Weatherby's Inning: A Story of College Life and Baseball
Ralph Henry Barbour
Produced by Donald Cummings and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
WEATHERBY'S INNING
BY RALPH HENRY BARBOUR.
Each, 12mo, Cloth, Illustrated.
Weatherby's Inning.
Illustrated in Colors. $1.20 net; postage, 12 cents additional.
Behind the Line.
A Story of School and Football. $1.20 net; postage, 12 cents additional.
Captain of the Crew.
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For the Honor of the School.
A Story of School Life and Interscholastic Sport. $1.50.
The Half-Back.
A Story of School, Football, and Golf. $1.50.
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.
Perkins was speeding for second.]
WEATHERBY'S INNING
A Story of College Life and Baseball
BY RALPH HENRY BARBOUR
AUTHOR OF BEHIND THE LINE, THE HALF-BACK, ETC.
_Illustrated by C. M. Relyea_
New York D. Appleton and Company 1903
COPYRIGHT, 1903 BY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
_Published September, 1903_
TO ALFRED LOUIS BAURY AGED ELEVEN
YOUNGEST AND MOST LENIENT OF CRITICS
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE I.--COWARD! 1 II.--AN INTERRUPTION 11 III.--MR. TIDBALL INTRODUCES HIMSELF 19 IV.--CATCHER AND PITCHER 30 V.--AN ENCOUNTER IN THE YARD 39 VI.--IN DISGRACE 47 VII.--AT THE BATTING NETS 57 VIII.--THE LAST STRAW 68 IX.--ANTHONY STUDIES A TIME-TABLE 80 X.--FLIGHT 94 XI.--ANTHONY MAKES A STATEMENT 106 XII.--A FLY TO LEFT-FIELDER 120 XIII.--JOE IS PESSIMISTIC 127 XIV.--THE MASS-MEETING 139 XV.--ANTHONY ON BASEBALL 148 XVI.--JACK COURTS THE MUSE 156 XVII.--ERSKINE _vs._ HARVARD 167 XVIII.--JACK AT SECOND 176 XIX.--ANTHONY TELLS A SECRET 184 XX.--STOLEN PROPERTY 194 XXI.--OFF TO COLLEGETOWN 203 XXII.--AT THE END OF THE SIXTH 213 XXIII.--A TRIPLE PLAY 223 XXIV.--WEATHERBY'S INNING 239
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
FACING PAGE
Perkins was speeding for second. _Frontispiece_ He leaned back, clinging to the planks behind him. 7 Anthony waved the coffee-pot hospitably. 47 "What's wrong, Weatherby?" 99 Weatherby sprang straight upward, two feet above the turf. 238 With a gasp for breath he leaped forward. 246
WEATHERBY'S INNING
CHAPTER I
COWARD!
UNIVERSITY BASEBALL.--All men who wish to try for the team report in the cage on Monday, February 25th, at 3.30 sharp.
JOS. L. PERKINS, _Capt._
Jack Weatherby, on his way out of the gymnasium, paused before thebulletin-board in the little drafty hall and read the call.
"That's next Monday," he muttered. "All right, I'll be there."
Then, putting a shoulder against the big oak door, he pushed his wayout on to the granite steps and stood there a moment in scowlingcontemplation of the cheerless scene. Before him the board-walk wasalmost afloat in a shallow rivulet of melted snow that filled thegravel-path from side to side. A few steps away the path ended at theWashington Street gate in a veritable lake. The crossing was inchesdeep in water and the Common was a dismal waste of pools and streamsout of which the soldiers' monument reared itself as though agonizedlysearching for a dry spot to which to move. There was an incessant andmonotonous dripping and trickling and gurgling as the snow, whichtwo days before had covered the ground to a depth of over a foot,disappeared as by magic under the breath of an unseasonable south wind.The sky was leaden and lowering, and against it the bare branches ofthe numberless elm-trees swayed complainingly. The Common and so muchof the college grounds as was in sight were deserted. Altogether it wasa dispiriting prospect that met Jack's eyes, and one little likely toaid him in the task of fighting the "blues," which had oppressed himall day.
