The New Boys at Oakdale

Morgan Scott

The New Boys at Oakdale

CHAPTER I – AN ORDER DISOBEYED

Oakdale started the game by hammering Ollie Leach, the Wyndham pitcher, for three runs in the first inning. Indeed, it seemed that they would drive the schoolboy twirler from the slab in short order, and they might have done so only for a snappy, clean-cut double play which put an abrupt end to the fusillade of hits. When the Wyndham captain declined to make a change and sent Leach back to the mound in the second inning, the wondering Oakdalers told one another that they would finish the foolhardy southpaw then and there.

Leach, however, had steadied down a great deal, and the best the visitors could do was to squeeze in one more run, which they practically secured through a rank error by Pelty, the shortstop. At this point the successful batting of the visitors seemed to come to an abrupt end, for during the succeeding four innings Ben Stone was the only man who could hit the left-hander safely.

Meanwhile, Rodney Grant was doing some steady, clever pitching for Oakdale, which, with perfect support, would have prevented the locals from gathering a single tally. Ned Osgood committed the first costly blunder. Covering third for Oakdale, he attempted to make a fancy play on a grounder, and let it get through him, enabling a Wyndham runner to score from second after two were out.

In the fifth, with two Wyndhamites gone, Charley Shultz, in the middle garden, tried to pull down a fly with one hand when he could have easily reached it with both hands, and his muff gave the locals another valuable mark in the scorer’s book.

Jack Nelson, the Oakdale captain, reprimanded Shultz when, following a strike-out, the team trotted to the bench.

“You should have had that fly, Charley,” said Nelson sharply; “and you would have got it if you’d went after it with both hands instead of one. That’s the first time I’ve seen you drop a ball you could reach as easily as that one. Quit your grandstanding and play baseball.”

Shultz shot Nelson a sullen look. “Oh, what’s the use to holler?” he retorted. “I knew best whether I could reach it with both hands or one. I think I know how to play that field.”

Nelson’s teeth came together with a click, and for a moment, his cheeks burning hotly, it seemed that his annoyance and anger would master him, but he succeeded in holding himself in check.

“You can play the field all right, Shultz,” he said, “and it’s just because you can that I disapprove of that attempted fancy flourish. We’ve got to hold these chaps down somehow.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” laughed Osgood optimistically. “We’ve got them beaten now. We won the game in the first inning.”

“Mebbe we did, but we didn’t paound Lefty Leach off the slab,” reminded Sile Crane. “Gall hang that feller! I hit him once, but I’ll be switched if I can seem to do it ag’in. He’s sorter got me locoed!”

“He seems to have rattled everybody belonging to this whole bunch,” said Chipper Cooper. “We ain’t any of us doing ourselves proud – ’cepting old Stoney.”

Nor did they improve in the first of the sixth. Leach was working a sharp drop that had them all breaking their backs to the distasteful music of the Wyndham cheers. Grant was effective in the latter half, and the seventh opened with him at bat.

“Start us off, Rod,” implored Nelson, as the Texan secured his bat and left the bench. “Let’s sew this thing up with some more runs.”

The fellow from the Lone Star State made no reply, but he squared himself grimly in the batters’ box and took the measure of one of Lefty’s drops. The hit was, appropriately, a Texas leaguer, and the visiting spectators howled joyously as Rod capered to first.

Chipper Cooper, coaching on the line back of first, flapped his arms wildly and crowed like a rooster. As the cheering of the little knot of Oakdale Academy students died down somewhat, Chipper was heard whooping joyously:

“Here we go! The lucky seventh! Don’t try to steal second, Rod; that would be a base thing to do. We’re after old Lefty again, and now we’ll finish the job we started in the first round.”

On the opposite side of the diamond Phil Springer, likewise enthused and excited, was wildly stuttering at the same time:

“Gug-gug-great work, Gug-Gug-Grant. Some cuc-cuc-class to that little bub-bingle. Take a gug-gug-good lead. Shultzie saw how you dud-dud-did it. He’ll drive you round.”

