Barbour Ralph Henry
Four in Camp: A Story of Summer Adventures in the New Hampshire Woods

CHAPTER XXI
TELLS HOW THE FOUR LAID PLANS AND HOW BOB PREPARED FOR A VICTORY

Nelson awoke the next day to find himself a hero. Being a hero has its discomforts, and Nelson encountered them. The smaller boys dogged his footsteps and were proud and haughty for the rest of the day if they succeeded in getting a word from him. The older boys had less transparent ways of showing their admiration, but show it they did, and Nelson, naturally somewhat shy, suffered much annoyance. This state of things, however, lasted but a few days, for the end of the vacation was almost at hand and the inhabitants of Camp Chicora had many things to occupy their minds. The water sports were almost due and on the next Saturday but one came the final game with Wickasaw, to decide the summer’s supremacy in baseball. On the following Monday the long trip began for all save Bob, Nelson, and Dan, who were to return home on that day.

During his three days’ absence from camp the nine, minus their captain, had met defeat at the hands of a team from a near-by resort, and Bob regretted the fact and resolved that nothing should deter them from winding up the baseball season with a decisive victory over their particular rival, Camp Wickasaw. With this in view he began morning practise, by which there was a good three hours a day of batting, fielding, and base-running instead of two as heretofore. The preparations for the water carnival interfered somewhat with the work, for Dan and Joe Carter, as well as a couple of the lesser baseball lights, were to take part in the sports. But Bob put in substitutes from the scrub when necessary and kept at it, having set his heart on final success.

The carnival came on Saturday afternoon and was held in Joy’s Cove, on the shore of which Camp Trescott was situated. Chicora, Trescott, and Wickasaw were the contestants, and the audience numbered fully three hundred persons, friends of the boys of the three camps, visitors from neighboring hotels, and residents from near-by towns and villages. Chicora went over in the steam-launch, the motor-dory, the skiffs, and the canoes, after an early dinner, with flags flying. Wickasaw followed them across, and the rival cheers echoed over the lake. Camp Trescott was in holiday attire, the camp colors, green and white, being everywhere displayed. The pier and adjacent shore were thronged with spectators, and many boats floated on the waters of the cove.

The events started off with the four-oared barge race. Only Chicora and Trescott entered. The course was a little under two miles in length and led to a buoy near Evergreen Island and return. Chicora’s four got the better of the start, and when the turn was reached they were two lengths to the good. But poor steering around the buoy lost them almost all of that advantage, and the Trescott four were quick to profit. On the return course they overtook Chicora’s boat, passed it a few hundred yards from the finish, and crossed the line a good three lengths in the lead. So first honors went to the green and white, and cheers for Camp Trescott awoke the echoes.

Chicora did better in the race for steel boats, her entry, manned by Joe Carter, finishing a hundred feet ahead of the Wickasaw boat, which in turn led the Trescott skiff by many yards.

The fifty-yard swimming race for boys under sixteen brought out a large number of entries, Chicora offering seven of the number. Her hopes rested on “Kid” Rooke. With such a large field there was lots of crowding and splashing at the line, and many a good swimmer was put out of it at the start. Rooke luckily had the forethought to swim under water for the first eight or ten strokes and so avoided some of the youths who, with little hope of winning themselves, were anxious to get in the way of dangerous rivals. It was a pretty contest from start to finish, Rooke fighting it out to the very end with Peterson of Wickasaw and White of Trescott and only winning by an arm’s length in fifty seconds. The race over the same course for the elder boys proved a walkover for an eighteen-year-old Wickasaw youth, who never had to hurry, and finished in forty-seven seconds.

In the half-mile event Tom entered for Chicora and found himself opposed to two Wickasaw and three Trescott fellows. The course was laid straight out from the landing to a boat moored off Bass Island. The swimmers were to round the boat and return on the same course. The six contestants lined up on the edge of the landing and at the word from Mr. Powers of the Wickasaw Camp dove head foremost and struck out for the stake-boat.

