CHAPTER XIV POLITICS AND CHESS

Payson appeared on Monday and took up his lodgings in the village. But, as events proved, he might just as well have delayed his arrival for another week, for on Sunday morning it began to rain as though it meant to flood the country, and it continued practically without interruption until Wednesday night. By that time the river was over its banks, Meeker’s Marsh was a lake, the athletic field was like a sponge, and outdoor practice was impossible. The work in the cage went on, but the fellows were getting tired of it, and longed for sod under foot and sky overhead. Payson didn’t waste that week, by any means, but, with the first game only a fortnight off, the enforced confinement to the gymnasium was discouraging.

John Payson was about thirty years of age, and weighed in the neighborhood of two hundred pounds. He was large, broad-shouldered, and, in spite of his weight, alert and quick of movement. He had played baseball and football in his[160] college days, first at Cornell, and later, as a graduate student, at Yale. “Whopper” Payson was his name in those days, and for two years he had made the All-America Football team as a guard. While at Cornell he had caught for two years on the Varsity Baseball nine, and they still remember him there as one of the best. During his five years as coach at Yardley he had helped at three football and two baseball victories over Broadwood. It would be an exaggeration to say that Payson was universally popular at Yardley. He was a good deal of a martinet, had a quick temper and a sharp tongue. But he was just in his dealings with the fellows, was a hard worker, and as unsparing of himself as of his charges. The older boys, those who had known him longer, liked him thoroughly, while the younger fellows, many of whom blamed him for their inability to make the teams, called him hard names.

The baseball candidates finally got out of doors a week later than expected. By this time the April sky appeared to have emptied itself of rain, and a warm sun was busy drying up the sodden land. The fellows felt and acted like colts that first afternoon. It was bully to feel the springy turf underfoot, to smell the moist fragrance of growing things, and to have the west wind capering about the field. Even a full hour and a half[161] of hard work failed to quench their spirits, and they swarmed into the gymnasium at half-past five as jolly as larks. The next afternoon practice ended with a four-inning game between the first and second teams, and Dan played during two of the innings in center-field. He had but one chance and accepted it. At his single appearance at bat he got to first on fielder’s choice, having knocked a miserable little hit half way to third base, and was caught ingloriously in an attempt to steal second. And yet he could congratulate himself on having made as good an appearance as any of the other dozen or so candidates for fielding positions. By the middle of the week practice had settled down to hard work, and on Friday the first cut was made. Some twenty candidates were dropped from the squad, only enough being retained to compose two nines and substitutes. Dan found himself on the second nine, playing when the opportunity offered at right or center-field. But he felt far from secure, for it was well known that a further reduction of the squad was due some time the following week.

Meanwhile Gerald had astounded Dan and the rest of his friends, not yet many in number, by winning a place on the Fourth Class team. I think Gerald must have been a natural-born baseball[162] player, if there is such a thing; otherwise he would never, with his slight experience, have made the showing he did. Perhaps the standard of excellence required of a candidate for admission to the team wasn’t very high, but there were many fellows amongst those trying for places who had played ball for two or three years. Gerald showed unsuspected alertness in handling the ball, accuracy in throwing, and a good eye at the bat. And so, a week after the class teams had begun work, Gerald found himself playing shortstop on his nine. Naturally, he was in the seventh heaven of bliss, and talked baseball, thought baseball, and dreamed baseball. Alf amused Dan and Tom by claiming some of the credit. Personally, I think there was reason in his contention. At all events he made out a good case.

“Oh, you may laugh,” said Alf earnestly, “but it’s so. If Gerald hadn’t had those boxing lessons he wouldn’t have made good. They taught him to see quick and act quick, and they taught him accuracy. When you come to think of it, boxing and baseball aren’t so much unalike. In boxing you have a fellow’s glove to stop and your own to get away, and get away quick and accurately. In baseball you have the ball to stop and to get away. In either case it’s quickness and[163] accuracy of eye and brain and body that does the trick.”

“Pooh!” scoffed Tom. “If Gerald ever gets to be President you’ll try to show that it was because you gave him boxing lessons when he was a kid.”

But whether or not part of the credit was due to Alf, it remains a fact that Gerald was about the proudest and happiest youngster in the whole school, with only one thing to worry him. That thing was the fact that devotion to baseball was playing hob with his lessons. It was Kilts who first drew his attention to the fact. He asked him to remain behind the class one morning.