There was in this contest between rival high school nines little of that calculation and method employed by professionals and generally termed “inside baseball.” Nevertheless, Jack Nelson knew the importance of team work and had done his best to drill his players in some of the rudiments. The deadly accuracy of the Wyndham catcher’s throwing to bases was well known to the Oakdale lads, and, with no one down, an attempt to steal seemed inadvisable to Nelson. Shultz, the next batter, had been hitting the ball hard, even though he had found it impossible to place his hits safely, and instantly Nelson spoke a word to him and signalled to the watchful Texan at first that it was to be a hit-and-run.

On previous occasions, with the situation similar, the visitors had seemed to prefer sacrificing; and so, as Shultz confidently took his position at the plate, the infield drew closer, every fellow on his toes to go after a bunt or a short grounder.

Leach made sure his support was prepared for action, and then, wetting his fingers, he handed up a high whistler that had a bit of a jump on it.

Even though the ball was on a level with his cap visor, Shultz managed to hit it, boosting a high fly toward the smiling sky.

Grant was half way down to second when he heard a shrill, warning cry from both coachers.

“Look out! Get back! Skyscraper!” shrieked Cooper.

“Hey! Bub-bub-bub-bub – ” Springer continued to “bub” even after the galloping Texan had plowed his spikes into the ground, brought himself to a halt and turned to race desperately back to the initial sack.

Little Pelty got under that high one and reached for it eagerly in his great desire to make the catch and turn it into a double play by a throw that should reach first ahead of the returning runner. For the moment, with the exception of the still shrieking coachers, every spectator seemed breathless and silent. Pelty got the ball, froze to it and made a beautiful throw, but Grant’s amazing promptness in stopping and getting back at high speed saved him by a yard or more, and he was declared safe at first.

“Pretty close, pretty close,” cried Baxter, the Wyndham captain.

“Missed by a mile,” contradicted Cooper, intensely relieved. “You can’t rope this wild Texas steer; he’s never been branded.”

“Cuc-cuc-come on, Osgood,” implored Springer, as the next hitter was seen to rise from the bench; “you’re the boy to do the trick.”

Already Nelson had given Ned Osgood his instructions.

“Bunt, Osgood,” were his swift words. “They may look for us to follow up with a hit-and-run. Sacrifice Grant along on the second ball pitched. Stone is the next batter.”

That he was right in his judgment concerning the locals was proven by the fact that the infielders resumed their regular positions, while the outfielders fell back a little. Persistent plugging at the hit-and-run game is frequently resorted to by teams having poor success through other methods, and the action of Baxter in signaling his players to fall back showed that he believed an attempt would be made to repeat the play that had been foiled through Shultz’s high infield fly.

Leaning forward in a natural position, with his elbows on his knees and the fingers of his hands interlocked, Nelson thus telegraphed to Grant that the hitter would let the first ball pass and try to sacrifice on the next.

Jack’s foresight seemed excellent, for, fancying the visitors would be eager to continue the hit-and-run attempt, Leach “wasted one” on Osgood, who did not even remove his bat from his shoulder.

“Let him do it again,” piped Cooper. “Let him put himself in a hole, Osgood, then pick out a good one when he has to put it across.”

Osgood, although he liked the game, was both obstinate and conceited, having a great deal of confidence in himself as a batter and believing that he knew as much about baseball as any fellow on the team.

Therefore, perceiving that the next ball was coming over slightly more than waist high and apparently just where he wanted it, he declined to bunt and swung with all his force, hoping to make a long, sensational drive which would go safe and cover him with glory. Instead of doing this, he smashed a hot grounder straight into the hands of Foxhall, the second baseman.

Grant, fully expecting a sacrifice, was again racing down the line from first, and now he had no time to turn back. Without delay, yet with a deliberation that made for sureness, Foxhall turned and threw to first, completing an easy double play that was brought about directly through the batter’s perverseness in declining to follow the instructions of his captain.

CHAPTER II – THE SCORE TIED

Jack Nelson sprang up from the bench, his face pale, his eyes flashing with anger. Osgood had stopped abruptly on his way to first, realizing that the double play sent Oakdale back to the field, and turned to cross the diamond to his position at third base. Nelson met him near the pitcher’s position.

“What do you mean, Osgood,” he demanded hoarsely – “what do you mean by disobeying my order? I told you to sacrifice.”

“But it was a fine chance to hit the ball out and make some runs,” returned the disobedient player defendingly. “Sacrificing with one man down didn’t look like good baseball to me.”