Tom wasn’t much at sprinting, and so when half the distance out had been covered he was several yards behind the leaders. But the pace had been a fast one, and Tom knew that sooner or later it must slow down. And it did. As the six approached the boat, the leaders, two Trescott fellows, were swimming at ordinary speed and were making hard work of it. They turned homeward first, but after that dropped rapidly behind. A quarter of the way back Tom, still swimming the same stroke he had started with, passed them and pulled himself into third place. Twenty yards farther on he came abreast of the Wickasaw crack; while, still maintaining a good lead, sped the third Trescott entry.

On the landing and along the curving shore of the cove and out on the point scantily attired youths were jumping and shouting encouragement to the swimmers. Cheers for Chicora, for Wickasaw, and for Trescott mingled. A hundred yards from the finish it seemed that Trescott had the race beyond a doubt. But Tom, twenty yards in the rear and well past the Wickasaw rival, still swam steadily, hand over hand, burying his face in the water at every stroke, and putting every ounce of strength into his work. Not quite every ounce, either, for when some eighty yards from the finish his arms began to move just a little faster but not less regularly, and the distance between first and second men slowly lessened. Chicora saw this and her cheers took on a more hopeful note.

If Tom couldn’t sprint, at least he had wisely saved something for just such an emergency as this. It wasn’t so much that he increased his stroke as that he put more power into it. With fifty yards yet to cover he had cut the twenty yards in half, and he was still gaining. Trescott’s cries grew frantic, but her representative failed to respond. He had made a long, hard race, had set the pace all the way from the turn, and had used himself up in striving to beat the Wickasaw swimmer, whom he had believed to be the only dangerous opponent. And now he had nothing in reserve. The nearer he fought to the finish line the weaker grew his strokes, and Tom, swimming like a piece of machinery, moving arms and legs slowly but powerfully, came abreast of him sixty feet from the line, and without raising his dripping head from the surface or altering his stroke a mite drew steadily away from him and won by ten or twelve feet in the creditable time of seventeen minutes and nineteen and two-fifths seconds. And Chicora laughed and cheered as Dan walked into the water up to his knees and, lifting Tom bodily in his arms, brought him ashore in triumph.

Meanwhile Trescott had won the fifty-yard underwater race and Wickasaw had come in first at the same distance, swimming on the back. Chicora again triumphed in the canoe race for doubles when Carter and Dan drove the former’s crimson craft across the finish fifty or sixty feet ahead of the opponents. And again, in the diving contest, Dan excelled. But after that the blue and gray was forced to take second and third places. Trescott won the relay race, the tilting and the fancy swimming contests. Wickasaw won the canoe race for singles and the tub race. As only first places counted, the sports came to an end with the question of supremacy still in doubt, Chicora and Trescott each having won five events and Wickasaw four.

It was dusk by this time, and audience and competitors hurried away for supper, to reassemble at eight o’clock for the fireworks and boat parade. The latter, at least, was well worth seeing. There were over forty boats in line, the Chicora leading, and each was gay with Chinese lanterns and colored fire. In and out across the lake they went, rounding the islands, skirting the shores, and tracing strange patterns on the dark surface of the water. On the point sky-rockets and bombs sizzed and boomed their way upward in trails of fire, and from the Chicora and the Wickasaw Roman candles spilled their colored stars into the lake.

In Joe Carter’s canoe he and Bob paddled along near the end of the parade, while Tom, attired in a hastily improvised costume of Turkey red, impersonated a rather stout Devil and flourished a pitchfork, while at his feet red fire burned in a tin plate and made his round face almost as lurid as his costume. They had lots of fun out of it, but the crowning glory of their enjoyment came when they accidentally ran into a Wickasaw canoe and spilled two boys and a councilor into the lake. They worked heroically at the task of rescue – when their laughter would allow them to – and none of the three unfortunate “Wicks” sustained further damage than a good wetting. After that the fun was tame until, shortly before ten, they reached their landing and the “Devil” slipped on the edge of the wharf and went down to his waist in water and sputtered and stammered as no Devil ever has before or since. Joe said he was sure he heard the water sizzle when Tom struck it.

