The Rushton Boys at Rally Hall: or, Great Days in School and Out

“I should think,” interrupted Fred, in a voice that he tried to keep steady, “that their tongues would get in the way and choke them.”

“You would think so,” admitted Slim, easily, “but as I said, this farmer was up to date and he had figured that out. He got a lot of rubber tubes and taught the cows to curl their tongues around in those and keep them out of the way. He–”

But just then, the overtaxed patience of his auditors gave way and they rushed in a body on Slim.

“I told you it would be that way,” he complained, as he extricated himself from the laughing mob. “It’s casting pearls before swine to try to tell you fellows the truth. You wouldn’t want the truth, if I handed it to you on a gold platter.”

The rest of the passengers in the train, other than the Rally Hall boys, looked on and listened with varied emotions. One or two had a sour expression and muttered more or less about “those pesky boys,” but by far the greater number were smiling and showed a frank pleasure in the picture of bubbling, joyous youth that they presented. It came as a welcome interlude in the cares of life.

Fred had found a seat alongside a rather elderly man whose face radiated good nature. When the train had gone ten miles or so, the stranger entered into conversation.

“A jolly crowd you have here,” he said, beaming. “I take it you’re going somewhere special. What’s on for to-day?”

“We’re going to play a game of ball with the Mount Vernon team, a little way up the line,” Fred smiled in return.

“Baseball, eh?” said the other with an evident quickening of interest. “That’s the king of sports with me. I used to play a lot in my time and I’ve never got over my liking for it. I’d rather see a game than eat.”

“It’s a dandy sport, all right,” assented Fred, with enthusiasm. “There isn’t anything in the world to equal it in my opinion, except perhaps football.”

“I don’t know much about football,” admitted the other. “I see a game once in a while, but it always seems to me rather confusing. That’s because I don’t know the rules, I guess. But I know baseball from start to finish and from the time the umpire says ‘Play ball!’ until the last man’s out in the ninth inning, I don’t take my eyes off the diamond.”

“I suppose you have some great memories of the old days,” remarked Fred.

“You’re just right,” said the stranger with emphasis. “I guess I’ve seen almost all the great players who made the game at one time or another. There were the old Red Stockings of Cincinnati, the Mutuals of New York, the Haymakers of Troy, the Forest Cities of Rockford, that we boys used to read and talk about all the time. We had our special heroes, too, just as you have to-day.

“Of course,” he went on, “the game has improved a great deal, like everything else. The pitching is better now. My, how those old timers used to bat the pitchers all over the lot! You don’t see any scores of two hundred runs in a game these days.”

“Two hundred runs!” exclaimed Fred. “You don’t mean to say that any team ever made as many as that?”

“Not often, I’ll admit,” smiled the other. “Still, the Niagaras of Buffalo won a game once by 201 to 11.”

“Whew!” ejaculated Tom, who had been sitting on the arm of the seat, listening to the talk. “There must have been some tired outfielders when that game was over.”

“I’d have hated to be the scorer,” laughed Fred.

“Of course that was unusual,” said the other, “but big scores were a common thing. The first game between college teams was won by 66 to 32.

“There was a time,” he continued, “when a man could make two or three home runs on a single hit. The diamonds were only vacant lots as a rule and the ball would get lost in the high grass. Then the runner, after reaching the plate, could start round the bases again and keep on running until the ball was found or until he was too tired out to run any longer. Of course that was in the very early days of the game. We used to put a man out then by throwing the ball at him and hitting him with it.”

“I’d hate to have one of them catch me between the shoulders nowadays!” exclaimed Tom.

“The ball was soft then and didn’t hurt much,” explained the other. “Oh, the game is better now in every way. We didn’t know anything about ‘inside stuff’ as you call it, ‘the squeeze play,’ ‘the delayed steal’ and all that.”

“I’ll bet you got just as much fun out of it though as we do now,” said Fred.

“I suppose we did,” assented the other. “You can trust boys to get fun out of anything. But in those days it was mainly sport. Now it’s sport and skill combined.”

The lads were to get off at the next station, and there was a general stir as they got their things together.

“I’m very glad I met you,” said Fred, as he shook hands with his chance acquaintance. “I’ve learned a lot about the game that I didn’t know before.”

“It does me good to brush up against you young fellows,” the man replied warmly, returning the handshake. “I hope you wax the other team this afternoon. I’ll be rooting for you to win.”

