Barbour Ralph Henry
Weatherby's Inning: A Story of College Life and Baseball

CHAPTER III
MR. TIDBALL INTRODUCES HIMSELF

The caller looked to be about twenty-one or two years of age. He was tall, thin, and angular, and carried himself awkwardly. His shoulders had the stoop that tells of much poring over books. His hands and feet were large, the former knotted and ungainly. His face was lean, the cheeks somewhat sunken; the nose was large and well-shapen and the mouth, altogether too broad, looked good-natured and humorous. He wore steel-rimmed spectacles, behind which twinkled a pair of small, pale-blue eyes, kindly and shrewd. His clothes seemed at first sight to belong to some one very much larger; the trousers hung in baggy folds about his legs and his coat went down behind his neck exposing at least an inch of checkered gingham shirt.

And yet, despite the incongruity of his appearance, he impressed Jack as being a person of importance, a man who knew things and who was capable of turning his knowledge to good account. Tidball? Where had he heard the name of Tidball? As he thought of it now, the name seemed strangely familiar. Recollecting his duties as host, Jack pushed forward the patent rocker.

“Won’t you sit down?” he asked.

The visitor sank into the chair, bringing one big foot, loosely encased in a frayed leather slipper, on to one knee, and clasping it with both knotted hands quite as though he feared it might walk off when he wasn’t looking.

“Queer sort of weather we’re having,” he drawled. He talked through his nose with a twang that proclaimed him a native of the coast. Jack concurred, sitting uncomfortably on the edge of the cot and wondering whether Tidball recognized him.

“Mrs. Thingamabob down-stairs said you were from Maine. Maine’s my State. I come from Jonesboro; ever hear of Jonesboro?”

“No, I don’t believe so.” The visitor chuckled.

“Never met any one who had. Guess I’m about the only resident of that metropolis who ever strayed out of it. There’s one fellow in our town, though, who went down to Portland once about forty years back. He’s looked on as quite a traveler in Jonesboro.”

Jack smiled. “My folks live near Auburn,” he said.

“Nice place, Auburn. By the way, my name’s Tidball – Anthony Z. Z stands for Zeno; guess I’m a sort of a Stoic myself.” The remark was lost on Jack, whose acquaintance with the Greek philosophers was still limited.

“My name’s Weatherby,” he returned. “My first name’s Jack; I haven’t any middle name.”

“You’re lucky,” answered the other. “They might have called you Xenophanes, you see.” Jack didn’t see, but he smiled doubtfully, and the visitor went on. “Well, now we know each other. We’re the only fellows in the hut and we might as well get together, eh? Guess I saw you this afternoon down at the river, didn’t I?”

Jack flushed and nodded.

“Thought so.” There was a moment’s silence, during which the visitor’s shrewd eyes studied Jack openly and calmly and during which all the old misery, forgotten for the moment, came back to the boy. Then —

“Guess you can’t swim, eh?” asked the other.

“No, not a stroke,” muttered Jack.

“Thought so,” reiterated Tidball. There was another silence. Then Jack said, with an uneasy laugh:

“There’s no doubt but that you can, though.”

“Me? Yes, I can swim like a shark. Down in Jonesboro we learn when we’re a year old. Comes natural to us coasters.”

“It was lucky you were there this afternoon,” said Jack.

“Oh, some one else would have gone in, I guess!”

“He – he didn’t – he wasn’t drowned, was he?”

“The kid? No, but plaguy near it. He’s all right now, I guess. Teach him a lesson.”

“Did the bridge go?” asked Jack after a moment, merely to break another silence.

“No, water was going down when I left. Guess I’m in the way, though, ain’t I?”

“In the way?”

“Yes; weren’t you doing something when I came in? Packing a trunk or something?”

“Oh, it – it doesn’t matter; there’s no hurry.”

“Going home over Sunday?”

“Y – yes.”

“You’re lucky; wish I was. But don’t let me interrupt; go ahead and I’ll just sit here out of the way, if you don’t mind my staying.”

