CHAPTER XVI
JOE MAKES GOOD
For a moment our hero could scarcely believe his good fortune. He hadbeen called to pitch for the scrub! Once more as he stood there,scarcely comprehending, Mr. Benson called out sharply:
"Didn't you hear, Matson? You're to pitch against the 'varsity, and Iwant you to beat 'em!"
"Yes--yes, sir," answered Joe, in a sort of daze.
"And, 'varsity, if you don't pound him all over the field you're nogood! Eat 'em up!" snapped the assistant coach.
"Don't let 'em win, scrub," insisted Mr. Whitfield, and thus it wenton--playing one against the other to get the 'varsity to do its best.
"Play ball!" called the umpire. "Get to work. Come in, you fellows," andhe motioned to those who were out on the field warming up.
"Congratulations, old man!" murmured Spike, as he shook Joe's hand. "Youdeserve it."
"And so do you. I wish you were going to catch."
"I wish so, too, but maybe my chance will come later. Fool 'em now."
"I'll try."
Joe had a vision of Bert Avondale, the regular scrub pitcher, moving tothe bench, and for an instant his heart smote him, as he noted Bert'sdespondent attitude.
"It's tough to be displaced," murmured Joe. "It's a queer world whereyour success has to be made on someone else's failure, and yet--well,it's all in the game. I may not make good, but I'm going to try awfullyhard!"
He wondered how his advancement had come about, and naturally hereasoned that his preferment had resulted from the words spoken inprivate by Mr. Hasbrook.
"I wonder if I'd better thank him?" mused Joe. "It would be the rightthing to do, and yet it would look as if he gave me the place by favorinstead of because I've got a right to have it, for the reason that Ican pitch. And yet he doesn't know that I can pitch worth a cent, unlesssome of the other coaches have told him. But they haven't watched meenough to know. However, I think I'll say nothing until I have madegood."
Had Joe only known it, he had been more closely watched since his adventon the diamond than he had suspected. It is not the coach who appears tobe taking notes of a man's style of play who seems to find out most.Mr. Hasbrook, once he found that the lad who had rendered him such aservice was at Yale, and had aspirations to the nine, made inquiries ofthe coaches who had done the preliminary work.
"Oh, Matson. Hum, yes. He does fairly well," admitted Mr. Benson. "Hehas a nice, clean delivery. He isn't much on batting, though."
"Few pitchers are," remarked the head coach. "I wonder if it would do togive him a trial?"
"I should say so--yes," put in Mr. Whitfield. He was quick to see thathis co-worker had a little prejudice in Joe's favor, and, to do theassistant coaches justice, they both agreed that Joe had done very well.But there were so many ahead of him--men who had been at Yalelonger--that in justice they must be tried out first.
"Then we'll try him on the scrub," decided Mr. Hasbrook; and so it hadcome about that Joe's name was called.
In order to give the scrubs every opportunity to beat the 'varsity, andso that those players would work all the harder to clinch the victory,the scrubs were allowed to go to bat last, thus enhancing their chances.
"Play ball!" yelled the umpire again. "It's getting late. Play ball!"
Joe, a little nervous, walked to the box, and caught the new white ballwhich was tossed to him. As he was rubbing some dirt on it, to take offthe smoothness of the horsehide, Mr. Hasbrook advanced toward him andmotioned him to wait.
"Matson," said the head coach, smiling genially. "You wouldn't let mereward you for the great favor you did me a while ago, though I wantedto. I hoped sometime to be able to reciprocate, but I never thought itwould come in this way. I have decided to give you a chance to makegood."
"And I can't thank you enough!" burst out the young pitcher. "I feelthat----"
"Tut! Tut!" exclaimed Mr. Hasbrook, holding up his hand, "I wouldn'thave done this if I didn't think you had pitching stuff in you. In a waythis isn't a favor at all, but you're right though, it might not havecome so quickly. I appreciate your feelings, but there are a few thingsI want to say.
"At Yale every man stands on his own feet. There is no favoritism.Wealth doesn't count, as I guess you've found out. Membership in theSenior Societies--Skull and Bones, Scroll and Keys--Wolf's Head--doesn'tcount--though, as you will find, those exclusive organizations taketheir members because of what they have done--not of what they are.
"And so I'm giving you a chance to see what is in you. I'd like to seeyou make good, and I believe you will. But--if you don't--that ends it.Every tub must stand on its own bottom--you've got to stand on yourfeet. I've given you a chance. Maybe it would have come anyhow, but, outof friendship to you, and because of the service you did me, I wasinstrumental in having it come earlier. That is not favoritism. Youcan't know how much you did for me that day when you enabled me to getthe train that, otherwise, I would have missed.
