Barbour Ralph Henry
Four Afoot: Being the Adventures of the Big Four on the Highway

And now he was in a wide lane formed by the splashing audience and there was but another dozen yards to go. For a moment he began to hope. But for a moment only. The steady strokes of his opponent were loud in his ears now, and as he looked for an instant a brown hand reached forward almost beside him and disappeared, burying itself in the green, froth-streaked water. It was all up! thought Tom. He hated to be beaten, did Tom, and for an instant he felt rather bad. And in that instant two things happened: the crack swimmer drew abreast of him and Tom had an idea. He suddenly remembered that he had always been able to swim faster under water for a short distance than on top, and like a flash he acted on that knowledge. Down went his head and shoulders, his heels kicked in air for a moment like a steamer’s propeller out of water, and then he vanished from the gaze of the laughing, shouting watchers.

One, two, three, four, five strokes he took down there with the pale green, sunlit waters about him; then up he came, thrashing desperately. His foot struck the knee of his opponent, for a moment he had a glimpse of a drawn, set face seen across the surface of the little wavelets, and then it was all over, and he was struggling to his feet and gasping painfully for breath.

“Who won?” was the cry.

The man in the blue bathing suit shook his head ruefully.

“No one,” he answered. “It was the deadest kind of a dead heat. They were side by side. We’ll have to divide first money, I guess,” he added, with a laugh.

The youth with the Mercury’s foot on his jersey came up to Tom with outstretched hand.

“We finished together,” he said smilingly. “But don’t you ever talk to me again about a three-hundred-yards handicap! That was the hardest race ever I was in. My boy, you can certainly swim, and if you’ll keep at it and train off some of that flesh of yours, you’ll have us all beaten by the time you get to college. What’s your name?”

Tom struggled for breath. His heart was beating like a sledge hammer and his lungs were doing what he called afterwards “a double shuffle.”

“Tu-tu-tu-tu – ” he began. But for the life of him he couldn’t get any farther. The audience tried hard not to laugh, and the crack smiled in spite of himself. He might never have received an answer to his question if Nelson hadn’t come to the rescue.

“His name’s Ferris, Tom Ferris,” said Nelson. “He’s a pretty good swimmer for a fatty, isn’t he?”

That insult summoned Tom’s lost breath.

“Hope you ch-ch-ch-choke!” he stammered.

“Well, you’re all right, my boy,” said the crack admiringly. “We’ll have a talk after dinner, if you like.”

Nodding, he moved off to the beach and disappeared into his bath house. Nelson took Tom by the arm and led him in the same direction. Bob and Dan, the latter having just finished fifth in the race, joined them.

“You were a cheeky beggar, Tommy,” said Bob, “to try and beat that fellow!”

“Why?” gasped Tom, stretching his arms in the hope that they would stop paining.

“Why, because he’s Woodbury, of” – here Bob mentioned a well-known New York athletic club – “and he holds the quarter-mile and half-mile amateur records, my boy.”

“Well, I could beat him next time,” said Tom stoutly.

“Yes, with three hundred yards,” said Dan derisively.

“Huh! You had two hundred yourself,” said Tom scathingly, “and you came near not finishing at all!”

“You kicked up such a sea I couldn’t get my bearings,” answered Dan gravely. “Swam straight out to sea for half a mile or so before I discovered my mistake.”

“If you could swim as well as you can lie – ” began Tom.

“Tommy! Tommy!” warned Bob.

“Well, wha-wha-what’s he tu-tu-tu-talk that way for?” asked Tom aggrievedly. “I can swim better than he can, anyway. I’d be ashamed if I couldn’t!”

Dan accepted the gibe in smiling silence, and the Four retired to their two bath houses with chattering teeth. For a while nothing was to be heard but hoarse breathing and the tread of scurrying feet as bath towels were fiercely applied. Then, warmth returning to the chilled bodies, the Four began to whistle and sing at the top of their lungs. Dan went through everything he knew and then began on his own compositions:

 
“Tom, Tom, the Piper’s son,
Swam a half a mile, by gum!”
 