“Not at all; I – I’m glad to have you.” And the odd thing about it, as Jack realized the next moment, was that he meant what he said. The visitor drew a little brier pipe from one pocket and a pouch from another.

“Smoke?” he asked.

“No,” answered Jack.

“Mind if I do?”

“Not a bit.” Tidball stuffed the bowl with tobacco and was soon sending long clouds of rankly smelling smoke into the air.

“Don’t begin,” he advised. “It’s a mean habit; wastes time and money and doesn’t do you any good after all. Wish I didn’t.”

“But couldn’t you break yourself of it?” asked Jack.

Tidball chuckled again and blew a great mouthful of gray smoke toward the gaslight.

“Don’t want to,” he answered.

“Oh!” said Jack, puzzled.

“Going to take your trunk?” asked the other, waving his pipe toward it.

“No, just a bag. I’ll send for the trunk later.” Then, as he realized his mistake, the blood rushed into his cheeks. He looked up at Tidball and found that person eying him quizzically. “I – I mean – that – ”

“No harm done,” interrupted the visitor. “Thought when I came in you meant to cut and run. Why?”

“Because – because I can’t stay,” answered Jack defiantly. “You – you were there and you saw it. Everybody thinks I’m a coward! Professor White said – said – ” He choked and looked down miserably at his twisting fingers.

“Well, you aren’t, are you?”

Jack glanced up startledly.

“Why – why – no, I’m not a coward!” he cried.

“Didn’t think you were. You don’t look it.”

Jack experienced a grateful warmth at the heart and looked shyly and thankfully at the queer, lean face across the room.

“But – but they all think I am,” he muttered.

“I wouldn’t prove them right, then, if I were you.”

“Prove – What do you mean?”

“Mean I wouldn’t run away; mean I’d stay and fight it out. Any one can run; takes a brave man to stand and fight.”

“Oh!” Jack stared wonderingly at Tidball. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“’Tisn’t too late.”

“N – no,” answered Jack doubtfully. “You – think I ought to stay?”

“Yes, I honestly do, Weatherby. You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of; ’twouldn’t have done any good if you’d gone into the river; guess you’d been drowned – ’tother chap, too. White jumped at conclusions and landed wrong. Can’t much blame him, though. You see, the fellows here at Erskine come from the country, or the coast, or some small town, and swimming’s as natural as eating, and I guess it didn’t occur to them that maybe you couldn’t swim. But when they learn the truth of the matter – ”

“But they won’t know,” said Jack.

“Bound to. I’ll see White myself, and I’ll tell all the chaps I know; ’twon’t take long for the facts to get around.”

“I’d rather you didn’t, if you don’t mind,” said Jack. “It’s awfully kind of you – ”

“Didn’t what?”

“See Professor White.”

“Well – of course, I know you’re feeling kind of sore at him, Weatherby, and I don’t much blame you; still, there’s no use in allowing the misunderstanding to continue when a word or two will set things right.”

“I don’t care what he thinks,” said Jack, bitterly.

“All right,” replied Tidball calmly. “How about the others?”

Jack studied his hands in silence for a minute. Then he threw back his shoulders and got up.

“You’re mighty kind,” he said, “to want to take all this trouble on my account, and I’m awfully much obliged to you, but – if you don’t mind – I’d rather you didn’t say anything to anybody.”

Tidball frowned.

“Then you mean to run away?” he asked disappointedly.

“No, I’ll stay and – and fight! Let them think me a coward if they like; only some day I’ll show them I’m not!”

“That’s the stuff,” said the other approvingly. “I guess you’re making a mistake by not explaining, but – maybe you’ll change your mind. If you do, let me know.”

“Thanks,” answered Jack, “but I sha’n’t.” He took up his valise and holding it upside down emptied the contents on to the cot. “I wish you’d tell me one thing,” he said.

“All right.”

“Did you – I mean – Well, did you just happen to come in, or – did you know I was – The Coward?”