“We’ll do our best,” promised Fred. “Thanks for the good wishes. It would be jolly if you could stop off and see the game.”

“I’d like nothing better, but business won’t let me. Good-bye and good luck.”

“Who’s your friend that you were talking to so long?” asked Ned, as the crowd got off the train.

“I never saw him before,” answered Fred. “But he’s a good old scout, whoever he is. He sure is fond of baseball and he knows the game. I’d like to have him in the stands this afternoon. I’ll bet he’d be a mascot for us.”

The nine was in fine fettle, and felt that they would have no excuses to offer if they failed to win.

“But we’re not going to lose!” exclaimed Granger. “I feel it in my bones!”

“It’ll be the score and not your bones that’ll tell the story,” jibed Slim.

“Scots wha’ hae with Wallace bled,

Scots wha’ Bruce has often led,

Welcome to your gory bed,

Or to victory,”

chanted Tom Eldridge.

“And it’s going to be victory,” affirmed Teddy, “The other fellows will be the dead ones.”

But the “other fellows” had views of their own on that subject, and from the time the first ball was pitched the Rally Hall boys knew that they had their work cut out for them.

Ned was in the box at the start, and Fred, who was ready to take his place if needed, played right field.

The pitchers on both sides were in good form, and for the first three innings neither side scored a run, although a two-base hit by Melvin and a daring steal had gotten him as far as third. Two were out at the time, however, and Ward made the third out on a high fly to left.

The pitcher on the Mount Vernon team was a big, sandy-haired, freckle-faced youth who did not look at all like a student, and the boys noticed that when his nine was at the bat, he sat apart from the others, almost as though he were a stranger. Slim Haley had a suspicion, and strolled over to have a chat with him, while he was resting.

“Mount Vernon is a pretty good school,” said Slim, trying to start a conversation.

“Yep,” said the other shortly.

“Nice bunch of fellows,” continued Slim affably.

“Good enough, I s’pose,” said the other.

“What studies are you taking?” asked Slim, his suspicions deepening.

The other hesitated a moment.

“Voconometry and trigoculture,” he got out, with an effort.

“What?” asked the puzzled Slim.

But just then the inning ended, and the sandy-haired pitcher had to go to the box.

Slim made his way back to his own crowd.

“Did you fellows ever hear of voconometry and trigoculture?” he asked.

“What are you giving us?” jeered Tom, with a grin.

“Stop stringing us, Slim,” added Ned.

“Honest, I’m not fooling,” protested Slim, “I asked that pitcher what studies he was taking, and he said ‘voconometry and trigoculture.’”

The boys pondered a moment.

“I’ve got it!” shouted Fred, a light breaking in on him. “That fellow’s a ‘ringer.’ He isn’t a Mount Vernon student at all. There’s something the matter with their regular pitcher, and they’ve picked up this fellow somewhere and rung him in on us as a regular school player. They’ve been afraid we might tumble to it and ask him questions, and so they told him what to say.”

“But why did they tell him to say any nonsense like that?” asked Slim, perplexed.

“They didn’t,” explained Fred. “He’s got mixed up. What they told him to say if any one asked him was that he was studying trigonometry and vocal culture.’ He got stuck and called it ‘voconometry and trigoculture.’”

There was a roar of laughter, but this was quickly followed by indignation.

“It’s a dirty trick to play on us,” growled Billy Burton.

“Sure it is,” agreed Tom. “But it’s too late to protest now. Let’s go in and lick them anyway.”

In the fifth inning, a scorching liner struck Ned on his pitching arm. He picked it up and got his man at first. But the blow had bruised his muscles badly, and he became wild. He could not control the sphere, and gave two bases on balls. These, with an error and a hit sandwiched in, yielded two runs before the side was out.

“You’ll have to take my place, Fred,” he said as they came in for their turn at bat. “My arm is numb and I can’t get them over.”

So Fred took up the pitching burden with a handicap of two runs against him to start with.

“All over but the shouting,” yelled the Mount Vernon rooters.

But they changed their tune as Fred shot his curves and benders over the plate. He pitched his prettiest, and only once was in danger. Then, with a man on first and one out, a rattling double play started by Teddy pulled him out of the hole.

But the other fellow, too, was pitching magnificently.