They took their lanterns up the hill with them, such as were still burning, and hung them about the trees in the clearing so that the place looked like a garden set for an outdoor party. Long after Nelson was in bed and he and Bob had ceased their whispering he could see the mellow lights among the branches. Perhaps that is why, when he did finally fall asleep, he dreamed that Dan was the proprietor of a Chinese laundry next door to the post-office at Crescent and that he (Nelson) had lost his check for a pair of “sneakers” which he had left there to be waterproofed and could not get them back. To add to his annoyance he was quite certain that the “sneakers” on the counter, in which Dan was growing Chinese lilies, were his. Unfortunately he couldn’t prove it, and Dan refused to give them up, offering, however, to share the lilies with him. This offer Nelson indignantly refused, and Dan said:

“Wake up, you lazy dub! Second bugle’s blown!”

And Nelson, opening his eyes dazedly, found the sunlight streaming through the window and painting golden silhouettes on the gray blanket, while Dan, attired principally in a bath towel and having got rid of his queue, was impatiently tugging at his arm.

Followed a wild race down the hill, a scramble to the diving platform, and a long plunge into cool green depths. Three dives and it was time to be out, for they had overslept. A brisk rubbing in the tent until the body glowed, a race up-hill that brought them panting and laughing to the dormitory, a hurried dressing and a brief toilet with brushes and comb, and – breakfast! Blueberries and cream, cereal, chops and potatoes, hot muffins, and milk administered to hearty appetites. And so began the last week of camp-life, a week that, like all that had gone before, passed wonderfully quickly and brought the fellows with disconcerting suddenness to Saturday afternoon and the final contest with Wickasaw.

During that last week at Chicora Bob and Nelson and Dan and Tom stuck together like brothers. The realization that in a few days’ time they must part with small likelihood of getting together again before next summer, if then, made them anxious to see as much of each other as possible in the time remaining. Two months is a long time in the life of a boy and in it he can make undying friendships. Whether such had happened in the present case remained to be seen, but certain it is that the Four had grown extremely fond of each other. Tom was quite forlorn over the parting.

“It’s all well enough for the rest of you,” he said. “You’re going home together, and Bob and Nel will have a dandy time at St. Louis. But I’ve got to go on this beastly trip all alone!”

“You’ll have a fine time, Tommy,” said Bob consolingly. “And then you’ll be going back to Hillton. And you’ll have Nel with you there. If any one has a kick seems to me it’s me. You three chaps will see each other pretty frequently, but I’ll have to dig along all by my lonesome.”

“Don’t forget your promise to come down for the football game,” said Dan.

“I’ll come, but I sha’n’t know who to cheer for.”

“Hillton,” said Nelson and Tom in a breath.

“St. Eustace,” said Dan.

“I wish we didn’t all live so far away from each other,” said Tom. “You’re away up in Portland, Nel’s in Boston, Dan’s in New York, and I’m out in Chicago.”

“You ought to live in a decent part of the world,” answered Dan.

“Cut it out, you two,” said Bob. “Don’t get started on one of your arguments about New York and Chicago. They’re beastly holes, both of ’em. Come to Portland.”

This suggestion brought forth three howls of derision.

“Anyway,” said Dan, “I wish we might go to college together.”

“Why can’t we?” asked Nelson. “You fellows all come to Harvard!”

“I couldn’t,” Dan replied. “My dad went to Yale and he’d scalp me if I told him I wanted to enter Harvard.”

“And I’m booked for Chicago,” said Tom mournfully.

“Poor chap,” said Dan commiseratingly. Whereupon Tom flared up.

“It’s a gu-gu-gu-good college, and you know it. Only I-I-I-I’d like to be with you fu-fu-fu-fellows!”

“That’s easy,” said Bob. “You all come with me to Erskine.”

“It’s such a little place,” objected Dan.

“It’s got as much land as Yale, and more too, I guess.”

“I mean there are so few fellows there.”

“Well,” answered Bob thoughtfully, “maybe there aren’t very many people in heaven, but that’s no sign it isn’t a good place to go to!”

“Do you mean,” laughed Dan, “that Yale is – er – the other place?”

“Or Harvard?” asked Nelson in mock anger.