It was necessary to sing it very loudly and several times over in order that the subject of the song should hear it. When satisfied by the howls of derision which came from next door that Tom and Bob had heard, he gave his attention to the latter:

 
“Mr. Bob, of Portland, Maine,
Wouldn’t he give you a pain?”
 

More howls, dismal and prolonged, from the opposition. Then Tom’s voice, eager, triumphant:

 
“Du-du-du-Dan, Dan, su-silly old Dan!
Eats blue paint out of a can!”
 

This reference to an episode of the preceding summer when Dan, playing sign painter, had got himself very thoroughly mixed up with a half gallon of bright blue paint, brought laughter from all.

“Let’s have a rhyme on Nelson,” suggested Bob.

“All right; you do it,” said Dan.

“Oh, I’m no poet. And I haven’t got my rhyming dictionary with me.”

“Oh, never mind the rhymes,” said Nelson. “Don’t let those bother you; Dan doesn’t.”

“My rhymes are always faultless,” answered the other.

“Oh, yes; like ‘son’ and ‘gum’!”

“Those rhyme!”

“Get out!”

“Of course they do! Don’t they, Bob?”

“They may to you.”

 
“Not every one can be a poet,
Any more than a sheep can be a go-at,”
 

quoted Nelson.

“I’ve gu-gu-gu-gu-got it!” stammered Tom.

“You have; bad,” was Dan’s cruel reply.

“Listen!” cried Tom, unheeding.

 
“There was a young fellow named Nelson – ”
 

“Bet you can’t find a rhyme for it,” jeered Nelson.

“Shut up and let me tell it!

 
“There was a young fellow named Nelson,
Who sometimes got foolish spells on – ”
 

“O-oh!” groaned the rest.

 
“‘ – It’s quite plain to see,’
Said his friends, ‘you would be
A clown if you only had bells on!’”
 

“Tommy, you’re a regular Alfred Austin!” cried Dan. The rest cheered and applauded noisily, and Tom was so pleased with his effort that he repeated it at intervals for the next few days on the slightest provocation.

After dinner they sat for a time on the broad front veranda with Mr. Woodbury, who was quite taken with Tom, and afterwards took boat over to Fire Island on an exploring expedition. They found lots to interest them on that barren expanse of sand dune and beach, not the least of which was the life-saving station which they visited.

It was a square two-story building standing just above high water on the seaward side of the island. A neat white-washed fence inclosed it, and it was fronted by a plot of grass of which the members of the crew were very proud. There were beds of flowers, too, geraniums mostly, bordered with beach stones. The lifeboat and apparatus were kept in a one-story addition to the dwelling house. The boys asked permission to look about and were cordially welcomed. They were shown over the place from top to bottom, inside and out. They saw the big, square dormitory with its white iron beds, each flanked by a chest or trunk containing the member’s clothes, the pleasant living room, the kitchen, and the well-stocked storeroom. Their guide, a big blond-haired Swede, explained that in the winter time communication with the mainland was sometimes cut off for a week or more at a time, and therefore it was necessary to keep a good supply of food on hand.

In the living room were several charts, and Tom in examining one of them made the discovery that there were twenty-nine life-saving stations along the south shore of Long Island, an interesting fact which he brought to the attention of the others. Then they all had to count, and each one got a different result, Dan making it as high as thirty-four. After that they visited the boathouse and saw the big lifeboat, the mortar used for shooting the lifeline out to a wreck, the breeches buoy – which Tom wanted very much to get into – and many other interesting objects. At last, thanking their host, they crossed the island to the landing and returned to the hotel just in time for supper.

After that meal was over – and it took some time to satisfy their appetites, which had been sharpened by the salt breezes – they devoted the evening to letter writing. Even Tom was able to think of something to say without having to call for suggestions from his friends. Before retiring they took up the matter of their route for the next two days.

