The baseball game between the Towners and the Spanish Head boys came off on the following Wednesday, strictly according to schedule. By that time Toby and Arnold had somewhat recovered from the excitement incident to coming into possession of so much money and were able to give their minds to the event. Toby was the satisfied owner of a passbook on a New York bank which showed him to have on deposit the sum of one hundred and fifty dollars, subject to interest at four per cent., while Arnold had that morning witnessed the laying of the keel of his knockabout in Mr. Tucker’s shed. Of the two, perhaps it was Toby who was able to give the most thought to playing ball that afternoon.
Long before the contest began it became evident that they were not to lack an audience. Mothers, brothers, sisters, and friends of the Spanish Head fellows came to the number of nearly one hundred, and the road along the field was well lined with automobiles and traps. The townsfolk turned out in far fewer numbers, but some of them came, among them Phebe, looking very pretty in a new muslin dress and accompanied by two girl friends. The accommodations for spectators being limited to one small tier of seats, the visitors from the Head watched the game from their carriages and cars. Mr. Trainor, appropriately attired in an ancient Yale sweater, officiated to every one’s satisfaction and got, as it appeared, a whole lot of fun out of his job!
There was a marked contrast between the rival nines when, at a few minutes past three, they faced each other on the somewhat dusty field of battle. The “Spaniards” to a boy wore uniforms, and although only two of their number were dressed alike—the two being Arnold and Frank Lamson in Yardley Hall attire,—they presented a rather more neat and pleasing appearance than their opponents. Of the Towners fully a third met the demands of the occasion by removing their coats, rolling up their sleeves and turning up their trousers, another third compromised by wearing portions of uniforms, and the rest were appropriately attired in baseball togs of a sort. Toby, I regret to say, was of the second class, appearing in a grammar school shirt and his everyday khaki trousers. He had fully intended dressing the lower portion of him in baseball pants and blue stockings, but the search for the stockings had been only half successful. That is, he had found only one of the pair. The idea of presenting himself before the public with one bare leg had occurred to him, but had not appealed.
All being in readiness, and one of six new balls philanthropically supplied by the umpire having been shorn of its tissue and glistening foil, Frank Lamson walked to the pitcher’s box, his team mates arranged themselves over the field, and Mr. William Conners, better known as Billy, stepped to the plate. And after Frank Lamson had whizzed a few balls across by way of warming-up and George Dodson had pegged the last in the general direction of second base, and Arnold Deering and Hal Mason had sprinted half-way to center field to get it, Mr. Trainor called “Play ball!” in a very umpirical voice. And, lest you look for that word “umpirical” in the dictionary, I’ll tell you right now that you won’t find it. I just made it up!
I have no intention of following that very notable contest inning by inning. You’d find it tiresome, and so would I. Besides, only four of the nine sessions supplied real interest. The others often supplied runs and errors—plenty of errors—but no great excitement. The Spanish Head contingent of spectators were well-bred enough to only smile discreetly at the sight of “Tubby” Knowles sliding to second base in that first inning, but I’m certain that they really wanted to laugh outright. Tubby was, as his nickname suggests, rotund, and he wore a pair of trousers of an interesting black and brown plaid that were very much too large for him around the waist and almost as much too long for him in the legs. Picture Tubby, then, when, having reached first by an error, subsequent to Billy Conners’s retirement, he saw his chance to win glory and another base by a steal. Tubby’s run was a series of convulsions in which every portion of his anatomy took part. It wasn’t a fast performance, but it was earnest and whole-hearted—and whole-bodied! Tubby’s strange plaid-attired limbs fairly twinkled along the path, Tubby’s mouth opened itself wide, Tubby’s eyes fixed themselves almost agonizingly on the middle sack, and Tubby stole!
Down sped the ball from Dodson’s hand. Arnold blocked the bag. Tubby threw his hundred and forty pounds of body recklessly forward—and confusion ensued! Over and over rolled Tubby, in the manner and with all the grace of a rolling barrel. Plaid trousers filled the air for an instant; plaid trousers and dust together, that is. And then Mr. Trainor, trotting up, spread his hands and cried “Safe!” very loudly indeed, but with a strange break in the middle of it, and Arnold gazed as one stricken with bewilderment while Tubby, breathing loudly, pulled himself to the bag and sat upon it in triumph!
I’m not accusing Mr. Trainor of partiality or blindness or any other fault undesirable in an umpire, but it did look as though that ball met one of Tubby’s wildly waving legs before Tubby reached his goal. Still, Mr. Trainor was where he could see! And Mr. Trainor had a nice sense of justice! And, out or not out, Tubby certainly deserved that base!
And yet, in spite of Tubby Knowles’s heroic act, the Towners failed to score in their half of the first. Tubby got no farther than that hard-won second sack, for Tony George struck out miserably and Gus Whelan only popped a weak fly to shortstop. Nor, for that matter, could the Spaniards do any better. Tim Chrystal’s slants were by no means crystal when it came to seeing through them, and both Tracey Gay, who led off for the visitors, and Arnold himself, who followed at the plate, fanned very promptly, and when Sam Cushing had been easily tossed out at first the inning ended.
In the second the Towners scored their first run on an infield error, a hit, and a sacrifice fly, Manuel Sousa crossing the plate with the initial tally of the game. The Head came back a few minutes later with two runs, however, and so the Towners had but a brief enjoyment of their lead. Two to one the score stood until the fourth. Then things happened.
Frank Lamson had pitched a very creditable game so far. He had a couple of curves that broke nicely for him and he had a canny way of mixing them in with his straight ball that made them more serviceable. Something that he called his “fade-away” was less successful and usually “faded away” several feet in front of the plate. But he got to the fourth inning with only some six hits set down against him in the scorebook, and as those six had been well scattered he had been in no danger. But in that memorable fourth, Tony George, coming to bat for the second time, took a sudden and unexpected liking to Frank’s very first offering and sent it screaming away into deep right field about three yards beyond the point that Tracey Gay reached in his frantic effort to get to it. That hit yielded two bases on its merits and a third when Tracey threw in wildly and the ball rolled past first base. Tony got to third with seconds to spare.