“It makes no difference how it looked to you; your place was to follow my instructions. Stone has been hitting Leach hard and safely, and, with Grant on second, even a long single might have given us another score.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Osgood haughtily, “but I played baseball before I ever saw Oakdale, and I know something.”

“That will do,” interrupted the wrathy captain. “I don’t care how much baseball you know, you’ll have to obey me if you play on this team, and you may as well understand that at once. You can see that you threw away a chance for a run by hitting into that double play.”

Ned Osgood was not the sort of fellow to relish this style of talk even from the captain of his nine, and for a moment he was tempted to make a sarcastic rejoinder. Something prevented him from doing this, however, and he walked onward toward third, shrugging his shoulders. His manner was so irritating to Nelson that for the moment, even though Osgood had shown himself to be the best available man for the position he filled, Jack was tempted to bench him instantly. This temptation was put aside, but it was followed by an immediate decision to stand no more foolishness from Osgood.

The alarm that had been awakened in the bosoms of the Wyndhamites by Grant’s safe drive was dissipated in joy over the defensive work of the home team, which had prevented the Texan from advancing further. Boys and girls of Wyndham High cheered in concert and waved their banners, while the crowd of older sympathizers made a great uproar.

Like Nelson, Grant had been extremely annoyed by Osgood’s pigheaded action, and the Oakdale pitcher was somewhat disturbed as he resumed his position on the firing line.

“Hard luck, Rod,” said Stone, the somewhat taciturn catcher, as he buckled on the body protector.

“It wasn’t luck,” denied Grant; “it was mulish foolishness, nothing less.”

Laughing and well satisfied, the Wyndham lads capered to their bench, where Leach, seeking for his bat, listened and nodded as Captain Baxter gave him a word of instruction.

“Don’t try to kill that wild and woolly Texan’s speed, Lefty,” said Baxter. “He’s burning ’em over like bullets, and we’re swinging our heads off. Just try to meet ’em, that’s all.”

Grant’s annoyance was made still further apparent when he opened with a weirdly wild heave over Stone’s head that would have counted against him as a wild pitch had there been a runner on the sacks.

“Going up,” shouted some one from the Wyndham bleachers; and, in an effort to rattle the pitcher, the crowd redoubled the racket it was making.

Seeing that the pitcher was unsteady, Stone began to fuss over his mask strap, which had suddenly become unsatisfactory and needed adjustment. The entire Oakdale team felt the tension of the moment, and Stone’s subterfuge met their approval. On the other hand, it led their opponents to protest against the delay and urge the umpire to make them play.

Apparently getting the mask strap fixed at last, Ben resumed his position behind the pan and squatted to signal between his knees. Rod shook his head, and the catcher changed the signal. Then Grant nodded and pitched.

Faithful to instructions, Leach took a short grip on his bat and brought it round quickly to meet the ball. There was a ring of wood against leather, and an instant later Nelson, flinging himself to one side, reached for the grounder. It struck his gloved hand and carromed off to the left. He went after it instantly, scooped it up and shot it to Crane at first, but it arrived a bare second too late.

The Wyndham crowd cheered as madly as if Leach had reached the initial sack on a clean hit instead of an error. Out in center field, Shultz laughed with the satisfaction of a player who, lacking whole-souled interest in his team, feels that his own bad work has been minimized by that of a teammate. In this case his satisfaction was made the greater by the fact that the minimizing error had been contributed by the chap who had criticized him a short time before.

Nelson stood still for an instant, then held up his hand for the ball, which Crane threw to him. Turning, the captain made a signal, which caused Cooper to take his position on second. Tossing the sphere to Chipper, Jack walked into the diamond and spoke in a low tone to Grant.

“Don’t let that rattle you, old man,” he said. “I reckon we’re both hot under the collar, and we’d better cool off a bit. Take your time with these chaps; they can’t hit you.”

“I’d like to punch Osgood’s head!” growled the Texan.

“So would I, but that wouldn’t help us win the game. Look out for a sacrifice now. They’ve found they can’t steal on Stone.”

“Play ball! play ball!” howled the crowd.

“Play ball,” said the umpire sharply.

On first, Leach was seeking to add to the opposing twirler’s unsteadiness by uproarious laughter and the repeated declaration: “We’ve got him going! We’ve got him going!”