“I think,” said Tom, “it would be mighty jolly to go over to Fire Island and walk along to the eastern end of it. We could see the life-saving stations and – and there might be a wreck!”

“Tommy, you’re a regular ghoul!” said Bob.

“What’s that?” asked Tom.

“Don’t you know what a ghoul is, you ignoramus?”

“A football goal, do you mean?” asked Tom innocently.

When the laughter had died away, they decided to keep along the south shore until they reached Peconic Bay. Then they would cross the island to the north side and return along the edge of the Sound to Barrington, where they hoped to find Jerry.

During the last five minutes of the conference Tom had been nodding shamelessly. They woke him up, disposed of Barry for the night, and went to bed.

CHAPTER XV
TELLS HOW THEY MEET THE MANNIG BASEBALL CLUB AND HOW NELSON AND BOB GET ENGAGEMENTS

They made an early start the next morning. There was a delicious fresh breeze blowing from the bay, they were well rested, and life was well worth living. For an hour they walked briskly and put several miles of hard, smooth road behind them. Then the sun began to make itself felt, and their pace slackened. Whenever they caught a glimpse of Fire Island, Tom looked toward it longingly.

“I’m going over there some time and stay until there’s a storm and a wreck. Wouldn’t you love to see them rescue folks?”

Bob thought that maybe he would; at any rate, he was quite certain he would much rather look on than take part.

“I wouldn’t,” answered Tom promptly and with conviction. “I’d love to be a life saver! Maybe, when I get through college, I will be. Wouldn’t it be exciting, Bob?”

“Very,” was the unenthusiastic response. “Think of tumbling out of bed at three o’clock of a winter morning, with the thermometer doing stunts around zero, and taking a nice brisk row for a half a mile or so through waves as high as that house over there! Yes, indeed, Tommy, it would be simply sweet!”

Tommy’s further remarks on the subject were interrupted by sounds on the road behind them. They turned and moved aside in time to escape being run down by a coach drawn by two horses and filled with a merry crowd of men and boys, some in gray baseball uniforms and others in ordinary attire. As the coach swept past, the Four were treated to a cheer, a wonderful medley which sounded about as intelligible as a Choctaw war cry. Behind the first coach was a second similarly filled, and this one slowed down as it reached them.

“Want a ride?” sung out a fellow in baseball attire who occupied the seat with the driver. The Four looked at each other inquiringly.

“We might ride for a little ways,” suggested Tom sheepishly.

The fellow in front accepted their hesitation as assent.

“Pile in there behind,” he said. “You’ll find room somewhere!”

“Sure!” called a voice from the body of the coach, which was one of those long vehicles with seats running lengthwise on either side, known in some localities as a “barge.” “Sure! Lots of room. Come on!”

So they went. A boy hanging on to the steps behind dropped out of the way, and they climbed in. The occupants, a merry, good-natured throng, shoved and pushed until there was room for the newcomers, and the coach started up again. Many curious looks were cast at the boys’ packs, and finally,

“Going over to the game?” asked Dan’s nearest neighbor.

“What game is that?” asked Dan politely.

“Oh, I thought perhaps you were going,” was the reply. “It’s the game between Laurelville and Mannig; baseball, you know. We play ’em every year for a purse.”

“Oh,” said Dan, in turn. “Where’s it to be?”

“Laurelville this year. We’re the Mannig team – and rooters,” he added with a laugh. “The fellow that called out to you is Burns, our captain and third baseman. It’s going to be a great game. Everybody turns out, you know.”

“I see. Are you going to win?”

“Not likely, I guess,” was the answer. But a howl of protest arose.

“Sure, we are!”

“Beat ’em silly!”

“We won’t do a thing to ’em!”

Dan’s informant grinned and dropped his voice.

“They’ll lick us for keeps, I guess,” he said cheerfully. “Our pitcher’s sick and can’t play. We tried to get Monroe, of Brooklyn; ever hear of him? Well, he’s a dandy, but he wanted more than we could pay. We offered him thirty-five too!”