“Or Chicago?” added Tom.

“Well, now, as to Chicago, Tommy,” answered Bob, “you said yourself you were going there, and you know what you were Saturday night!”

After the laughter had subsided they discussed the subject seriously and at length. In the end it was decided that if their parents would consent Nelson, Dan, and Tom were to join Bob at Erskine College three years from the approaching month – examination boards permitting. Incidentally it may be announced that their parents did consent, that examiners did permit, and that their plans succeeded. But that is a story all to itself and has nothing to do with the present narrative.

Mr. Clinton had been called in to aid in the matter of the silver loving-cup for the Careys and had attended to the selection of it on one of his trips to Boston. On Friday it arrived. Lack of funds had prohibited the purchase of anything very elaborate, but the gift was quite worthy of acceptance. It was a plain cup, in shape like a Greek vase, seven inches high. The handles were of ebony, and there was a little ebony stand for it to rest upon. The inscription had caused the Four not a little worry. As finally decided on it read:

To Mr. and Mrs. Charles A. Carey

A TOKEN OF ESTEEM

AND GRATITUDE

FROM

The Four

August 18, 1904

-

Robert W. Hethington

Nelson E. Tilford

Daniel H. F. Speede

Thomas C. Ferris

They were hugely pleased with it and kept it a whole day to admire and exhibit. Then it went off by express, and in due time there came a reply which, as the Four had scattered, went from Chicago to Portland, to Boston, to New York, to Chicago, and from there came east again in Tom’s trunk to Hillton.

But, lest you make the mistake of thinking that final week a period of laziness, it should be said that the baseball diamond was worn almost bare of grass. Every morning and every afternoon the nine practised in preparation for the Wickasaw game. As for eight of the nine, they didn’t feel that life would be ruined even if Wickasaw did beat them. But Bob was of another sort; he had set his heart on winning and would go home feeling that the summer had ended in disgrace if Wickasaw again triumphed; and so the others caught some of the infection from him and labored zealously in the hottest kind of a sun morning and afternoon until Friday. On Friday there was only a half hour’s easy work, for Bob had his ideas on the subject of training. That night, about the camp-fire, the prospect was talked over and it was generally agreed that if Wells, who was again to pitch, didn’t go up in the air Chicora was pretty certain of victory. That, as events turned out, was a big “if.”

CHAPTER XXII
NARRATES THE PROGRESS OF THE CONTEST WITH WICKASAW, AND WITNESSES THE DISINTEGRATION OF ONE WELLS

Tilford, c.f.

Speede, 1b.

Carter, 2b.

Ridley, r.f.

Loom, ss.

Bryant, l.f.

Hethington, c.

Van Roden, 3b.

Wells, p.

That’s the way the names were written in the score-book by the Official Scorer, Mr. “Babe” Fowler, who sat on a soap-box and looked and felt vastly important. Behind him and about him – sometimes, much to his wrath, interfering with his view of the proceedings – sat and stood the boys of Camp Chicora. Across the plate were the supporters of Wickasaw, while here and there, wherever shade was to be found, were spectators from the Inn, the village, Camp Trescott, and the smaller hotels and boarding-houses around. Behind Bob stood one of the Trescott councilors, Mr. Downer, who was to umpire. Mr. Clinton, and Mr. Powers of Wickasaw, watched the contest side by side from under the latter’s big linen umbrella.

The afternoon was roasting hot, and by mutual consent the beginning of the game had been postponed from three until four. But even now, as Mr. Downer called “Play!” the sun beat down on the meadow in a manner far from pleasant, while not a breeze stirred the leaves along the lake. But the players were too much interested to notice such a small matter, while as for the lookers-on they good-naturedly made the best of conditions, cheered by the knowledge that they could seek launches or rowboats whenever they pleased and speedily find a cooler spot than this low-lying meadow with its encompassing walls of forest. Under a near-by apple-tree Tom and Mr. Verder were fanning their faces and munching the half-ripe apples that lay about them.

“I wonder if Wells will last out,” mused Tom. “He’s a queer dub. He told me this morning that he couldn’t stand hot weather and asked if I thought Bob couldn’t have the game postponed.”