Nelson was most deliberate about returning to his post, and not until he was there did he nod for Cooper to give Grant the ball. Like a flash Rodney shot it to first, and the laughter of Leach was cut short by a gasp as he barely ducked under Crane’s reaching hand.

“Almost gug-got him then!” shouted Springer from right field.

“Here’s the head of the list,” called a coacher, as Crispin squared himself in the batters’ box. “Keep up the good work.”

In order to make it difficult for Crispin to bunt, Grant put one over high and close – too high and too close. Crispin caught himself in his swing and then pretended that he had been hit on the shoulder; but the pretense was so palpably a fake that the umpire behind the pitcher, who chanced to be an Oakdale man, refused to let him take first. Naturally, the other umpire, who was in charge of the bases, said nothing, but somehow his manner seemed to denote that he disagreed on the decision. This led to a kick by the Wyndham captain, who dropped it quickly, however, when reminded by a fellow player that the delay was giving Oakdale a chance to steady down.

Again Grant attempted to put the ball over high and close, but he simply got it across the inside corner slightly below the batter’s shoulders, and Crispin made a successful bunt that rolled along just inside the first base line. Jumping over the ball, the hitter sprinted hard for first.

Grant scooped up the rolling sphere and heard Nelson’s sharp cry to put it to first. It whistled past Crispin’s ear and spanked into Crane’s mitt.

“Out at first,” said the Wyndham umpire, with something like a touch of regret.

“Good work, Crispin,” gleefully called Baxter, giving the player a slap on the shoulder. “That was a beauty bunt, old boy. Now we’ve got ’em where we want ’em.”

Even as he spoke he signaled from his position on the coaching line for Foxhall to hit the ball out; and Foxhall was liable to do it if anybody could.

Grant worked carefully with this batter, meanwhile holding Crispin as close to first as possible. Nevertheless, Foxhall swung uselessly only once. The second time he whipped his bat round he connected with the horsehide and sent the sphere skimming along the ground straight at Cooper.

Eager and anxious, Chipper booted it beautifully. Like a cat he chased it up and made a futile effort to get the hitter. The throw was a case of bad judgment as well as a wild heave, which even long-geared Sile Crane could not reach.

So while Crane was chasing after the ball, Foxhall, who should have been out, romped on to second, and Leach scored amid a tremendous tumult.

Grinning broadly, Sam Cohen, Wyndham’s heavy-hitting left-fielder, danced out to the plate, determined to keep things moving. Surely, it looked like Wyndham’s opportunity, and, besides the desire to prevent the visitors from settling down, there was a legitimate excuse for the continued uproar of the home crowd. Although they well knew that Grant was little to blame for the turn of affairs, the Wyndham coachers were trying hard to “get him going” by pretending that it was his fault, and behind Rodney’s back Foxhall capered on second, clapping his hands and making gestures intended to encourage the shrieking spectators.

Never in his life had Chipper Cooper been more chagrined and ashamed. His face beet-red, he begged Nelson to kick him.

“Get back to your position and play ball, Cooper,” said the captain, as calmly as he could. “We’ve got to stop this foolishness right here. They mustn’t make another run.”

Grant’s teeth were set and his under jaw looked grim and hard. He knew well enough that Cohen was especially dangerous at this stage of the game, for the nervy Hebrew was one of those rare batters who hit better in a pinch than at any other time, the necessity seeming always to prime him properly.

Trying Cohen out with a bender that went wide in hopes that in his eagerness he would be led to reach for it, Rodney delivered a ball. The next one was high and likewise wide, for Stone had seen Foxhall taking a dangerous lead off second and called for a pitch that would put him in easy position to throw. Nelson, awake to precisely what was transpiring between the battery men, made a leap for the sack before the ball reached Stone’s hands, and Ben lined it down with a wonderful short-arm throw, which saved time and yet was full of powder.

Only for the warning shouts of the wide-awake coachers, who had seemed to divine the move in advance, Foxhall might have been caught napping. As it was, he barely succeeded in sliding back to the sack, feet first, and the Wyndham umpire instantly spread his hands out, palm downward. Foxhall drew a breath of relief.

A moment later Baxter shouted:

“Got him in a hole, Cohen! Make him put ’em over now! Make him find the pan!”

Steady as a rock, Grant did put the next one over, and Cohen, “playing the game,” let it pass for a called strike.