“But – do the other fellows let you get players from outside?” asked Dan.

“Oh, yes, we get ’em wherever we can find ’em. So does Laurelville. Their pitcher is Somes, of Rockaway, and he’s a dandy. We won’t be able to hit him at all. And they’ve got a catcher, too, that’s just about all right!”

“Where is Laurelville?” asked Bob.

“About four miles farther. You fellows had better come along and see the game.”

“Maybe we will,” answered Bob. “What do you say, Nelson?”

“I’m willing,” was the answer. “Can we get something to eat there?”

“Yes, indeed; there’s a fine hotel at Laurelville. You’d better come along and root for us.”

“All right,” laughed Nelson. “We’ve got good loud voices.”

“Yes,” agreed Dan; “this fellow here got first prize once for making a noise; didn’t you, Tommy?”

“Shut up,” answered Tom, with a grin.

A fellow in baseball togs who appeared to be about twenty-five or – six years of age, and who was sitting on the other side of the coach, leaned forward and asked smilingly:

“I suppose you fellows don’t play?”

“Not much,” answered Bob carelessly.

Perhaps it was Tom’s look of surprise or the twinkle in Dan’s eye which made the other doubt the truth of Bob’s assertion.

“Because, you know,” he continued, “we need a pitcher like anything, and we could use a good batsman somewhere. And there’d be a little money in it too.”

Tom nudged Bob and looked excitedly at Nelson.

“Why don’t you, Nel?” he exclaimed.

“You dry up, Tommy,” answered Nelson.

“Look here,” said the player, leaving his seat and swaying unsteadily in front of the Four, “if any of you fellows can pitch we’ll make it worth your while!”

“Thanks,” answered Nelson; “but you mustn’t mind Tommy; he’s not altogether sane; has fits once in a while.”

“But, look here, I’m in earnest!” continued the other. The other members of the Mannig delegation were leaning forward and listening interestedly.

“Well, what Tommy means is that I have pitched,” answered Nelson, a trifle embarrassed, “but I wouldn’t do for you chaps. I’m not fancy enough.”

“Tell you what we’ll do,” said the other excitedly. “You come with us and show us what you can do before dinner. And if we like the looks of it, we’ll give you twenty dollars to pitch the game for us. And if any of the rest of you can hit well, we’ll find a place for you in the outfield and pay you ten dollars. That’s a fair offer, isn’t it?”

“Fair enough,” answered Nelson laughingly. “But we couldn’t take your money, you see, because we’re going to college next year, and if we did we wouldn’t be able to play there.”

“Oh, pshaw, we don’t know your names or anything about you,” was the reply. “We’ll all forget it to-morrow. You needn’t be afraid of that.”

“Thanks,” answered Nelson dryly, “but I’d rather not.”

Tom looked greatly disappointed.

“Show them what you can do, Nel,” advised Bob. “It will be rather good fun. I’d like to play myself,” he added, turning to the player. “I’m not in practice, I guess; haven’t played since last month, and then not much; but I can hit sometimes.”

“Prove it and I’ll pay you ten dollars for the game!” said the other quickly. “I’m manager and I can do what I say; and I will do it too.”

“Oh, no, you won’t!” laughed Bob good-naturedly. “If you want me to help you out, I’ll do it, but I won’t take any money for it. That’s understood. How about you, Nel? Want to try pitching? You can do it, I’ll bet.”

“I’ll play if you will,” answered Nelson.

“Where do Tommy and I come in?” asked Dan. He turned to the Mannig manager. “Want anyone to peddle popcorn or sell lemonade?” he inquired gravely.

“Don’t you play?” asked the manager, casting an admiring glance over Dan’s figure.

“Me? Why, I was with the Clevelands for three years,” answered Dan. “But I’ve been ill, and the doctor thinks I’d better stay out of the game for a while.”

“I see,” answered the other with a laugh. Then he squeezed himself between Bob and Nelson, and asked questions and answered them.