He went listlessly down the steps, heroically striving to whistle atune. But the tune had died out ere the sidewalk was reached. He lookedwith misgiving from the crossing to his shoes--shoes which even whennew had been scarcely adapted to wet weather--and after a moment ofhesitation gave up the idea of taking the usual short cut across theCommon, and went on down Washington Street. As he began to pick hisway gingerly across the wet pavement at the corner of Elm Street, twomen ran down the steps of a boarding-house. They were talking in high,excited tones, and Jack could hear them until they had gone somedistance toward the railroad.
"The water's away up to the road, they say," one of them declaredloudly, "and it's still rising. They're afraid the bridge'll go.There's a lot of ice coming down."
"Should think it might go," said the other. "The old thing looks asthough you could push it over if you tried."
"Yes, don't it? Let's get a move on. We had a flood once up homethat----"
Then a heavy gust of wind, sweeping around the corner of thetumble-down livery-stable, drowned the conversation. Jack pausedand silently weighed the respective attractions of a dark and notovercomfortable room in the green-shuttered house a few steps away,and a swollen river which might, if there was any such thing as goodluck--which he had begun to doubt--sweep away the tottering old woodenbridge. Well, his feet were already wet, and so-- He retraced his stepsto the corner and went on down Washington Street in the wake of theothers. They were a block or so ahead, splashing their thick bootsthrough all kinds of puddles. They were evidently the best of friends,for one kept his hand on the other's shoulder. Once the prankish windbore a scrap of merry laughter up the street, and Jack, plodding alongbehind, wary of puddles, as befits a fellow who is wearing his onlypair of winter shoes, heard it and felt gloomier and more forlorn thanever.
He wondered what it was like to have real friends and a chum; to bewell known and liked. He had come to Erskine College in September fullyexpecting such things to fall to his share. But he had been there fivemonths now and during that time his life had been very lonely. Atfirst he had tried to make friends in a diffident way. Perhaps he hadtried with the wrong men; perhaps his manner had been against him; theresult had been discouraging, and after a while, smarting under what tohis oversensitive feelings seemed rebuffs, he had ceased looking forfriends and had retired into a shell of pessimism and injured pride,masking his loneliness under simulated indifference. Since then he hadundoubtedly lost many a chance to find the companionship he craved; buthe had learned his lesson, he told himself bitterly, and so he rejectedadvances as though they were the deadliest of insults.
He didn't look the least bit like a misanthrope. He was seventeen yearsold, large for his age, lithe, muscular and healthy-looking, as isproper in a boy who has never been pampered, with a face which even atthe present moment, in spite of the expression of settled bitternessthat marred it, was eminently attractive. His eyes were well apart andgray in color; his hair was light brown, and his mouth, which of latehad formed the unfortunate habit of wearing a little supercilious sneerin public, looked generous and honest, and, with the firmly roundedchin beneath, sugge
sted force and capability. On the whole he was aclean-cut, manly-looking boy to whom fortune, you would have said, owedmuch.
When Jack Weatherby reached the river he found that the report ofits depredations was not exaggerated. To be sure, River Street wasstill above water, but the flood was well over the bank in places,and farther along, in front of the coal-yards, several of the wharveswere awash. The broad stream, usually a quiet, even sluggish body, wassending up a new sound, a low, threatening roar which, without hishaving realized it, had reached Jack's ears long before he had sightedthe river.
He wormed his way through the crowd of townfolk that lined thestreet, and, passing through an empty coal-pocket, found himself on aspray-drenched string-piece a foot above the water. To his right andleft piers ran some distance into the river. They were untenanted. Butbeyond them the open spaces used by the coal company as storage groundfor wagons were black with watchers. A short way off was the bridge,a low, wooden structure connecting Centerport with the little villageof Kirkplain across the river. Jack was on the up-stream side of thebridge and could see the havoc that the drifting ice was making withthe worn spiling and hear the crashing and grinding as cake after cakewas hurled and jammed against it. Several of the supports were alreadybroken, and the entrance to the bridge was barred with a rope andguarded by a member of Centerport's small police force.