“Well,” drawled the other, smiling gently at a cloud of smoke, “Mrs. Thingamabob told me yesterday when I engaged that room that she had a very nice young man, a freshman named Weatherby, living with her. The name isn’t common, I guess, and so when I heard it again down at the wharf I remembered. And I just thought I’d come in and see what silly thing you’d decided to do. Kind of cheeky, I guess, but that’s my way. Hope you’re not offended?”

“No, I’m awfully glad. If you hadn’t come I’d have gone away, sure as anything.”

“Glad I came. Hope we’ll be friends. You must come over and see me. You won’t find things very palatial in my place, but there’s an extra chair, I think. I don’t go in much for luxuries. I was rooming in a place on Main Street until to-day; very comfortable place it was, too: folding-bed, lounge, rocking-chair, and a study desk with real drawers that locked – at least, some of them did. My roommate was a fellow named Gooch, from up my way. His father died a week or so ago, and yesterday I got a letter from him saying he’d have to leave college and buckle down to work. Couldn’t afford to keep the room alone, so I looked round and found this. Well, I must be going.”

He pulled his long length out of the chair, and, producing from a chamois pouch a handsome big gold watch, oddly at variance with his shabby attire, held it nearsightedly to the dim light.

“Don’t be in a hurry,” begged Jack. And then, “That’s a dandy watch you have,” he added. “May I see it?”

“Yes,” answered Tidball, holding it forth at the length of its chain, “it’s the only swell thing I own. It’s a present.”

“Oh!” said Jack. “Well, it’s a beauty. And it’s got a split-second attachment, too, hasn’t it?”

“Yes, and when you press this thing here it strikes the time; hear it? Guess it cost a heap of money.”

“It must have. Was it a prize?”

“Something like that. A New York fellow gave it to me summer before last. He came up to Jonesboro in a steam-yacht about a thousand feet long. Well, I’ve got a lot of studying to do yet.” He moved toward the door.

“But why did he give it to you?” asked Jack. “But maybe I’m asking impertinent questions?”

“Oh, no; there’s no secret about it, only – Well, you see, this steam-yacht man had his son with him, a kid of about eleven or twelve, I guess, and one day the kid fell out of the naphtha-launch. There was a good sea running, and they couldn’t get the launch about very well. I happened to be near there in a dory, and so I picked the youngster up. His daddy seemed a good deal tickled about it, and after he got home he sent this to me. That’s all. Some people seem to have money to burn. Well, good night. Glad to have met you. Come over and call as soon as you can.”

And Anthony Z. Tidball nodded, blew a parting cloud of smoke in Jack’s direction, and went out, closing the door softly behind him.

CHAPTER IV
CATCHER AND PITCHER

“Well, it wasn’t such a bad showing, was it?”

Joe Perkins tossed his purple cap adorned with a white E on to the table and threw himself among the cushions of the window-seat in the manner of one who has earned his rest. He was a jovial-looking fellow of medium height, rather inclined toward stoutness. His hair was undeniably red, and despite that his features were good, none would have called him handsome. But his blue eyes were alert and his mouth firm. He had the quick temper popularly believed to accompany red hair, but it was well under control, and Joe’s usual appearance was one of extreme good nature. He was popular, perhaps the most popular fellow in college, and he knew it, and was not spoiled by the knowledge. His friends believed in him and he believed in himself. Perhaps it was the latter fact that made him such a wonderful leader. Ever since his freshman year he had been among the foremost in all college affairs. Last spring, after the disastrous 7 – 0 baseball game with Robinson, the selection of Joe, whose catching had been a feature of the contest, as captain, was unanimous and enthusiastic, and the supporters of the Purple, mourning overwhelming defeat, felt their sorrow lightened by the knowledge that Joe Perkins, in accepting the office, had pledged himself to retrieve Erskine’s lost prestige on the diamond. The whole college firmly believed that what Joe Perkins promised he would perform.