“What’s wrong, lad?” he asked kindly. Gerald hesitated a moment, trying to find a plausible excuse. In the end he decided that the truth would do better than anything else.

“It’s baseball, sir,” he answered frankly. “I’m on my class team, and—and I guess I haven’t been studying very hard.”

“Well, well, that won’t do,” said Kilts gravely. “Baseball is a fine game, I have no doubt, but you mustn’t let it come between you and your studies, lad. Better let baseball alone a while, I’m thinking, until you can do better work than you’ve been doing the last week. Baseball and all such sports belong outdoors; they’re well[164] enough there; but when you take them into class with you—” Kilts shook his head soberly—“you’re brewing trouble. You know I’m right, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” Gerald answered. “I’ll try and—and do better.”

“That’s the lad! Youth must have its pleasures, but there’s work to do, too. Ye ken what Bobby Burns said?
“‘O man! while in thy early years, How prodigal of time! Misspending all thy precious hours, Thy glorious youthful prime!’

“He was no the hard worker himself, was Bobby,” added Mr. McIntyre with a chuckle, “but he sensed it right, I’m thinking. Well, run along, lad, and remember, I’m looking for better things from you.”

So Gerald ran along, just as the next class began crowding into the little recitation room, and when study time came that evening, instead of leaning over his books with one hand in a fielder’s glove, as had been his custom of late, he put glove and ball out of sight behind a pillow on the window seat before he sat down. Dan saw, and breathed easier.

The second cut in the Varsity squad came, and Dan survived it. The first game, a mid-week[165] contest with Greenburg High School, found the Yardley team somewhat unprepared. Kelsey, a second string pitcher, was in the box and was extremely erratic. Greenburg had no difficulty in connecting with his delivery, and the Yardley outfield was kept pretty busy during the six innings which were played before a sharp downpour of rain sent the teams and spectators scurrying from the field. Dan didn’t get into the game, much to his regret, for there were lots of chances for the outfielders that afternoon. Yardley managed to pull the game out of the fire in the fifth inning, and won, 8-6.

So far Dan had not flaunted his ambition to play on one of the bases. But the following Monday he found himself sitting on the bench beside Stuart Millener. Millener was watching the base-running practice, his place on first being occupied for the time by a substitute. He asked Dan where he had played before, and learned that at Graystone Dan had occupied second base.

“Well,” said Millener, “Danforth is making pretty good at second, and unless something happens, he will stay there, I guess. But there’s no harm in being prepared, Vinton, and I’ll let you see what you can do there.”

Millener was as good as his word, and when practice began Dan found himself in Danforth’s[166] place. Of course, he was rusty, and he and Durfee, shortstop, failed to work together at first. But he made no bad plays, and shared in a speedy double with Millener. At the bat Dan was still rather weak. After practice Payson called him.

“You’ve played on second before, Millener says, and so I’m putting you down for a substitute baseman, Vinton. You’d rather play there, wouldn’t you?”

“Much,” answered Dan. “But I’d rather make good as a fielder than try for a base and not make it.”

“Well, you see what you can do. I don’t believe you’ll have much show for second, but you might possibly make third. Ever play there?”

“No, sir, but I guess I could.”

“Well, we’ll see. You want to be a little shiftier on your feet, though, Vinton. You haven’t got as much time to make up your mind in the infield as you have in the out.”

Dan told Alf of his promotion while they were dressing in the gymnasium.

“That’s good,” said Alf. “I guess Payson means to get you on third. Condit isn’t much; Lord beat him out for the place last year, and would have had it this if he’d returned. I guess Payson thinks he owes you something for pulling[167] us out of the hole in the Broadwood game last Fall.”

“Oh, well, I don’t believe I want to get it that way,” said Dan thoughtfully.

“What way?”

“I mean I don’t want to get it by favor.”

“Piffle! Don’t you worry. If you get it, it’ll be because you deserve it. Payson may help you, Dan, but you needn’t worry about having the place presented to you on a plate. Payson isn’t that sort. He never lets his liking for a fellow influence him much. I rather wish he did. He and I are pretty good friends, and I’d rather like to play shortstop. But nothing doing.”

