CHAPTER XIX WHAT PELL SCHOOL DID

Dan learned of Mr. Pennimore’s arrival after school.

“I told him you couldn’t come over this afternoon,” said Gerald, “on account of practice. So he said I must bring you to dinner at seven.”

“Gee! I’d like to go,” answered Dan wistfully, “but there wouldn’t be anything I could eat, I guess. It isn’t exactly a training table you folks set, Gerald. Besides, even if you had cold roast beef or poached eggs and such things, I’d want to eat the whole menu. I wish I wasn’t in training.”

“You don’t either,” said Gerald indignantly. “You’re mighty proud of it, and you know it! My! I wish I was in your place! Harry Merrow says you’re certain to get into the Broadwood game, Dan.”

Dan shook his head sadly.

“Merrow is a good little chap,” he said, “but I’ll never get into the Broadwood game unless they let me in for a minute at the end to give[231] me my Y. And as I’ve got two more years that isn’t likely. Of course I don’t want anything to happen to Condit, but—” Followed an eloquent silence.

“You can play just as well as he can,” said Gerald stoutly.

“No, I can’t. That is, I know the game as well, maybe, but he’s been on the team a year already and he knows what to do and how to do it. He’s had more experience. Oh, I don’t care—much. Maybe I’ll make it next year. The trouble is, though, that Condit will be here then, too.”

“Danforth won’t, though,” replied Gerald. “He’s a First Class man. You might make second next year, Dan.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Dan more cheerfully. “I’d rather make second, too. Why don’t you bring your father up to-morrow to see the game, Gerald? Wouldn’t he care for it?”

“I will. It’s Pell School, isn’t it?”

“Yes, and the last game before Broadwood. We’re going to get licked, they say. Now, about this evening, Gerald. I can’t come to dinner but I want to see your father awfully. Suppose I come over afterwards?”

“Of course! And we’ll come home together. Father can’t understand why I don’t want to go over there to live. But he says I can stay on here[232] until school closes if I’ll take luncheon and dinner with him. I must see Mr. Collins about it.”

“And I must dig out for practice. I guess, though, there won’t be much work this afternoon. Hello, did someone knock?”

It was Harry Merrow. He wanted Gerald to go canoeing with him, but Gerald explained that his father had returned and that he was going over there for the afternoon. So Harry decided to go down to the field with Dan and watch practice. They parted in front of Oxford, Gerald running in to the Office to get permission from Mr. Collins to spend all the time he wanted at Sound View and the other two continuing around to the gymnasium. Dan found himself on third base when practice began, for, although the regulars were to have an easy time of it in view of the hard contest set for the morrow, the substitutes were put through a strenuous afternoon.

Supper over, Dan set out for Sound View and found a hearty welcome awaiting him. Mr. Pennimore had to have a full account from Dan of everything that had transpired since his departure abroad. Dan tried to hurry over that part of his narrative which concerned Gerald’s unannounced departure from school, but Mr. Pennimore wanted full details. He shook his head when Dan had finished.

[233]

“I didn’t think you were of the run-away kind, Gerald,” he said regretfully. Gerald looked rather ashamed.

“Well, sir, it was a silly thing to do,” said Dan, “but Gerald had a lot of troubles about that time, Mr. Pennimore.”

“Running away doesn’t help,” replied Gerald’s father dryly. “The troubles can always run faster than you can. Next time, son, you hold your ground and fight it out.”

“Yes, sir, I will next time,” answered Gerald. “I—I know better now.”

“Well, that’s something. I don’t see but what you’ve been learning a good many things—beside algebra.”

“Yes, sir,” said Gerald meekly. Dan smiled as he caught the twinkle in Mr. Pennimore’s eye.

“I suppose you’re doing pretty good work in algebra now, son?”

“I expect to get C plus, sir,” said Gerald eagerly.

“C; hm; that’s the highest mark, is it?”

“N-no, sir, you can get a B—sometimes.”

“How about an A?”

Gerald shook his head decidedly. “Not from Kilts, sir. They say he never gave anyone an A but once and then it was a mistake.”

“That’s true, sir,” laughed Dan. “B plus is[234] about the best you can expect from Kilts.”

“Well, if that is so you’re doing pretty well, aren’t you, Gerald?”

“Yes, sir; Kilts says so himself.”

“And how about other studies?”

“Oh, I don’t mind them,” replied Gerald carelessly. “Maybe I will get an A in English. Say, though, you just ought to have been here and seen the Class Games! Weren’t they great, Dan?”

And thereupon the conversation switched from the dangerous topic of studies to the enthralling one of baseball. Dan’s suggestion that perhaps Mr. Pennimore would like to see the morrow’s game with Pell School was well received and Mr. Pennimore promised to accompany Gerald to that event.

“I had already promised myself a vacation until Monday,” he said, “so I could see something of this good-for-nothing boy of mine. I find, however, that my appearance on the scene is of much less interest to him than the next ball game. I’m afraid you’ve pretty effectually weaned him away from me, Dan?”

“We’re all rather excited about baseball just now, sir,” replied Dan apologetically.

“And you’ve got to go over to Broadwood, sir, and see the big game!” exclaimed Gerald eagerly. “You will, won’t you? We could go[235] over in the car and have a dandy time. You could ride over with us, couldn’t you, Dan?”

“Afraid I’ll have to go in the barge with the team,” answered Dan. “I wish you could see that game, though, Mr. Pennimore. It will be a fine one.”

“Well, we will see. Perhaps I can. Saturday, you say? I’ll think it over.”

