I
Joe Tyson, playing third on the Randall’s School first team, pegged the ball across in the general direction of first base. Steve Cook stabbed the air with a gloved hand and the ball continued blithely on its way, disappearing behind the grandstand. Four blue-stockinged youths raced home, the fourth registering the tenth tally for Popham Academy.
Daniel Webster Jones, Jr., seated cross-legged in front of the bench on the home side of the field, score book on knees, credited the enemy with four runs and added a black dot under the “E” column and opposite the name of Tyson.
“Of course,” murmured Jonesie reflectively, “in order to throw to first you’ve got to know more than the ball.”
Of the three occupants of the bench, weary and disgruntled with waiting, none replied to the sagacious observation. Jonesie, however, hadn’t expected any reply. He didn’t care. When there was no one to talk to, Jonesie talked to himself. That was much better than keeping still. Jonesie had a horror of being bored, and nothing bored him quicker than inactivity, either of body or tongue. That was the reason why, on a perfectly glorious afternoon in early June, he was to be found seated Turk-fashion here keeping score for the Team.
Art Simpson, the manager, whose duty it was to preside over the official score book, was in the infirmary with a delightful case of double mumps, and Billy Carpenter, baseball captain, had, so to speak, drafted Jonesie from a comfortable seat in the stand, thrust a black-covered book and a leaky fountain pen upon him and bade him keep the score. Jonesie knew how to do that after a fashion, but his fashion was not Art Simpson’s, and he soon found the intricacies too many for him. After Jimmy Buell had been caught flat-footed off second and chased down between that station and third by exactly six-ninths of the opposing team, Jonesie gave it up in despair. The only redeeming feature of his task was the fact that it allowed him to square accounts to some extent with one or two fellows he had grudges against. Thus Carpenter himself, for imposing such a task on Jonesie, had been credited with two errors when, as a matter of fact, Billy had so far played his position faultlessly. Jimmy Buell, too, had erred, according to the book, not once, but three times, and even Steve Cook, who was a particular friend of Jonesie’s, had a neat period set opposite his name in the error column. Jonesie had chuckled when he set that down. It was always fun getting a rise out of Steve!
Daniel Webster Jones, Jr., was a cherub-faced youth of fifteen with coppery brown hair brushed sleekly back, gray-blue eyes that were pools of truth and innocence, a somewhat button-like nose that attested to good nature, and a general appearance of physical and mental well-being. Folks generally, and nice elderly ladies in particular, fell in love with Jonesie at first sight. They simply couldn’t help it. Such candor and truthfulness and innocence shone from his countenance it did one good merely to look upon it. For the rest, he was comfortably rounded as to figure, a fact which perhaps increased his likeness to a cherub, dressed very carefully—Jonesie was always a little in advance of the fashions—and carried himself with an air.
After much searching the ball was back in the pitcher’s hands. (For no especial reason Jonesie credited Gordon, who had thrown it in, with an assist!) Carey Bingham, football captain, who was umpiring, was evidently getting tired of standing out there in the sun, for he called three strikes on the Popham batsman in succession—Proudfoot, the Randall’s slab artist, had never been known to pitch three good ones in succession before!—and then ruled the next man out at first in spite of the fact that Steve Cook had quite failed to tag him. But Popham had a comfortable lead of eight runs, it was getting late and Carey wanted to get on the river before suppertime. Popham objected only half-heartedly to the decision, being doubtless quite willing to hurry the battle through.
The bench filled as the perspiring players trotted in from the field. Billy Carpenter, squeezing in behind Jonesie, glanced at the score.
“Ten to two, isn’t it?” he asked wearily.