“It doesn’t seem exactly fair for me to step into the infield when you’ve been on the team two years,” said Dan.

“Pshaw, I was only fooling! I’m happy enough out in left field. Why, I couldn’t play short for a minute. I’ve tried it. I can catch flies and throw to base pretty well, but if it wasn’t for the fact that I can bat with the next fellow I wouldn’t hold down my place a minute. I know some schools where you can have almost anything in reason if you happen to be football or baseball captain. But the rule doesn’t work that way here. Millener couldn’t have made the scrub last fall, and he knew it, and didn’t try. And I know[168] that the only thing that keeps me on the nine is the fact that I bat better than any one except Colton. Oh, you have to work for what you get at Yardley. A good thing, too. Over at Broadwood they have about half a dozen societies and society men have the first choice every time. Considering that, it’s a wonder they do as well as they do.”

“I should say so,” agreed Dan. “It’s about a stand-off in athletics, isn’t it?”

“It’s run pretty evenly the last ten or twelve years in baseball and football,” replied Alf, “but we win three out of four times in track games. And we’re away ahead in hockey, in spite of this year’s fizzle. They usually do us up at basket-ball, though. But who cares about basket-ball, anyway—except Tom?”

“I should think we’d go in for rowing here,” said Dan.

“Well, there isn’t a decent course within a good many miles,” said Alf. “I don’t believe Yardley ever tried rowing. The year before I came here they had an ‘Aquatic Tournament,’ whatever that is; Broadwood came over and there were canoe races and swimming races and diving stunts on the river. But Broadwood got so everlastingly walloped that there wasn’t much fun for any one and it was never tried again.”

[169]

A little later, on the way across the Yard, Dan said:

“By the way, Alf, Cambridge sends out invitations in about two weeks. I want to get Gerald in, if I can. How do you feel about it?”

“Me? Why, I’ll help, of course. Gerald’s not a bad little chap, not by any means. I guess we can make it go all right. We’ll have to do a little political work, though. I wonder whether he’d rather join Cambridge than Oxford. He and Tom get on pretty well together, you know, and Tom’s had him up to Oxford twice.”

“I think he will take Cambridge if he gets a chance,” Dan replied. “I’m going to take him again Saturday night. I suppose we’d better talk him up with the fellows.”

“Yes. I guess we’re certain of five or six votes already. And we can get that many more without much trouble.”

“Just what is the method of selecting fellows?” asked Dan, as they came to a pause at the doorway of Dudley.

“You get a majority of the meeting to agree on the candidate, first. Then his name is put down on the list, and the list goes to the Admission Committee. The Committee is composed of the President and two members from each class of the three upper classes, seven in all. They vote[170] on the names as they’re read off. One black ball keeps a fellow out.”

Dan whistled softly.

“That doesn’t sound so easy,” he said.

“Oh, I guess we won’t have any trouble. I know most of the Committee. Colton’s president, you know; he will vote the way I ask him to. Then there’s Millener and Kapenhysen of the First Class, both good chaps; and Chambers and Derrick of the Second. Chambers will vote for Gerald anyway without asking, and Derrick is a particular friend of Tom’s, and will do as Tom says. The Third Class men—blessed if I know who they are; do you?”

Dan shook his head.

“Well, I’ll find out to-morrow,” said Alf. “Don’t you worry, we’ll get little Geraldine in all right. By the way, why didn’t you come over to the gym Saturday morning? We had a lively little bout, I tell you. I guess it will be the last for a while, too. Now that practice has begun neither Gerald nor I seem to have much time for punching each other’s noses. Well, be good, Dan. Come around to-night if you can.”

Dan was too busy to call that evening, but the following night found him and Gerald in Number 7. For some time past Tom had been teaching Gerald chess, and to-night the board was brought[171] out and the two were soon deep in the game. Dan and Alf had been talking baseball, but after a while Dan interrupted to ask:

“By the way, did you find out about that?”

“About—? Oh!” Alf looked rather queer, as he drew a slip of paper toward him and scribbled two names on it. “Yes, I found out this morning. Here they are.” He pushed the slip across to Dan. Dan read and returned Alf’s look with one of frowning surprise.

“Hm,” he said.

“Just so,” returned Alf dryly.

“Do you think—” began Dan. Alf shrugged his shoulders.