CHAPTER XXIX

ANDY SHANKS “GETS HIS”

The Mount Vernon partisans were in an ecstasy of delight at the lead their favorites were holding and from present indications seemed likely to hold to the end. They yelled their loudest at every good play made by the home team, and did all they could to keep them up to fighting pitch.

The Rally Hall followers, although of course outnumbered, kept up their end and shouted until they were hoarse. Among these none were more vociferous than Lester Lee and Bill Garwood. They had not “made” the team, although they liked and understood the game. But they were “dyed-in-the-wool” rooters for their team, and especially for the Rushton boys upon whose shoulders rested so much of responsibility for the fate of the game.

As luck would have it, they were surrounded on every side by the Mount Vernon boys, many of whom were accompanied by pretty girls who had come to see the downfall of the invaders. Some of them knew very little of the game, but that did not dampen their enthusiasm, and they clapped their hands and waved their flags whenever that seemed the right thing to do.

One of them was seated right alongside of Lester, and he and Bill could not help hearing her conversation.

Her escort, in an interval between innings, was trying to tell her of a game he had recently seen.

“This fellow was a fast runner,” he remarked, “and he stole second base while the pitcher wasn’t looking.”

“Stole it!” she exclaimed. “Why, I thought the bases were fastened down.”

“They are,” the young man laughed, “but he stole it just the same.”

“I think that’s just disgraceful,” she said indignantly. “Did they arrest him?”

Her escort explained what he meant, and she looked relieved.

“A minute later, he tried it again,” he went on, “but this time the ball was too quick for him, and the runner died at third.”

“Oh, how dreadful! I suppose he had been running so hard that his heart gave out.”

Bill nudged Lester, whose face was purple with his efforts to restrain himself.

Again her escort patiently explained that the incident at third had been in no sense a tragedy.

“That made two out,” he went on, “but the next man at the bat lammed the horsehide–No,” he interrupted himself hurriedly, as he saw another question trembling on her lips, “the horse wasn’t in the hide. I mean, he hit the ball and made a home run. That rattled the pitcher and he went up in the air.”

“Let’s get out,” whispered Bill to Lester. “I can see that she’ll ask him whether it was a baseball game or an aviation meet.”

“It’s his own fault,” replied Lester, as he followed his companion to another part of the stand where they could give free vent to their mirth. “You can’t blame her for not understanding baseball slang. I’ll bet after this that he’ll stick to plain English.”

“Look at those clouds coming up!” exclaimed Bill suddenly. “I’m afraid rain’s coming before the game is over.”

“And our fellows behind,” groaned Lester.

“We ought to have ‘got the hay in’ before this,” said Bill, as Tom’s doggerel of the morning came back to him.

The Mount Vernon team was quick to see its advantage and began to play for time.

They were ahead, and as more than five innings had been played, it would be called a complete game and credited to them, if they could keep their opponents from scoring before the rain came down.

With this end in view, they began a series of movements designed to delay the game. The Rally Hall boys were at the bat and it was the beginning of the seventh inning. They were desperate in their desire to tie or go ahead of the enemy. Those two runs loomed bigger and bigger, as the game drew near its end.

“We’ve got to get a move on, fellows,” admonished Fred, as his side came to bat.

“And in an awful hurry, too,” agreed Melvin.

“The time’s short even if the rain doesn’t come,” declared Ned. “But from the look of those clouds, we won’t play a full game. Make this the ‘lucky seventh’ and crack out a couple of runs.”

“How are we going to get anything, if that pitcher doesn’t put it over?” asked Tom, as he stood at the plate, bat in hand. “Hi, there,” he called to the boxman. “Put the ball over the plate and I’ll kill it.”

“Take your time,” drawled the pitcher, as he bent over, pretending to tie his shoe lace. “I’ll strike you out soon enough.”

That shoe lace seemed very hard to tie, judging from the time he spent in doing it. At last, when he could not keep up the pretence any longer, he straightened up and took his position in the box. Then, something about the ball seemed to attract his attention. He looked at it earnestly and signaled to the captain who walked in slowly from centre field. He in turn beckoned to the first baseman, and the three joined in conversation at the pitcher’s box.

By this time, the crowd had caught the idea, and a storm of protest broke out from the stands.

“Play ball!”

“Cut out the baby act!”

“Can’t you win without the rain?”

“What a crowd of quitters!”

“Be sports and play the game!”

