CHAPTER XXIV
HARD LUCK
Shouts and yells greeted the announcement of the umpire--cheers from theadmirers of the respective batteries.
"Yah!" voiced the wearers of the crimson. "That's our one best bower! Ohyou Elkert! Tear 'em apart, Snyder!"
Back came the challenge from the sons of Yale.
"You're our meat, Harvard! Keep your eye on the ball--that's all you'llbe able to do. Fool 'em, Matson. 'Rah for Baseball Joe!"
Our hero was becoming quite a favorite with his classmates, many of whomnow knew of his one ambition. But Kendall had his admirers too.
"He eats 'em alive--Shorty Kendall does!" came the cry. "Look out forour bear-cats, Harvard!"
Once more came a riot of cheers and songs, each college group strivingits best to outdo the other, giving its favorite cries or songs.
"Come, get together, you two, and make sure you don't have any mix-upon signals," exclaimed Mr. Hasbrook to Joe and the catcher. "We want towin this game. And, Joe, don't forget what I told you about getting inon all the plays you can. We'll need every man if we take this game.Harvard has several good twirlers, and she's been playing like a houseafire. Watch yourselves."
"Then I'm really going to pitch?" asked Joe. It was almost the onlything he had said since hearing the announcement, after Spike hadclapped him on the back with such force.
"Pitch! Of course you're going to pitch," declared the head coach. "AndI want you to pitch your head off. But save your arm, for there aregoing to be more games than this. But, mind!" and he spoke withearnestness. "You've got to make good!"
"I will!" exclaimed Joe, and he meant it.
"Come over here," suggested Shorty. "Plug in a few and we'll seeif you're as good as you were yesterday," for Joe and he had hadconsiderable practice, as, in fact, had all the pitchers, includingWeston. As for that lad, when he heard the announcement a scowl shotacross his face, and he uttered an exclamation.
"What's the matter?" asked De Vere, who had become rather intimate withFord of late.
"Matter! Isn't there enough when that--when he pitches?" and he noddedhis head toward Joe.
"Why; do you think they'll get his goat, or that he'll blow, and throwthe game?"
"He might," sneered Weston, "but I have a right to be on the moundto-day. I was half promised that I could pitch, and now, at the lastminute, they put him in. I'm not going to stand for it!"
"It's a sort of a raw deal," declared his friend. "I don't see why theylet such fellows as he come to college. First we know there'll be a lotof hod-carriers' sons here instead of gentlemen," and De Vere turned up,as far as possible, the point of his rather stubby nose. He himself wasthe son of a man who had gotten his start as a contractor, employingthose same "hod-carriers" at whom the son now sneered.
"That's right," agreed Weston. "I should think they could keep Yale alittle more exclusive."
"I agree with you," came from the other. "Why I even understand thatthey are talking of forming a club where even those who eat at commons,and are working their way through, can join. It's going to be fierce.But none of them will get in the Blue Ribbon Association," he added,referring to an exclusive college organization.
"Nor the Anvil Club either," added Weston. "This is all Hasbrook'sfault. He's taken some silly notion to Matson, and he thinks he's awonderful pitcher. It seems they met somewhere, and Matson did him afavor. Now he's taking advantage of it."
"But he can pitch," said De Vere, who, for all his snobbishness, wasinclined to be fair.
"Yes, after a fashion, but he hasn't anything on me. I won againstHarvard last year."
"So you did."
"And I could do it again."
"I believe you. Anyhow I think only the fellows in our ownclass--socially--should play. It makes it rather awkward, don't youknow, if you meet one of the team out anywhere, and he isn't in yourset. You've got to notice him, or there'd be a howl, I s'pose; butreally some of the fellows are regular clod-hoppers, and this Matsondoesn't train in with us."
"You're right. But if things go the way I think he may not last verylong."
"How do you mean? Will he put up such a rotten game that they won'tstand for him?"
"That's all I can say now," rejoined Weston, somewhat mysteriously. "Butsomething may happen."
"And you'll pitch?"
"I hope so. I may get in this game, for I did beat Harvard one year."But Weston forgot to add that he pitched so wretchedly the remainder ofthe season that Yale finished a poor third, losing the championship.
"Play ball!" called the umpire. Those who had been practicing straggledto the bench, or walked out to take their fielding positions.
"I guess you'll do," declared Kendall to Joe, with a nod ofencouragement. "Don't let 'em get your Angora."
"I'll try not to," came the smiling answer. "Are they hard hitters?"
"They are if they get the ball right, but it's up to you not to let 'em.Give 'em twisters and teasers."
"Play ball," called the umpire again, and the first of the Yale batsmentook his place. Once more came the yells and cheers, and when the ladstruck out, which he did with an ease that chagrined his mates, therewas derisive yelling from the Harvard stands.
"Two more and we've got 'em going!" was shouted.
But Jimmie Lee, the diminutive first baseman, was up next, and perhapsthe Harvard pitcher did not think him a worthy foeman. At any rateJimmie caught a ball just where he wanted it, and rapped out a prettytwo-bagger.
"That's the way! Come on in!" was shouted at him, but Jimmie caught thesignal to hug the half-way station, and stayed there. He stole thirdwhile they were throwing his successor out at first, and this made twodown, with Jimmie ready to come in on half a chance. But the Harvardpitcher tightened up, and the fourth man succumbed to a slow twister onhis final strike, making the third out, so that poor Jimmie expired onthe last sack.