Jack drew back as far as he could from the edge of the beam and withhis shoulders against the boards of the big bin watched in strangefascination the black, angry water rushing past. It frightened andrepelled him, and yet he found it difficult to remove his gaze. For aslong as he could remember he had been afraid of water. Once, when hewas only five years old, he had fallen into the brook that crossed hisfather's farm and had almost drowned before his mother, hastening afterthe runaway, had dragged him out. His recollection of the escapade wasvery hazy, but it had left him with a dread of water that was almost amania. All efforts to combat it had proved futile. He had never learnedto swim, and had never in all his life trusted himself in a boat. Andyet, as a boy, he had devoured ravenously all the stories of the sea hecould lay hands on, and had shuddered over shipwrecks and similardisasters, at once repelled and fascinated.
Suddenly his contemplation of the river was disturbed by shouts ofalarm from up-stream. With an effort he withdrew his gaze from thewater and looked in the direction of the cries. At that instant, aroundthe corner of the pier to his right, floated something that thrashedthe water wildly and sent up shrill appeals for help. After the firstsecond of bewilderment Jack saw that it was a boy of thirteen orfourteen years. The white face, horribly drawn with terror, turnedtoward him, and, for an instant, the frightened, staring eyes lookedinto his. Jack sickened and groped blindly for support. A trick of thecurrent shot the struggling body into the little harbor afforded by thetwo piers, almost at his feet. In his ears was a meaningless babel ofshouts and in his heart an awful fear. He leaned back with outstretchedhands clinging to the planks behind him and closed his eyes to avoidthe sight of the appealing face below. Then, with a gasp, he sank tohis knees, seized the string-piece with one hand, and with the otherreached downward. But he was too late. The current, sweeping out again,had already borne the boy beyond reach. There was a final despairingshriek, then the arms ceased to struggle and the eddies closed overthe body. Jack joined his voice impotently with the others and lookedwildly about for a plank or a rope--anything that he could throw intothe water. But there was nothing. Sick and dizzy he subsided againstthe timbers.
He leaned back, clinging to the planks behind him.]
Then, just at the corner of the down-stream wharf, the body came to thesurface again, the eyes sightless, the lips silent. And, almost toolate, came help.
Jack, leaning near the opening in the coal-bin, felt rather than sawsome one push by him. The rescuer, a man several years Jack's senior,had discarded his coat and vest, and now, stooping and placing a handlightly on the string-piece, he dropped into the water. A half dozenstrokes took him to the end of the pier, and just as the drowning boywas again sinking he caught him. Turning, he struck out toward Jack,swimming desperately against the swirling current. For a minute itwas difficult work; then he reached stiller water, and Jack, leaningover the edge, stretched forth eager hands to help. But ere he coulddo so he was pushed aside, narrowly saving himself from pitching headforemost into the water, and a middle-aged man, whom Jack a momentlater saw to be Professor White, relieved the rescuer of his burden.
By that time the narrow foothold along the edge of the river wasthronged with students and townfolk. Quickly the apparently lifelessbody was borne past them through the yard and into a small office.Jack, trembling in every limb, followed. But near the door he suddenlybecame aware of a hostile atmosphere. The crowd, which had grown everyminute, were observing him curiously, contemptuously, muttering andwhispering. The blood rushed into his face and then receded, leaving itdeathly pale. For a moment he faced them. Then a small boy somewhere onthe edge of the throng sent up a shrill cry:
"That's him! That's the feller that didn't make no try ter save him!'Fraid of wettin' his feet, he was!"
Jack looked about him and read in the faces that confronted him onlymerciless condemnation. Something in his throat hurt him and refusedto be dislodged. With head up he turned and made his way through thecrowd, the old sneer on his lips. But there was worse in store. He felta hand on his shoulder and turned to find Professor White beside him.
"What's your name?" asked the professor sternly.
"Weatherby, sir," muttered Jack.
"Are you a student?"
"Yes, sir."
"What class?"
"Six."
The professor looked at him searchingly, then dropped the hand from hisshoulder.
"I find that hard to believe," he said contemptuously. "I didn't thinkwe had any cowards here at Erskine!"
He turned away, and Jack, after a moment of hesitation, a moment inwhich his first inclination to protest against the injustice of theverdict was drowned in a sudden dumbing surge of anger, made his wayout of the throng and stumbled back to his room through the gatheringtwilight.
PLAN OF ERSKINE COLLEGE AND THE TOWN OF CENTERPORT 1901]