It seemed that the annual game between Laurelville and Mannig had become an event of some importance in that part of the island. They had played each other for six years, during which time each team had won three games. This year’s contest was, therefore, in a way decisive. Each year the merchants and citizens of the rival towns donated a purse of five hundred dollars, four hundred of which went to the victors and one hundred to the vanquished. Each team secured players wherever they could find them, paying such prices for their services as they could afford. And as the residents of the two towns were extremely generous in the matter of donations, some of the prices paid to crack players were pretty high. The umpire, explained the manager – who told them his name was Fultz – was a professional from New York. Their team, Fultz went on to explain, had had rather hard luck this season; two of their best men had deserted them, and their pitcher was ill in bed. As a result they weren’t very hopeful of victory.

“Unless,” he added, observing Nelson anxiously, “you can help us out a good bit.”

But Nelson spoke very modestly of his prowess, and the manager’s hopes dwindled. Presently the Mannig captain, Burns, saw that something was up and came back to them. Introductions were made, and Burns declared himself highly pleased at the prospect of being assisted by Nelson and Bob. But, nevertheless, he didn’t look especially enthusiastic. Perhaps the two, in their travel-stained pedestrian costumes, didn’t look very much like adept ball players.

Laurelville, which they reached at about half-past ten, proved to be quite a fair-sized town; and it was very evident that it was in holiday garb and holiday humor. The windows of the stores were liberally decorated with green and white, and flags and streamers of the same colors were flaunted from the fronts of the buildings. When the coaches reached the hotel the porch of that hostelry was already pretty well crowded with guests. Naturally, the arrival of the Mannig contingent occasioned not a little interest. The adjacent sidewalk was crowded with small boys, and their remarks as the rival players descended from the coaches were more graphic than complimentary. Tom descended to a veritable fusillade of comment.

“Say, look at the fat boy!”

“Bet yer he can run fine!”

“Get out! He ain’t no player; he’s the backstop, he is!”

Tom showed symptoms of annoyance, and to prevent hostilities Dan lugged him quickly up the steps of the hotel. After they had all registered, and the Four had been impressively introduced to almost every Mannigite, they adjourned to a vacant lot back of the house and held an hour’s practice, observed and criticised by most of the younger population of Laurelville. Nelson showed what he could do at twirling, and, although at first he was rather wild and uncertain, after a few minutes he got settled down, and Fultz and Burns looked almost cheerful.

Bob got into the batting work and had no trouble in putting the ball wherever he wanted to. But, of course, the delivery was easy enough to hit, and his performance then was no criterion of what would happen in the game. At twelve they went back to the house and were instructed to rest until dinner time. Many of the players found seats on the porch, where they indulged in a battle of repartee with the local wits lined up along the curbstone. Others sought the billiard room and spent most of that hour of rest walking about the tables. Tom and Dan took a walk through the village, accompanied by Barry. The latter seemed to understand that for the present he owed allegiance to Mannig, and, coming across a yellow dog decorated with a bunch of green and white ribbon, proceeded to inflict summary punishment and establish the superiority of the visitors. By the time Dan had dragged him away from his prey the green and white ribbon wasn’t worth talking about. Barry stood the subsequent cuffing with equanimity, and trotted on again behind his master with a knowing leer in his eye and a section of tattered ribbon hanging rakishly and defiantly from the corner of his mouth.

The main street of the town was becoming quite populous with vehicles, and the holiday atmosphere increased every moment. The game was the one important and all-absorbing topic of conversation. When the two stopped to buy some sweet chocolate at a corner fruit stand, the Italian proprietor asked eagerly who they thought would win, and when, later on, returning to the hotel, they entered a drug store for egg phosphates, the clerk who served them was full of questions and information.

“They tell me,” he said, “that Mannig’s got a fellow to pitch for them who was with the Hoboken team last year, a regular peach. Did you hear anything about it?”

Dan looked wise as he sipped his phosphate.

“Something,” he answered. “I was talking with Burns, the Mannig captain, awhile ago. But I understood that the pitcher is a fellow named Tilford who pitched for Chicora.”