“They’re showing a yellow streak!”

“The white feather, you mean!”

Most of the protests came from the Rally Hall followers, but a good many also of the home team’s supporters were disgusted at these unsportsmanlike tactics.

Teddy rushed up to the umpire, his eyes blazing.

“Are you going to stand for this?” he asked. “What kind of a deal are we getting in this town, anyway?”

The umpire, who had tried to be strictly impartial, raised his hand soothingly.

“Go easy, son,” he replied. “I was only waiting to make sure. I’ll see that you get fair play.

“Cut out that waiting stuff,” he called to the pitcher, “and play ball.”

The pitcher took his position in the box, but the captain strolled toward centre field at a snail’s pace.

“Hurry up there now,” ordered the umpire. “I’ll give you till I count ten to get out in the field. If you’re not there by that time, I’ll put you out of the game.”

“I’m going, am I not?” retorted the captain, still creeping along.

“One,” said the umpire. “Two. Three.”

The captain’s pace quickened.

“Four. Five. Six.”

The captain broke into a trot.

“Seven. Eight. Nine.”

But by this time the captain had reached his position. It was evident that the umpire meant what he said.

“Now, put them over,” he ordered the pitcher, “and I’ll send you to the bench, if I see any signs of holding back. Play ball.”

There was no further delay, and the pitcher shot the ball over the plate. Tom, true to his promise, “killed” the ball, sending a scorching liner between second and third that netted him two bases. Fred sacrificed him to third by laying a beautiful bunt down on the first base line. Morley hit the ball a resounding crack, but it went straight to the second baseman, who made a great stop and nipped Tom as he came rushing in to the plate. A long fly to centre field ended the inning, and gloom settled down on the boys from Rally Hall.

“Seven goose eggs in a row,” groaned Billy Burton.

“Never mind,” said Fred cheerily, as he picked up his glove. “We’re getting on to his curves now. Did you see how we belted him in that inning? No pop-up flies, but good solid welts. The breaks in the luck were against us but they won’t be always.”

As though to back up his words of cheer, the sun at that instant broke through the clouds and the field was flooded with light.

“Hurrah!” yelled Teddy, throwing up his hat. “It isn’t going to rain after all.”

“Those were only wind clouds,” exulted Melvin.

“It is the sun of Austerlitz,” quoted Tom.

“It’s a good omen anyway,” declared Ned. “Buckle down to your work now, boys, and play like tigers.”

And they did. Fred promptly struck the first man out on three pitched balls. The second popped up a high foul, which Tom gathered in after a long run. The third man up dribbled a slow one to the box and Fred quickly snapped the ball over to first for an out.

“Short and sweet, that inning,” commented Slim Haley.

“Now it’s our turn again,” said Teddy. “Here’s where we win.”

“Up guards and at them,” encouraged Tom.

But, try as they would, their bad luck persisted. Their slugging was hard and fierce, but the ball went straight into a fielder’s hands, and again they went out on the diamond without a score to their credit.

In the enemy’s eighth turn at bat, it looked as if they might get one or more runs over the plate. A lucky bound allowed one man to get to first, and he went to second when Morley dropped a high fly after a long run. There were men on first and second with none out, and their chance for a score was bright.

The next man up sent a whistling liner right over second. Teddy, who was playing close to the bag, jumped in the air and pulled down the ball. That, of course, put out the batter. As Teddy came down with the ball in his hand, he stepped on the base, thus putting out the man who had made a bee line for third, thinking the ball would go safe, and was now trying desperately to get back. That made two out. The fellow who had been on first had almost reached second, but turned and sprinted back with Teddy in hot pursuit. He clapped the ball on him just in time, and the side was out. Teddy had made a triple play unassisted.

It was a sparkling and most unusual feat, and the whole stand rose to Teddy as he came in, and cheered and cheered until he was forced to pull off his cap. The Mount Vernon rooters forgot their partisanship and shouted as loudly as the rest. As for his schoolmates, they mauled and hugged him until he fled for refuge to the bench.

“Some fireworks!” yelled one.

“I can die happy, now!” exclaimed another. “I’ve seen a triple play pulled off.”

“You’ll never see another,” prophesied his neighbor.

The Rally Hall boys were yelling their loudest to encourage their favorites when they came to bat for the last time.