“Yes, he is a bit funny,” answered Mr. Verder. “Well, they’re starting. I’m glad we’ve got our last innings. That’s Bremer, one of Wickasaw’s councilors, at bat. I used to know him at prep school. He didn’t know much about baseball in those days.”

“I guess he doesn’t know much now,” chuckled Tom as Bremer struck at a ball so wide of the plate that Bob disdained to even attempt to stop it. Bremer went out on strikes, the next man popped a tiny fly into short-stop’s ready hands, and the third batsman was thrown out at first by Wells.

“No safe hitting there,” said Mr. Verder.

“Wonder if there’ll be any in this inning?” said Tom.

There wasn’t. Nelson struck out ignominiously, Dan failed to reach first ahead of the ball, and Joe Carter sent up a fly that seemed aimed at the third baseman’s big mitten. And so things went, with slight variations, until the first half of the fourth. Then Hoyt, the Wickasaw captain and first-baseman, found Wells for a long drive into left field that netted him two bases. Bennett, a councilor and the rival pitcher, followed this with a scratch hit that took him to first and sent Hoyt on to third, and the next man up, although he went out at first, brought in the first tally of the game.

And the score remained 1 to 0 until the last of the sixth. In that inning Chicora developed a batting streak, Dan, Carter, and Ridley each finding Bennett for singles, and the bases were full when Loom sent a long fly into right field. Dan scored, Carter went to third, and Ridley to second. Loom went out. Bryant retired after three strikes, but Bob, who followed him, hit safely for two bases, and the score was 3 to 1. Nothing happened in the seventh, and it looked as though 3 to 1 might be the final figures. But with the beginning of the eighth inning affairs took on a different appearance.

Wickasaw’s center-fielder went to bat, waited for a pass to first and got it. Bob called out for the infielders to play for second. As expected, the next man attempted a sacrifice. Had Carter not muffed a good throw from Van Roden all might have been well, but as it was there was a man on second and one on first with none out. Wells looked worried and the coaching across the field added to his discomfiture. The immediate result was that the Wickasaw third-baseman received the ball on his elbow and trotted to first base. Bob informed the umpire persuasively that the batsman had not tried to avoid being struck, but the umpire couldn’t see it that way. Things looked bad for Chicora; the bases were full and not one of the opponents was out.

The next man was Bremer, a councilor, and he should have been an easy victim. But Wells seemed unable to pitch a decent ball, and after four efforts Bremer went down the line and the man on third trotted home amid the wild applause of Wickasaw. Bob walked down to Wells, keeping a close watch on the bases, and strove to put confidence into him.

“Take your time, Wells,” he whispered. “There’s no hurry.”

But Wells had become sullen and stubborn.

“I can’t help it,” he muttered. “I told you I didn’t want to pitch to-day, that I couldn’t do anything. The heat – ”

“Oh, never mind the heat,” answered Bob soothingly. “Just put the balls over; let them hit; we’ll attend to them all right.”

“That’s easy enough to say, but I’m not feeling well,” grumbled Wells. “My arm’s tired, and it’s so hot – ”

“Well, try your best, that’s a good chap. Get them over the plate; never mind if they hit them.”

“All right,” answered the pitcher despondently.

The Wickasaw captain found the first ball, but it went up in an infield fly. The next man, too, went out; Loom pulled down his liner head-high and the man on third scurried back to his base. Then came the Wickasaw catcher – and Wells kindly presented him with his base, and again the “Babe” was forced to score a tally for the enemy. The honors were even now, but the inning was not yet at an end. Wells went thoroughly to pieces. A two-base hit by one of the rival nine’s councilors brought in two men and still left second and third bases occupied. Wickasaw’s supporters kept up a continuous shouting, hoping doubtless to add to the discomfiture of the Chicora pitcher, while back of first and third bases the Wickasaw coachers screamed and yelled with the same end in view. Naturally enough, Wells’s wildness eventually proved contagious, and it was Bob himself who let in the next run, missing a throw to the plate after a hit. But if he was accountable for that tally he was also accountable for the termination of the inning. For he managed to toss the ball, while lying flat on his back, to the plate in time to put out the next ambitious Wickasaw runner. And so the rout finally came to an end with the score 6 to 3 in Wickasaw’s favor.

