The Lucky Seventh

by Ralph Henry Barbour

“And whether to get a place on the town side or across the river. There’s a field over toward the Point, right near the car line, that might do.”

“That’s a long way from school, though,” objected Fudge.

“Any place we find is going to be a long way,” replied Will. “There isn’t any place in town big enough to play baseball on. As a matter of fact, the whole thing is a good deal of a puzzle. It’s going to cost us a lot of money, any way you look at it. We’ve got to have a new track and we’ve got to fence the field in and move the grandstand to it. It’s going to cost like sixty. I wish old man Brent had to make us a present of the old field or lose his money.”

“Stingy old codger,” muttered Fudge.

“There’s no sense in blaming Mr. Brent, Fudge,” said Dick. “We ought to be grateful to him for letting us have the field as long as he has. What we’ll have to do is get subscriptions from the graduates and anyone else we can. The next station is ours, fellows. Get your bags together.”

Lesterville was an unlovely town filled with smoking chimneys and the busy whirr of looms. A muddy canal intersected it and on either side immense brick mill buildings ran for the better part of a mile. But the boys didn’t tarry long in the town. A green trolley car bore them swiftly away from the belching chimneys and the hot, weary looking streets and out to the edge of the country. The ball ground was surrounded by a sagging fence and was ridiculously small. A long hit down the right or left foul line was certain to go over the fence, while even a good clout into center was likely to disappear through some hole in the rotting boards. A few unsheltered seats were clustered close to the first base line and these were already occupied when the Clearfield team arrived. The dressing-room was a ten-foot square space, unroofed, thrown together behind the stand. As the fellows changed into their togs the spectators on the top row of seats looked down upon them and offered sarcastic advice and rude comments. Fudge in particular aroused their humor and he was pestered so that he got his playing shirt on wrong side to.

The Lesterville nine was a pretty husky aggregation. Most of them were mill employees and their average age must have been fully eighteen. The audience was particularly partisan and offensive, and Dick, settling himself on the visitors’ bench in the broiling sun and opening his score-book, reflected that it was perhaps well that there was no likelihood of Clearfield going home with the ball. He fancied that the hundred or so local sympathizers would make it quite uncomfortable for the visiting team if it won!

There’s no necessity of following Clearfield’s fortunes that afternoon in detail. The contest was fairly featureless up to the eighth inning. The visitors could do nothing with Moriarity, the Lesterville pitcher, only three hits, one of them distinctly scratchy, accruing to their score and bringing in but one tally. On the other hand the home team showed itself very capable with the stick and Tom Haley’s best offerings were not puzzling after the second inning.

A slight attack of stage-fright in that round on the part of Clearfield aided the home players. Almost every member of the visitors’ infield managed to make an error, while Tom’s wild throw to first in the third allowed Lesterville to add two runs to her already swelling score. When the eighth inning began Lesterville had nine runs to Clearfield’s one, and there seemed no reason to suppose that the final tally would be any more complimentary to Clearfield.

Dick had predicted that his charges would learn some new tricks and his prediction was verified. Clearfield was the innocent victim of several plays quite outside her ken. Unfortunately, most of them were the sort she didn’t care to emulate. For instance, when Curtis Wayland tried to steal second on Jack Tappen’s lucky grounder into short right he failed for the simple reason that second baseman and shortstop occupied the base line and Way had to crawl around them to touch the bag. Unfortunately, by that time right fielder had sped the ball to shortstop, and the umpire, a young gentleman whose impartiality had all along been in grave doubt, ruled Way out. Of course Clearfield protested. Way lost his head and threatened bodily injury to the second baseman, who topped him by six inches, and some dozen or so Lesterville youths flocked to the scene. Gordon, however, lugged Way, protesting bitterly, from the field and then quietly asked the umpire to reverse his decision. But the umpire wouldn’t even listen and there was nothing for the visitors to do but swallow their indignation and accept the ruling. Again, earlier in the contest, the Lesterville pitcher objected to having a new ball thrown to him after Lanny had fouled a soiled one into the street, and turning, threw the new one far into center field. The center fielder refused to go after it and the umpire yielded, throwing out another old ball.