election, which hesitancy was due to the well-known fact that he took unkindly to advice and criticism, and the fear that he might not get along well with the coach.
The coach was a former high school boy named Talbot. He was no longer a boy, being a sturdy young man of twenty-six and a promising lawyer in Amesville. But Mr. Bennet A. Talbot’s practice was as yet not large enough to prohibit him from giving much time every spring to the coaching of the baseball team, an unremunerative task which he performed for sheer love of the game and loyalty to the school. When a youngster he had been known as “Bat,” a nickname derived from his initials, and the appellation still held. A better man to take charge of a group of boys couldn’t have been found, for he was still very much of a boy himself in feelings, able to get a boy’s viewpoint, sympathetic, and enthusiastic. But Mr. Talbot insisted on obedience, and the school in general awaited with frank interest the first clash of wills between coach and captain.
Both Thorny and Walter White were gone from the team this spring, but Walter was still in Amesville and took much interest in the team. It was Walter who continually insisted that Tom should come out for the nine and who finally brought the matter to the coach’s attention, with the result that Mr. Talbot called on Tom in the store one afternoon in late March.
“Walter White,” he said, “tells me that you can pitch, Pollock. Now, we need pitchers the worst way this spring. We’re pretty nearly destitute in that line. What’s the matter with your trying for the job, Pollock?”
Tom explained that his work prevented. Mr. Talbot frowned, just as Thorny had done, and was inclined to belittle the excuse. When, however, Tom mildly inquired how he was to earn his board and lodging if he gave up his position in the hardware store, the coach was at a loss.
“If we were a professional team,” he replied with a smile, “we could pay you a salary, but I’m afraid as it is we can’t. But I’m sorry. White says you’ve got the making of a good pitcher, and it seems too bad that we can’t get your help. I suppose there is no way that you could arrange with your employers to get off in the afternoons?”
“I don’t think so, sir. You see, I’m only here, anyway, a few hours a day—except on Saturdays. Besides, Mr. Talbot, I can’t pitch much. I guess Walter was sort of—sort of exaggerating.”