“He can’t do it again!” cried Baxter. “Make ’em be good!”

Grant used a drop, starting the ball high so that it shot down past the batsman’s shoulders and across his chest. Even as the umpire called, “Strike two,” the Oakdale players shouted a warning to Stone. It was needless, for Ben had seen Foxhall speeding along the line in a desperate and seemingly ill-advised attempt to purloin third. Craftily Cohen fell back a step to one side, as if to give the catcher room to throw, but with the real purpose of bothering him as much as possible without bringing, by interference, a penalty upon the runner. Possibly this was the reason why Stone threw high, forcing Osgood to reach to the full length of his arms in order to get the sphere. Almost invariably the Oakdale catcher put the ball straight and low into the hands of the baseman, so that the latter could tag a sliding runner quickly and easily; and had he been able to do this now, Foxhall doubtless could not have slid safely under Osgood, which, however, was precisely what he did succeed in doing.

“Who said we couldn’t steal on old Stoney?” shouted Pelty from the coaching line back of third. “Great work, Foxy, old man. You put that one across on him.”

With only one local player gone and but a single run needed to tie the score, the tension of the moment was intense. No one realized the danger better than Grant, and when he pitched again he made another clever effort to “pull” Cohen; an effort that almost succeeded, for Sam caught himself just in time to prevent his bat from swinging across the plate.

“Ball three,” came from the umpire.

“He’s going to walk you, Cohen; he’s afraid of you,” came from Baxter.

It must be admitted that Grant had considered the advisability of handing Cohen a pass, but knowing Wolcott, the fellow who came next, was almost as dangerous a hitter, he had decided that such a piece of strategy would be ill advised. Taking into consideration the batter’s ability to meet speed, Rod shook his head when Stone called for a straight one on the inside corner. Ben knew at once that the Texan wished to try to strike Cohen out, and so he swiftly changed the signal.

Now Cohen had brains in his head and was also a good guesser. Moreover, he knew that Grant relied largely upon his remarkable drop when a strike-out was needed. And so it happened that, seeing Rod decline to follow the first signal, he was convinced that the pitcher would hand up one of those sharp dips.

Having guessed right, the batter judged the drop beautifully and hit it a tremendous smash. Away sailed the ball toward center field, some distance to the right of Shultz, who stretched his stout legs to get under it.

“He can’t touch it!” was the cry.

Nevertheless, when Foxhall started off third, Pelty, defiant of coaching rules, sprang forward, grabbed him and yanked him back.

“Get on to that sack!” the little shortstop panted. “Get ready to run! You can score anyhow; you don’t need a start.”

Thus advised, Foxhall leaped back to the cushion, upon which he planted his left foot with the right advanced, crouching, his hands clenched, his arms hooked the least bit, ready to get away like a sprinter starting from his mark.

Shultz made a splendid run, leaping into the air at the proper moment and thrusting out his bare right hand. The ball struck in that outshot hand and stuck there.

An instant before the catch was made Pelty shrieked, “Go,” and Foxhall raced for the plate.

It was impossible to stop that run. Cohen’s long sacrifice fly had tied the score, in spite of the strenuous and sensational one-handed catch in center field; and the crowd leaped and yelled, with arms up-flung and caps hurled into the air.

CHAPTER III – BENCHED

In moments like this the baseball fan of any age goes wild with frenzy; especially is this true of the enthusiastic schoolboy fan who has watched his team fight an uphill game and come neck-and-neck with a worthy and much-feared rival in one of the late innings of the contest. The youthful Wyndhamites shrieked until their faces were purple and their eyes bulging, flourishing their banners and frantically pounding one another over heads and shoulders. At the bench the players laughingly danced around Foxhall and then cheered Cohen as the latter came walking back from first, muttering to himself that the catch had been “a case of horseshoes, nothing less.”

In the midst of this excitement Nelson ran up to Grant, whose face was pale, but grim and set as ever.

“You couldn’t help it, Rod,” said the Oakdale captain soothingly. “They won’t get any more. The bases are clean now.”

“But they’ve tied the score,” growled the Texan. “That’s the first time Cohen has touched one of my drops to-day.”

“Hold them where they are, and we’ll win it yet,” declared Jack optimistically. “We didn’t expect a walk-over with this bunch.”