Joe’s companion was Tracy Gilberth. Like Joe, he was a senior and a member of the nine. Unlike Joe, he did not impress one as being particularly good-natured; nor did he resemble that youth in appearance. He had straight dark hair and black eyes. His cheeks were ruddy and his mouth straight and thin. He was of middle height and weight, and pitched the best ball of any man in college. In age he was a year Joe’s senior, being twenty-three. He had none of the other man’s popularity, although he was not disliked. Acquaintances suspected him of arrogance; in talking he had a tone that sounded patronizing to those not used to it. His parents were immensely wealthy; rumor credited his father with being a millionaire several times over. At all events, Tracy had the most luxuriously furnished rooms at Erskine, and spent more money than the rest of his class put together.

At the present moment he was sitting in Joe’s Morris chair with his hands in his pockets and his golf-stockinged legs sprawled before him. He replied to Joe’s question with a negligent nod that might have meant either assent or denial. Joe took it to express the former, and continued:

“A heap better than last year, anyhow. Thirty candidates at this time of year means sixty when we get outdoors.”

“Yes, but it isn’t quantity that counts, Joe,” said Tracy. “Look at the sort of greenies you had to-day. I’ll bet there isn’t a decent player among them, outside of the few last-year men that were there. If I were captain I’d rather have fifteen good players than fifty would-bes.”

“You’re an awful croaker, Tracy. For goodness’ sake, let me be happy while I can. To-morrow I shall be quite ready to believe that to-day’s bunch is merely a lot of hopeless idiots; but this evening I am an optimist; I see phenomenal pitchers, star catchers, wonderful first-basemen, in short, an aggregation of brilliant players destined to wipe Robinson off the face of the earth. Leave me to my dreams, old man.”

“All right; only when you wake up you’ll find you’ve fallen out of bed,” answered Tracy. “Have you heard from Hanson?”

“Yes, he’s coming up Wednesday to look around.”

“I hope he’ll like what he sees,” said Tracy, grimly. “I suppose you saw that fellow Weatherby there to-day? That chap must have the sensibilities of a goat. Think of his having the cheek to show up in the cage as a baseball candidate after what happened Friday! Why, if I were he I wouldn’t have the courage to show my face outside of my room. Not a fellow spoke to him to-day, but he didn’t seem to mind a bit.”

“I spoke to him,” said Joe.

“Oh, you had to!”

“And I think you’re mistaken about his not caring. He kept a pretty stiff upper lip, but I have a hunch that he wasn’t happy.”

“Happy! I should say not. If he expects to be happy as long as he stays at Erskine he’s going to be awfully fooled. The chap ought to be driven out of college.”

“It’s an unfortunate affair,” answered Joe dispassionately, “and I don’t pretend to understand it. But I must confess that I’m a bit sorry for the chap. It may just be that there was some reason for his not going in after that boy. Maybe he got rattled; you can’t tell.”

“Oh, poppycock! Maybe he was blind or asleep! Why didn’t he spunk up, then, and say something? He just walked off with his head in the air, as proud as you please, without a word. The plain fact of the matter is that he’s a coward clean through.”

“Well – but if he is, why did he report to-day? Seems to me that took something a good deal like courage. He knows plaguy well what the college thinks of him. Great Scott, if I had been in his boots I’d no more have thought of coming there among all those fellows – !”

“That’s what I say. He’s got just about the same sensibilities as a billy-goat. I dare say he’s rather proud of himself. But don’t you worry, Joe, you won’t be troubled with him long; we’ll soon show him that the baseball team doesn’t want cowards. You leave him to us, old man.”

“No, you don’t, Tracy; you leave him to me. I’m bossing this outfit, and I’m quite capable of getting rid of any one I don’t want. The fellow says he can play ball, and it’s fellows who can play ball that I’m after, and not life-saving heroes.”

Tracy stared across at his friend in disgust.

“Well, I can tell you one thing, Joe, and that is that you’ll find that there will be lots of fellows who simply won’t go on to the team if you keep Weatherby; and one of ’em’s me!”