A groan went up when Duncan lifted a high fly to centre field, which was caught easily. But Melvin sent a sizzling liner to left, just inside third, and made two bases on it. And the yells were deafening, when Ward advanced him to third, by a fierce grounder to short, that was too hot to hold.

“Rushton! Rushton!” they shouted, as Fred came to bat after Tom had gone out on a foul. “Hit it on the trademark!” “Give it a ride!” “Win your own game!”

The first ball was a deceptive drop, but Fred did not “bite.” The second was a low fast one, about knee high, just the kind he was accustomed to “kill.”

With a mighty swing he caught it fair “on the seam.” It rose like a shot and soared into centre field, far over the fielder’s head.

Melvin and Ward came in, tying the score, and Fred, who had gone around the bases like a deer, made it a home run by just beating the ball on a headlong slide to the plate.

Rally Hall promptly went raving mad.

There was still one more chance for the Mount Vernon lads, and their best hitters were coming on. But Fred was on his mettle now, and put every ounce of his strength and cunning into his pitching. They simply could not hit his slants. The first went out on strikes, Ward made a dazzling catch of a hot liner, and, when Melvin, after a long run, caught a high foul close to the left field bleachers, the game was over, with the score three to two in favor of Rally Hall.

It was a hilarious crowd that met the team at Green Haven when the train pulled in. The whole nine had played well, and all came in for their share of the ovation, though the Rushton brothers were regarded as having carried off the honors of the game.

“Do you know what pleased me most of all?” asked Fred of Melvin.

“That home run you made, I suppose,” answered the other.

“No,” was the answer. “It was that we downed the ‘ringer.’ They couldn’t get away with their low-down trick. We put one over on ‘voconometry and trigoculture.’”

But Fred had a chance to “put one over” a few days later that pleased him still more.

A group of the boys had been down to the post office and were walking slowly on the road back to Rally Hall. It was a beautiful afternoon, and they took their time, in no hurry to get home.

Suddenly there was a loud “honk,” “honk” behind them, and, looking back, they saw an automobile coming swiftly toward them.

They scattered to let it pass, but, as it came up it slackened speed and began zigzagging from one side of the road to the other, making the boys jump to keep out of the way.

“Can’t you look out where you’re going?” asked Slim angrily. “What kind of a driver are you, anyway?”

“By Jove, fellows!” exclaimed Bill Garwood, as he looked more closely at the face behind the goggles, “it’s Andy Shanks!”

It was indeed that disgraced youth, who was making a trip through that part of the state, and whom some impulse had prompted to go by way of Green Haven.

“Sure it is,” he answered sourly. “Get out of the way, you boobs. Jump, you skate,” he said to Fred, as he darted the machine at him.

Fred leaped nimbly out of the way, and Andy, with a derisive jeer, sped on, looking behind him and laughing insolently.

Fred was white with indignation.

“The coward!” he exclaimed. “If I could get on that running board, I’d drag him from his seat!”

“He sure ought to have a licking,” agreed Bill. “But we’d have to be some good little sprinters to catch him now.”

“Look, fellows!” cried Billy Burton excitedly, “he’s stopped. There must be something the matter with his engine.”

They all started to run.

Andy had dismounted quickly and was working desperately to get his stalled engine going.

He got it sparking at last, but before he could jump into the seat the boys were on him.

“No, you don’t!” cried Fred, getting between him and the machine. “I’ve got an account to settle with you.”

“Get out of my way,” snarled Andy, trying to push past.

Fred’s answer was a blow that caught the bully under the chin and sent his teeth together with a snap.

“I’ll fix you for that,” Andy roared.

“Come along,” was Fred’s challenge, slipping off his coat, “but first take off your goggles. I’m going to lick you good and plenty, but I don’t want to blind you.”

Then followed a fight that Slim afterward described to a delighted group at the dormitory as a “peach of a scrap.”

Even a rat will fight if it is cornered, and Andy, having no way out, did his best. All the hate and venom he felt for Fred came to the surface, and he fought ferociously.

But he was no match, despite his size and strength, for the boy he had wronged. Fred was in splendid shape, thanks to his athletic training, and, besides, he was as quick as a cat. He easily evaded the bull-like rushes of Andy, and got in one clean-cut blow after another that shook the bully from head to foot. The thought of all he had suffered through Shank’s trickery gave an additional sting to the blows he showered on him, and it was not long before Andy lay on the ground, sullen and vanquished.