"Now, Joe, show 'em that we can do better than that," begged Shorty, ashe donned mask and protector. "Throw me a few and warm up. Then sting'em in!"
Joe was a bit nervous as he went to the box, but he managed to controlhimself. He seemed to guess just what kind of a ball would fool thebatter, and, after two balls had been called on him, sent over two insuccession that were named strikes.
"That's the way we do it!" yelled a Yale admirer, in a high-pitchedvoice. "One more and he's done."
But the one more did not come. Instead, apparently getting the ball justwhere he wanted it, the Harvard man swung on it to the tune of threesacks, amid a wild riot of cheers.
"Now we've got 'em going!" came Harvard's triumphant yells, and Joe feltthe hot blood rush to his face. Kendall saw it, and, guessing thepitcher's state of mind, walked out to the box and whispered:
"Don't mind. That was a fluke. It won't happen again. Hold on toyourself--tighten up and we'll get 'em."
Joe felt better after that bit of advice, and was calmer when he woundup for the next batter. Though he had been told that Harvard would playa foxy game, he was hardly prepared for what followed. The next playerup hit lightly, for a sacrifice, thinking to bring in the run. As ithappened, Joe stumbled as he raced to pick up the twisting ball, andthough he managed to recover himself, and throw home, while on hisknees, the man racing from third beat the throw and the first run forHarvard was in. Then such cheering as there was!
Yale was nonplussed for the moment, and her rooters in the stands satglum and silent. But the spirit of the blue could not long be kept down,and soon the Boola song came booming over the field. It cheered Joemightily, even though he saw the sneering look on the face of Weston,who sat on the bench, hoping for a chance to supplant him.
"Here's where we walk away!" crowed a Harvard man, but the wearers ofthe crimson did not, for that run was the only one they got that inning.But it was a start, and it looked big below the goose egg that adornedYale's score.
The game went on, varyingly. Yale managed to get two runs in the fifthinning, putting her one ahead, for Joe had done such good wo
rk, aided bythe rest of the team, when a hit was made, that Harvard had not scoredagain.
"Matson's pitching a great game!" exclaimed Mr. Hasbrook, as he watchedeagerly. "I told you we wouldn't make any mistake if we let him go infirst," and he looked at his colleagues.
"But that was a costly fumble," declared Mr. Benson.
"Yes, but no one is perfect. Besides we're ahead."
"Only one run."
"That's enough to win the game."
"But hardly with four more innings to go," rejoined Mr. Whitfield,dubiously.
"Look at that!" exclaimed Mr. Hasbrook, in excitement, as Joe grabbed ahot liner and whipped it over to first in time to catch the man nappingthere. "Matson's more than just a pitcher."
"You seem interested in him," spoke Mr. Benson.
"I am. I think Joe is going to make one of the finest ball players we'veever had at Yale. He hasn't found himself yet, of course, and he needsmore judgment. But he's got a future. I think we'll hear of him somewhereelse besides on a college team, too."
"I understand he has professional ambitions," admitted Mr. Benson. "Buthe's got a hard life ahead of him."
"Oh, he'll make good!" declared Mr. Hasbrook.
And it seemed that Joe was going to in this game. He was pitchingwonderfully well, and Harvard only found him for scattering hits.
On her part Yale was doing very well. Harvard had tried another pitcherwhen she found that her first one was being pounded, but it availedlittle, and when the ninth inning closed, as far as the wearers of theblue were concerned, they were two runs ahead.
"We've got 'em! We've got 'em!" yelled Shorty with delight, caperingabout Joe. "All you've got to do is to hold 'em down!"
"Yes--all--but that's a lot," declared the pitcher. "They're going toplay fierce now."
"But they need three runs to win. You can hold 'em down!"
"I'll try," promised Joe, as he went to the mound.
It looked as if he was going to make good, but luck, that element thatis always present in games, especially in baseball, deserted the bluefor the red. The first man up knocked a long, high fly to deep centre.So sure was he, as well as everyone else, that it would be caught, thatthe player hardly ran, but the ball slipped through the fingers of Ed.Hutchinson as if it had been greased, and the man was safe on second.
"Now we've got 'em going," came the cry. "A couple more hits and we'vegot the game."
Joe was wary, but he was playing against experienced youths, and when hefound the man on second trying to steal third he threw down, hoping tocatch him. His throw was wild, the baseman jumped for it in vain, andthe runner went on to third.
"Never mind--play for the batter," advised Shorty.
Joe did, but somehow he could not get the right twist on the ball. Hewas hit for a single, and the man on third scored.
"Two more and we've got 'em!" yelled the delighted wearers of thecrimson. "None down yet."
Then, whether it was the effect of luck, or because the Yale team washypnotized by the wearers of the crimson, was not manifest; but certainit was that the blue players went to pieces. It was not Joe's fault--atleast not all his, though he made one error. But this seemed to affectall the Yale team, and the result was a wild finish on the part ofHarvard that put them two runs to the good, winning the game.
"Hard luck!" exclaimed Shorty, in a dejected voice, as he took off hisglove and mask. "Hard luck!"