Bob was an anxious-looking youth when the side trotted in and threw themselves about the ground to rest and cool off.

“I don’t know what the dickens to do,” he said to Dan and Nelson. “There’s no use putting Wells in again, even if he’d go, and he says he won’t. Little Morris can’t pitch on account of his ivy-poisoning. Van Roden has done a little of it, but he can only pitch a straight ball, and it isn’t even swift. Who’s up, ‘Babe’?”

“Ridley up, Loom on deck!” piped the “Babe.”

“For goodness’ sake, Rid, hit the ball!” called Bob. “We’ve got to get four runs this inning.” And after Ridley had nodded and stepped to the plate Bob went on: “The worst of it is we’ve got our tail-enders coming up. After Loom there isn’t a man can hit. However – ” He turned frowningly to watch Ridley, chewing savagely at the blade of grass between his teeth. Ridley made a safe hit and went to first, and Chicora applauded wildly.

“Joe, coach at first, will you?” Bob called. “You’re up, Loom. You know what to do, old chap. We need runs, you know.” Then he turned to Dan and Nelson again. “Look here, what do you fellows think? Shall I give Van a chance?”

“No use,” answered Dan gloomily. “He’s no pitcher. Isn’t there any one else?” Bob shook his head.

“Not a soul that I know of. I’ll try it myself, if you say so,” he said with a feeble effort at humor.

“You cu-cu-cu-couldn’t do mu-mu-mu-much worse!” stuttered Tom, who had long since left the shade of the apple-tree and was now hopping around wide-eyed with excitement. “Why du-du-du-don’t you mu-mu-make Nel pu-pu-pu-pitch?”

“Can you?” cried Bob.

“No; that is, mighty little, Bob,” answered Nelson. “I pitched one season on a class team. But I’m willing to try if you want me to. Only don’t expect much; I’ll probably be worse than Wells was the last inning.”

“Find a ball,” said Bob quickly, his face lighting up with hope, “and pitch me a few. Where’s my mitten? Say, Nel, why didn’t you tell me you could pitch?”

“I can’t, not enough to call pitching. I can get a ball over now and then and I used to be able to work a pretty fair drop, but that’s about all. You’ll have to explain signals to me.”

“All right. Say, Van, run over and tell Kendall I want him to play center field, will you? There he is talking to Clint. Scoot!”

There was a yell at that moment, and Bob and Nelson looked up in time to see Loom drive out a pretty liner toward first. He was out without question, but the sacrifice had advanced Ridley to second, and Chicora’s little group of cheerers made themselves heard. Bob ran over to speak to Bryant, who was next up, and then came back to Nelson. The signals were quickly explained, and Nelson began throwing into Bob’s big mitten, slowly at first, then increasing in speed as something of the knack came back to him. Bryant offered at a close ball, and Ridley, who was ready and waiting, shot out for third. Catcher lost a half a second in getting the ball down, and the umpire waved his hand downward; Ridley was safe. Dan took Bob’s place in front of Nelson, and Bob hurried over to Ridley’s assistance, relieving Loom on the coacher’s line.

Nelson felt some of his old power returning to him and slammed ball after ball into Dan’s hands in a way that made that youth grin with approval. Once or twice he essayed a drop with but indifferent success; somehow, he couldn’t yet make that work.

Bryant connected with a straight ball over the plate, which, had he allowed it to pass, would have been the third strike, and lit out for first. At the same instant Ridley started for home. But Wickasaw’s short-stop smothered the ball on its first bounce and lined it in to the plate. Ridley doubled back, slid for the base, and got there an instant ahead of the ball. Bryant was safe at first. Chicora’s shouts were deafening. The audience had gradually edged toward the infield until now the paths to first and to third were lined with excited partizans of the rival teams. Bob trotted in and selected his bat, pulled his gray cap firmly down on to his head, and went to the plate. Nelson stopped his work to watch. There were two on bases; a home run would tie the score.