Under Boy Scout Colors

by Joseph Bushnell Ames

“It’s time you started in, then,” interrupted Sanson. “Of course you can’t expect to make the team this year, but you’ll have a lot of fun playing with the scrub. Hustle up or we’ll be late.”

So Trexler went, mainly because he didn’t exactly know how to refuse the boy he had come to like so much. But it was with a good deal of inward trepidation that he trailed after Frank to where Ranny Phelps, who captained the team, was chatting with Mr. Curtis’s younger brother, just home for the Easter holidays. He had a feeling that he was going to make an awful exhibition of himself, and that conviction was not lessened by the slight lifting of the eyebrows with which Ranny greeted Frank’s request that his friend be allowed to practise with the others.

But out in the field, nervously adjusting a borrowed glove, Paul was conscious of an odd, tingling sensation altogether different from apprehension. The day was typically April and fairly breathed of spring. Birds darted hither and thither, singing joyously. Beyond the low stone wall at one side the feathery outlines of a wild cherry, pale green, with touches of white blossoms just bursting into bloom, was etched against the sky in delicate tracery. Farther still, a man was plowing, and from the long straight furrows came that moist, fresh, homely smell of newly turned earth that one gets only in springtime. Out of the deep blue sky, flecked with fluffy, idly drifting clouds, the sun shone warm and caressing. From all about came the sound of quick, clear, eager voices, to which was presently added the crack of leather meeting wood, the thud of feet drumming the turf, and the duller sound of leather pounding against leather.

There was something about it all that stirred the boy and sent the blood running like quick-silver through his veins, yet which made him feel curiously alone and out of it. Other springs had meant to him the beautiful awakening of nature, the return of the birds he loved, the charm of wood and stream and open country-side at its best. But somehow that failed to satisfy him as it had in the past. Vaguely he felt that something was missing, he could not say just what. A feeling of emulation stirred him, a desire to take his part in the clash and struggle and ceaseless competition from which, till now, he had held aloof. Admiringly, with a faint touch of envy, he watched Frank Sanson make a difficult one-hand stop with seeming ease. Why hadn’t he come out before and learned the game and how to uphold his end with the others? Was it too late even now? he wondered.

“Hi, Paul! Get under this one!”

The shout from Sanson roused Trexler to the realization that a fly was coming in his direction. He ran back a little, then forward. The ball seemed to be dropping with the speed of a cannon-shot, but he forced himself to meet it without shrinking. Thrusting up his hands awkwardly, he staggered a bit under its momentum, as he caught at it, and a burning sting tingled in the bare palm which had taken most of the impact. The ball, bouncing off, rolled to one side, and a laugh went round the field as he chased after it and threw it in. When he returned to his place Paul’s face was crimson, but his lips were set in a stubborn line and he scarcely noticed the pain in his hand.

“I will get the hang of it!” he muttered under his breath. “I’ll learn to do it right if–if it takes all season!”

He stuck to his position as long as any of the others, and on the way home, with some embarrassment, he spoke to Frank of his determination. The latter was delighted and offered to help him in any way he could. As a result, from that time forth the two rarely went anywhere without a baseball. Whenever there were a few minutes to spare they used them for throwing and catching. On the field, before and after the regular work, Frank knocked out flies or grounders, and in many other ways did his best to give his friend as much as possible of the practice he needed.

A baseball player isn’t easily made to order. The normal boy seems almost to absorb his knowledge of the game through the pores of his skin, gaining proficiency by constant, never-ending practice that usually begins as soon as he is big enough to throw a ball. But much can be done by dogged persistence, and Paul Trexler had that quality to a marked degree. As the days passed, dust began to gather on his camera and on the cover of his book of bird photographs. In this new and strenuous occupation he found little time for the things which had formally absorbed him. He regretted the many long tramps he had planned, but somehow he failed to miss them as much as he expected. Each noticeable improvement in his game filled him with a deep, abiding satisfaction, surpassing even the delight which he used to feel on securing a fine photograph. The climax came that afternoon when he was allowed to play on the scrub in place of one of the fielders who had not shown up. Not only did he fail to make any mirth-provoking blunders, but he even put through one play that brought forth a surprised, approving comment from Ranny Phelps himself.

“I don’t know what you’ve been doing to him, Frank,” the latter said to Sanson, who passed on the remark afterward. “I’ve never seen anybody improve the way he has. That catch wasn’t anything wonderful, of course, but when he threw to third he used his head, which is more than a lot of fellows right here on the field ever think of doing.”