"It was not exactly a matter of life and death, but it was of vitalimportance to me. I would be ungrateful, indeed, if I did not repay youin the only way I could--by giving you the chance to which you areentitled.
"But--this is important--you've got to show that you can pitch or you'lllose your place. I've done what I can for you, and, if you prove worthyI'll do more. I'll give you the best coaching I can--but you've got tohave backbone, a strong arm, a level head, and grit, and pluck, and alot of other things to make the Yale nine. If you do I'll feel justifiedin what I have done. Now, play ball!" and without giving him a chance toutter the thanks that were on his lips, Mr. Hasbrook left Joe and took aposition where he could watch the playing.
It is no wonder that our hero felt nervous under the circumstances.Anyone would, I think, and when he pitched a wild ball, that thecatcher had to leap for, there were some jeers.
"Oh, you've got a great find!" sneered Weston. "He's a pitcher fromPitchville!"
Joe flushed at the words, but he knew he would have to stand more thanthat in a match game, and he did not reply.
Other derogatory remarks were hurled at him, and the coaches permittedit, for a pitcher who wilts under a cross-fire is of little service in abig game, where everything is done to "get his goat," as the sayinggoes.
"Ball two!" yelled the umpire, at Joe's second delivery, and the lad wasaware of a cold feeling down his spine.
"I've got to make good! I've got to make good!" fiercely he told himselfover again. There seemed to be a mist before his eyes, but by an efforthe cleared it away. He stooped over pretending to tie his shoe lace--anold trick to gain time--and when he rose he was master of himself again.
Swiftly, cleanly, and with the curve breaking at just the right moment,his next delivery went over the plate. The batsman struck at it andmissed by a foot.
"Good work, old man!" called the catcher to him. "Let's have another."
But the next was a foul, and Joe began to worry.
"You're finding him," called the 'varsity captain to his man. "Line oneout."
But Joe was determined that this should not be, and it was not, forthough the batter did not make a move to strike at the second ball afterthe foul, the umpire called sharply:
"Strike--batter's out."
There was a moment of silence, and then a yell of delight from thescrubs and their friends.
"What's the matter with you?" angrily demanded Mr. Hasbrook of thebatter. "Can't you hit anything?"
The batsman shook his head sadly.
"That's the boy!"
"That's the way to do it!"
"You're all right, Matson!"
These were only a few cries that resounded. Joe felt a warm glow in hisheart, but he knew the battle had only begun.
If he had hoped to pitch a no-hit, no-run game he was vastlydisappointed, for the batters began to find him after that forscattering pokes down the field. Not badly, but enough to show to Joeand the others that he had much yet to learn.
I am not going to describe that practice game in detai
l, for there aremore important contests to come. Sufficient to say that, to the uttersurprise of the 'varsity, the scrub not only continued to hold them welldown, but even forged ahead of them. In vain the coaches argued,stormed and pleaded. At the beginning of the ninth inning the scrubswere one run ahead.
"Now if we can shut them out we'll win!" yelled Billy Wakefield, thescrub captain, clapping Joe on the back. "Can you do it?"
"I'll try, old man," and the pitcher breathed a trifle faster. It was atime to try his soul.
He was so nervous that he walked the first man, and the 'varsity beganto jeer him.
"We've got his goat! Play tag around the bases now! Everyone gets a pokeat it!" they cried.
Joe shut his lips firmly. He was holding himself well in, and Mr.Hasbrook, watching, murmured:
"He's got nerve. He may do, if he's got the ability, the speed and thestick-to-it-iveness. I think I made no mistake."
Joe struck out the next man cleanly, though the man on first stole tosecond. Then, on a puzzling little fly, which the shortstop, with noexcuse in the world, missed, another man got to first.
There was a double steal when Joe sent in his next delivery, and thecatcher, in a magnificent throw to second, nearly caught his man. It wasa close decision, but the umpire called him safe.
There were now two on bases, the first sack being unoccupied, and onlyone out.
"Careful," warned the catcher, and Joe nodded.
Perhaps it was lucky that a not very formidable hitter was up next, for,after two balls had been called, Joe struck him out, making two down.
"Now for the final!" he murmured, as the next batter faced him. Therewere still two on bases, and a good hit would mean two runs in, possiblythree if it was a homer.
"I'm going to strike him out!" thought Joe fiercely.
But when two foul strikes resulted from balls that he had hoped would bemissed he was not so sure. He had given no balls, however, and there wasstill a reserve in his favor.
"Ball one!" yelled the umpire, at the next delivery. Joe could hear hismates breathing hard. He rubbed a little soil on the horsehide, thoughit did not need it, but it gave him a moment's respite. Then, swift andsure, he threw the bail. Right for the plate it went, and the batterlunged fiercely at it.
But he did not hit it.
"Striker out--side's out!" came from the umpire.
Joe had made good.