“Nonsense,” answered the other, quite undisturbed. “Your precious morals aren’t going to be hurt by playing on the same acre of green grass as Weatherby. Nor by sitting at the same table with him, for that matter. At any rate, don’t get excited yet; it’s a fair guess that Weatherby doesn’t know enough about the game to make the team. But as long as he’s trying for it I won’t have him bullied.” Joe sat up suddenly and punched a purple and white cushion viciously. “I tell you candidly, old man, I’m going to turn out a winning team this spring, and just as long as a fellow plays good ball and does as he’s told, I don’t give a continental if he’s ostracized by the whole State! I gave my solemn word to Tom Higgins last year, after the game, that I’d win from Robinson, and I’m going to keep that promise!”

“I’ll never forget old Tom that day. The poor duffer was crying like a baby all the way back to the yard. ‘You’ll be captain, Joe,’ he said, ‘and you’ve got to promise to wipe this out. You’ve got to give me your word of honor, Joe.’ ‘I’ll do everything that I can, Tom,’ said I. And we shook hands on it. ‘If you don’t beat them next year, Joe,’ he blubbered, ‘I’ll come back here and I’ll lick you until you can’t stand. I swear I will!’ And he would, too,” laughed Joe.

“That’s all well enough,” answered Tracy, “but you don’t want to go too far, Joe; the fellows won’t stand everything even from you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, there’s lots of ’em now who think you’ve made a mistake in choosing Hanson for coach; you know that. They say that Hanson lost everything when he was captain three years ago, and that year before last, when he coached, we lost again. They think you should have got a coach who had something to show. And now if you insist on putting it on to the fellows with this coward, Weatherby, you’ll have to look out for squalls.”

“Good stuff!” Joe’s blue eyes sparkled, and his mouth set itself straightly. “I’m open to all the squalls that come my way. I like squalls. And when they’ve blown over the other chaps may be surprised to find that they’re a considerable distance from the scene of operations. Oh, no, my boy, you can’t scare me by talking that way! I know what the fellows said – some of them, that is – about my selecting Hanson, and I don’t give a continental. Hanson is all right. When he was captain here he had the poorest lot of players that any man ever had to contend with; anybody who was in college will tell you that. They couldn’t field and they couldn’t bat; the only thing they could do was kick; they kicked about the schedule, and they kicked about the amount of work they had to do, and they kicked about the training-table. Nobody on earth could have won with that team. As for year before last, Hanson coached and we didn’t win, I know. We didn’t win last year, for that matter, but nobody lays the blame on the coach. Hanson is all right. He knows the game all through; he’s a gentleman, and he gives every minute of his time to the team. The best judge of whether what I say is true is ‘Baldy’ Simson. You go and ask ‘Baldy,’ and if he doesn’t tell you the same thing I’ll eat my hat. And when you hear a trainer say that a coach is all right, there’s something in it.”

“Oh, well, I don’t know much about it myself! I’m only saying what the fellows in general think, Joe.”

“I know; there’s no harm done. Only, if there are any squalls, Tracy, you take your friends and get into a cellar somewhere until they’ve blown over,” said Joe suggestively.

“Oh, I’m not scared!” Tracy replied, laughing uneasily. “I’ll stand by you.”

“All right,” answered Joe gravely. “That’ll be safest.”

There came a knock at the door, and Joe shouted, “Come in!” When he saw who his caller was he arose from the window-seat and stepped forward.

“How are you, Weatherby? Want to see me?”

“Yes, if you have a minute to spare.” Jack looked calmly at the occupant of the Morris chair, and Joe understood.

“Certainly,” he answered. “Sit down.” Then, “I don’t like to put you out, old man,” he said, turning to Tracy, who had so far made no move toward withdrawing, “but I guess I’ll have to ask you to excuse me a moment.”

“That’s all right,” replied Tracy, lazily pulling himself out of his seat and staring insolently at the newcomer. “I’m a bit particular, anyway.” He lounged to the door, carefully avoiding contact with Jack. “See you in the morning,” he added. “So long.”

When the door had closed, Joe glanced at the caller, instinctively framing an apology for the insult. But Jack’s countenance gave no indication that he had even heard it. Joe marveled and pointed to a chair.

“Sit down, won’t you?” he asked politely.

The other shook his head.

“No, thanks. What I’ve got to say will take but a minute,” he answered calmly.