“Where’s that?” asked the clerk.

“New Hampshire.”

“Good team?”

“Fine! Beat everything in sight, they tell me. And this pitcher is a corker. Your men here won’t be able to touch him; he’s got a slow drop that’ll make them look silly!”

“Are you a Mannig fellow?” asked the clerk suspiciously.

“No, we’re strangers here; just happened along this morning. Would you mind putting a bit more milk in this? It’s a little too sweet.”

The clerk obeyed, thereby practically doubling Dan’s drink. Tom watched enviously, and looked doubtfully at his own glass, which was about empty, in the hope that the clerk would offer to perform a like service for him. But the clerk was busy talking again, and paid no attention.

“Well, we think we’ve got a pretty good pitcher ourselves,” he said smugly. “Ever hear of ‘Slim’ Somes, of Rockaway?”

Dan said he had, neglecting to add that the only occasion on which he had heard of Mr. Somes was that morning in the coach. The clerk nodded with satisfaction.

“Well, just you keep your eyes on him,” he advised. “He’s one of the best there is, he is. And if you want to bet anything on the game, I know where you’ll find some one to oblige you.”

“Thanks,” answered Dan carelessly. “I make it a rule never to bet. I’m so lucky that it seems too bad to take the other chap’s money every time; I get ashamed of myself. Well, good luck.”

They went out and made their way along the crowded sidewalk to the hotel, the only incident of moment occurring when Barry was suddenly missed, and was discovered a minute later in a baker’s shop, where he had “treed” a big Maltese cat on top of a showcase. The woman in charge was highly indignant, and threatened Dan with the law until he squared himself by purchasing three jelly tarts for a nickel, and admiring the cat.

Dinner was a confused and hurried meal, for there were at least three applicants for every place at the four long tables, and to eat calmly with a dozen persons crowding about and waiting for your chair was simply out of the question.

The game was to begin at half-past two, and at two the coaches came to the door again, and the Mannig party tumbled into them, and were driven away to a chorus of hoots and jeers from the audience outside the hotel. The ball ground was on the outskirts of the town, a very creditable field with a grand stand capable of seating several hundred persons. The Mannig team took the field for practice. Nelson and Bob had been presented with uniforms of gray flannel bearing big blue Ms on the breasts of the shirts, uniforms secured from a couple of substitutes only after persuasion almost amounting to main force. Bob was put at right field. It had been some time since he had played in the outfield, for his position was behind the bat, but after a few flies had come his way he gained the old knack of judging. For several years he had played on his high-school team, and last spring he had been elected captain. Besides this he had played with and captained the Camp Chicora team for the past two summers. Dan, too, was by this time a fairly experienced player. At school he was only the substitute pitcher, but in spite of that he was pretty clever. At Chicora he had done excellent service the past summer in the box, and he and Bob had comprised a very formidable battery. During practice he warmed up by pitching to the Mannig catcher, a long, lanky youth, named Conly, and it soon became evident that they were going to work together very well.

By half-past two the grand stand was comfortably filled and the ground around the diamond was well sprinkled with spectators. Quite a contingent had followed the blue players from Mannig, and their ear-splitting yell was heard continuously. At a few minutes before the half-hour Mannig gave up the field to Laurelville, and the green-and-white-stockinged players trotted out for practice.

When it was twenty minutes of three the Mannig manager returned to the bench where his players were seated and announced that the umpire hadn’t turned up, and that it had been decided to wait until the next train came in.

“When does it get here?” asked Burns.

“Two-fifty-six,” was the answer.

“Gee! That’ll make it mighty late!”

“Yes, but that’s the only thing to do, I guess.”

So they waited. Presently the Laurelville team came off, and the audience on the stand began to inquire, in the polite manner common to baseball audiences, why the game didn’t start. At ten minutes after three the tardy official, a little, round red-cheeked man, put in his appearance, and at twenty minutes after three called “Play!”