[CHAPTER XXII]
NARRATES THE PROGRESS OF THE CONTEST WITH WICKASAW, AND WITNESSES THE DISINTEGRATION OF ONE WELLS
- Tilford, c.f.
- Speede, 1b.
- Carter, 2b.
- Ridley, r.f.
- Loom, ss.
- Bryant, l.f.
- Hethington, c.
- Van Roden, 3b.
- Wells, p.
That’s the way the names were written in the score-book by the Official Scorer, Mr. “Babe” Fowler, who sat on a soap-box and looked and felt vastly important. Behind him and about him—sometimes, much to his wrath, interfering with his view of the proceedings—sat and stood the boys of Camp Chicora. Across the plate were the supporters of Wickasaw, while here and there, wherever shade was to be found, were spectators from the Inn, the village, Camp Trescott, and the smaller hotels and boarding-houses around. Behind Bob stood one of the Trescott councilors, Mr. Downer, who was to umpire. Mr. Clinton, and Mr. Powers of Wickasaw, watched the contest side by side from under the latter’s big linen umbrella.
The afternoon was roasting hot, and by mutual consent the beginning of the game had been postponed from three until four. But even now, as Mr. Downer called “Play!” the sun beat down on the meadow in a manner far from pleasant, while not a breeze stirred the leaves along the lake. But the players were too much interested to notice such a small matter, while as for the lookers-on they good-naturedly made the best of conditions, cheered by the knowledge that they could seek launches or rowboats whenever they pleased and speedily find a cooler spot than this low-lying meadow with its encompassing walls of forest. Under a near-by apple-tree Tom and Mr. Verder were fanning their faces and munching the half-ripe apples that lay about them.
“I wonder if Wells will last out,” mused Tom. “He’s a queer dub. He told me this morning that he couldn’t stand hot weather and asked if I thought Bob couldn’t have the game postponed.”
“Yes, he is a bit funny,” answered Mr. Verder. “Well, they’re starting. I’m glad we’ve got our last innings. That’s Bremer, one of Wickasaw’s councilors, at bat. I used to know him at prep school. He didn’t know much about baseball in those days.”
“I guess he doesn’t know much now,” chuckled Tom as Bremer struck at a ball so wide of the plate that Bob disdained to even attempt to stop it. Bremer went out on strikes, the next man popped a tiny fly into short-stop’s ready hands, and the third batsman was thrown out at first by Wells.
“No safe hitting there,” said Mr. Verder.