Mr. Pennimore watched the contest the next afternoon from a seat in the grand stand, Gerald beside him. Mr. Pennimore didn’t know when he had last seen a baseball game and he had to have a good many things explained to him. But he had a competent and willing tutor, and long before the game was at an end he had become imbued with some of Gerald’s enthusiasm, and, if he didn’t jump out of his seat every two minutes and yell himself hoarse after the manner of his companion, he became much interested and shared Gerald’s sorrow and disappointment at the outcome of the match.

For Yardley went down in ignominious defeat that day. Ignominious is not too strong a term, either. Yardley played, to quote Payson, the coach, “like a lot of babies.” Just what the trouble was no one seemed to know, although one heard all sorts of explanations offered after the game was over and Pell School had departed,[236] cheering and happy, with one more victory added to their long list for the season. Yardley had played mighty poor ball; that was the long and short of it. They seemed to have forgotten everything they had ever known about batting, fielding, base-running, and team work. Even the redoubtable Colton, who had been sent into the box in the sixth inning to save the game, had failed to pitch his wonted game, and had been unmercifully slammed around the lot. The final score was 8 to 1, and an unbiased critic, had there been one on hand, would have told you that the score didn’t begin to show the relative merits of the two teams as they played that day. Pell School simply overwhelmed her opponent, taking quick advantage of every misplay, batting like National Leaguers, and running the bases like mice.

Payson was discouraged. There had been no slump all season, and now it had come at the eleventh hour, and he very greatly doubted whether in the four days of practice which remained before the final game the team could be brought together again in condition. It was one of the worst slumps he had ever had to contend with, and the situation looked pretty desperate to him.

The team and substitutes trotted back to the gymnasium after the game with no pleasant anticipations.[237] That they would receive a frightful wigging from Payson was a foregone conclusion; that some of them might lose their places was not improbable. But Payson, after looking over the tired, anxious faces before him for a moment, closed his lips tightly, swung on his heel and left them. He might, he told himself, have said a great many things, but they were in no condition to hear them. Fault-finding wasn’t going to help at this crisis. If the fellows were to be brought back to their game, they must be rested and encouraged, and encouragement was something Payson couldn’t give them that afternoon.

His unexpected departure left the team dazed, and for a moment no one made a sound. Then little Durfee, the shortstop, who was only a Third Class boy and might be forgiven a show of emotion, put one bare arm over his eyes and began to sob. That broke the tension.

“Well,” said Millener grimly, “what he had to say must have been pretty bad if he couldn’t say it. Now, look here, you fellows!”

Every one turned toward him, and even the rubber stopped his administrations.

“Payson couldn’t talk, but I can. And I say we—mind you, I say we, for I was as rotten as any of you—I say, we ought to be whipped, every one of us, for the fool exhibition we made of ourselves[238] to-day. You know it, too. There wasn’t a man on the team played his real game. We were a poor lot. That’s all for that. There’s another week before the Broadwood game. It’s enough, too. Let’s get down to work on Monday and put our hearts into it. I don’t say let’s forget to-day’s game; I say let’s remember it. Let’s remember it a week from to-day, and show Broadwood that we aren’t the lot of rotters Pell School made us look to be. Let’s show the School that we can play ball, after all, and that they aren’t mistaken in putting faith in us. Let’s work—and fight—and play the game as we can play it! What do you say?”

What they said was a lot. And it was very loud and very earnest, and after they had said it every fellow felt a whole lot better, even little Durfee drying his eyes shame-facedly, and summoning a brave smile to his face.

Dan felt the enthusiasm as well as the rest, and only wished that he might have the chance that the others would have of proving himself. He had sat on the bench all the afternoon, watching and waiting and hoping. But, irony of ironies, where all the team had played poor ball, there was one who had done a little better than the rest; and that one was Condit! Dan was disheartened. Even Danforth, the crack second[239] baseman, had been outplayed by Condit; in fact, Danforth had managed to make about as poor an exhibition of himself as possible, letting hit after hit go through his position, and missing more than one throw to second. But Danforth’s demoralization brought Dan no comfort, for Danforth, he knew, was a fellow who would make good the next time; Danforth had proved himself time and again. No, try as he would, Dan couldn’t see himself in the Broadwood game, and he took his way back to Clarke, the one silent member of the little throng of players and substitutes, feeling rather out of it.

But by Monday he had reached a more philosophical frame of mind. Up until Saturday he had hoped. Now he had stopped hoping and found that he could be quite cheerful. He might possibly get into the game for an inning or a half an inning, and, anyway, there was another year coming. Besides, life was pretty busy nowadays, and there wasn’t much time for thought, happy or regretful. In a little more than a week Graduation Day would come, bringing the end of the school year and the commencement of the Summer holidays. Meanwhile, the First Class fellows went about with worried countenances and absent-minded glances, being in the middle of final examinations. All the other fellows were[240] doing finals, too, but it isn’t so serious when you’re not graduating and when a diploma doesn’t depend on your ability to present in a few hours what it has taken you a whole school year to store up.

The Weather Man had evidently determined to do all he could to make the final week of school memorably pleasant. Monday started in with a clear sky, and the hottest of June suns. Tuesday the sky was even bluer and clearer, and the sun hotter. And so it went, day after day, with the thermometer up in the eighties. What breezes there were, were tiny, timid, ineffectual little breaths that scarcely stirred the limp leaves. On Thursday a great bank of white clouds rolled up from the horizon and at three o’clock a mighty thunder storm was splitting open the heavens and deluging the earth. It lasted only an hour or so, however, and then went off muttering and rumbling into the east, and the sun came out again as jovially ardent as ever. Friday brought unclouded skies, and Saturday dawned hot and clear, and the School, final examinations over with for good or bad, and only the Broadwood baseball game to think about, rejoiced and was glad.

But I am far ahead of my story, for many things happened before Saturday’s sun came blazing up out of the east.