“Blessed if I know. I thought you might.” He looked hesitatingly over at Gerald’s bowed head. “Perhaps—?”

Dan nodded.

“I say, Gerald,” said Alf, “I hate to interrupt that absorbing game of yours, but would you mind telling me how you and your friend Arthur Thompson are getting on these days?”

Gerald looked blank for a moment.

“Thompson?” he repeated. “Oh! Why, we always nod when we meet each other. We’ve never spoken since the night of the snowball fight. Why, Alf?”

“I was just wondering,” replied Alf vaguely.[172] “I wondered whether you were friends or not. Does he seem inclined to be decent?”

“We-ell, he hasn’t tried to be smart with me,” answered Gerald. “But I don’t think he cares for me much. And I’m pretty sure I don’t like him.”

“I see. And do you know a fellow named Hiltz, Jake Hiltz, a Third Class fellow; lives in Whitson?”

Gerald shook his head.

“I don’t think so. I may know him by sight. Ought I to know him, Alf?”

“N-no, I guess not. I don’t believe he would prove much of an addition to your visiting list.”

“Your move, Gerald,” said Tom.

When the players were absorbed again, Alf said:

“It doesn’t look so easy now, does it?”

Dan shook his head. “No, it looks rather bad.”

“I think maybe Tom had better work his end,” suggested Alf. “Know what I mean?”

“Oxford?” asked Dan.

“Yes, we wouldn’t want him to miss them both, eh? I’ll speak to him about it to-night. Maybe he means to anyway, he’s taken quite a shine to—someone.”

“All right,” said Dan. “I’m sorry, though.[173] I don’t suppose there is anything I could do with—” He tapped the slip of paper.

“No, he’d probably resent it, as you don’t know him. Besides, we don’t know that he will object. It may go through all right. But if I were you I’d speak to—you know who, and tell him how it stands. Perhaps he will have a chance to smooth things over with Thompson.”

“I can’t quite imagine him doing it,” replied Dan, with a smile. “He’s more likely to punch his head, if only to make use of what you’ve taught him.”

“Well, we’ll see the thing through, anyway,” answered Alf hopefully. “We’ll get his name up to the Committee. After that—well, it’s past us. But if G could make it up with T, I guess he’d go through all right.”

“He never would, though. Still, I’ll suggest it to him when we go back.”

“Got you,” said Tom quietly.

“How? Why?” asked Gerald, studying the board perplexedly. “Why can’t I move—.” He stopped. Then: “O-oh!” he said expressively. Dan and Alf laughed.

“Beat you again, did he?” asked Dan. Gerald nodded, smiling somewhat sheepishly.

“Don’t you care, Gerald,” said Alf. “Tom is really a pretty neat little chess player. I dare[174] say there isn’t more than one fellow in school who can beat him, and modesty forbids my mentioning that fellow’s name.” Tom snorted. “Chess is a fool game, anyway; a game for children and idiots.”

“Don’t you play?” asked Gerald innocently.

“Play?” answered Alf above the laughter. “Well, you just ask Tom who wins when we play together.”

“Yes, ask me,” said Tom dryly. “Checkers is your game, Alf.”

“Oh, I’m not saying I can’t do pretty well at that, too, but when it comes to chess—well, again my inherent modesty forbids me to pursue the subject.”

“Huh! You don’t know a king from a pawn,” jeered Tom.

“That’s a challenge,” replied Alf. “Let me at him, Gerald. Just you fellows watch if you want to see pride humbled and a haughty spirit destroyed. Let me see, Tom, where do I put these things?”

“I guess we’ll have to be going,” laughed Dan, “although I can see that it is going to be a rare battle.”

“Rare?” repeated Alf, with a grin. “Oh, no, not rare, Dan; I’m going to do him to a turn. Move, Tom, but be careful how you do it. Remember[175] that I have my argus eye on you. Here! You can’t do that! Of course you can’t. Did you see the way he moved, Dan? That’s cheating, sure! Here, where are you fellows going?”

“Home, before the trouble begins,” answered Dan. “Come on, Gerald.”

“Trouble! There isn’t going to be any trouble,” said Alf. “This is going to be the easiest thing I ever did. But if you must go, see you to-morrow. Gee, he’s pinched my knight!”