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

“You’ll sit at table with him or you’ll get out,” cried Joe hotly.

“Then I’ll get out!”

There was silence for a moment, during which Tracy continued to mark up the cloth and Joe struggled more or less successfully to get command of his temper. Finally he asked, almost calmly:

“Do you mean that you’ll leave the team, that you’ll throw me over and threaten the college with defeat for a mere whim?”

“It isn’t a whim,” growled Tracy. “It – it’s a principle.”

Joe smiled in spite of himself and the last of his ill-humor vanished.

“Oh, don’t talk poppycock, Tracy,” he said. “Look here, you must see how difficult you’re making it for Hanson and me. We can’t do what we want to do if there are dissensions among you chaps. Like a good fellow, promise me to leave Weatherby alone. He isn’t going to interfere with you; you know that. The other fellows aren’t kicking up a row about having him at table, so why should you? Besides, Tracy, consider what a thundering hard row the chap has to hoe. Maybe he acted the coward; I didn’t see it and don’t know; but even if he did it’s more than likely that he’s a lot worse ashamed of it than you are, and probably wants to make up for it. Give him a show, can’t you? Be generous, Tracy!”

“Well, let him keep away from me, then,” Tracy growled.

“How can he when you’re both on the team?” asked Joe impatiently. “We want him because he’s got the making of a good player; he’s sure, quick, and – honest.”

“Huh!”

“Yes, honest! We’ve watched him just as we’ve watched all you fellows – perhaps a bit more, because he’s under suspicion, as it were – and he’s played us fair every time. He’s done as he’s been told and done it just as hard as he knew how. And it’s all wrong to call a man dishonest until he’s done something dishonest.”

“How about that affair at the river?” asked the other sneeringly.

“A man may be a coward at a – a crisis and a brave man all the rest of his life. Physical cowardice isn’t dishonesty. For that matter, I can imagine a chap running from bullets and yet standing up like a little man in front of bayonets. I’m not sure I wouldn’t run away from bullets myself, and if I were you I wouldn’t be too sure, either.”

“I’m not a coward,” cried Tracy.

“I don’t say you are; I don’t think you are. And yet you’re not brave enough to let public opinion go hang and give that poor duffer, Weatherby, a fighting chance!”

Gilberth received this in silence, staring moodily at the table. The bell in the tower of College Hall began its imperative summons and Joe pushed back his chair and arose. Tracy followed his example.

“I didn’t mean to keep you so long,” said the former. He overtook the other at the door and laid a friendly hand on his shoulder. “Don’t mind my ill-temper, old man. There’s no use in having a friend if you can’t bully him a little now and then. And – er – think over what I said, will you?”

“Oh, that’s all right,” answered Tracy grudgingly. “No harm done. See you later.”

Joe stood on the porch and watched him cross the road and disappear up the broad gravel-path toward the laboratories. Then Joe passed down the steps and through the gate with a little smile of satisfaction on his face.

“Yes, it is all right,” he told himself. “He’ll do as I want him to. But I wish – I do wish I hadn’t lost my pesky temper!”

He turned to the left toward Washington Street and as he neared the corner he caught sight of a tall fellow crossing the Common with long awkward strides. The ill-fitting clothes and the little stoop of the shoulders were sufficient to reveal the man’s identity at first glance, and Joe hailed him:

“O Tid-ball! O Tid-ba-a-all!”

Anthony paused, looked, waved a note-book responsively, and stumbling over a “Keep off the grass” sign, crossed the turf and clambered over the fence.

“How are you, Tidball?” asked Joe, shaking hands. For some reason fellows usually did shake hands with Anthony when they met him, just as they thumped other acquaintances on the back or punched them in the ribs or pulled their caps over their eyes. “You’re just the man I wanted to see,” Joe went on. “As usual, we’re just about stone broke; the Baseball Association, I mean. We’ve got to have a lot of money for the nine and we’ve got to raise it by subscription. The schedule has the team down for five games away from home, and that means a heap of expense. The Athletic Association has given us all they could afford to, about one hundred and fifty dollars, but that won’t last us any time. So we’re going to get up a mass meeting in about a week or so and try and raise the dust. And we want you to speak for us; whoop things up a bit, you know. Can you do it?”

“S’pose so,” answered Anthony doubtfully. “But I don’t know a blamed thing about baseball.”

“You won’t have to. We’ve got plenty of chaps who can talk baseball; what we want is some one who can open their pockets. We’re depending on you, Tidball, so say yes, like a good chap. Hanson is going to speak, and so is Professor Nast, and so am I. And we’re trying to get the dean to hem and haw a bit for us. But we need you like anything. What do you say?”

“I’ll do what I can,” said Anthony. “You let me know when it’s to be and tell me what you want me to say. Don’t believe, though, Perkins, the fellows will pay much attention to what I’ve got to say about baseball. ’Tisn’t as though I knew a ball from a – a – ”

“From another ball, eh? Don’t let that bother you. I’m awfully much obliged; it’s very nice of you. And I’ll let you know all about it in a day or two. By the way, though, where are you living now? Some one said you’d left the old joint.”

“Yes, I had to when Gooch went home. I’m at Mrs. Dorlon’s, down the row there.”

“Oh, are you? I was just going there. Doesn’t young Weatherby room there?”

“Yes.”

“Is he in now, do you know?”

Anthony settled his spectacles more firmly on his nose before he replied.

“No, he’s not in just now.” He hesitated a moment. Then, “Guess you might as well know about it,” he said musingly.

“About what?”

“’Bout Weatherby.”

“What’s he done?”

“Gone home.”

“Gone home?”

“Yes, left college.”

“But what for? When did he go?” asked Joe in surprise.

“This morning. He left a note for me. Don’t know whether it’s my place to tell folks or not. Maybe you’d better keep it quiet. He might change his mind, you know.”

“I see,” replied Joe thoughtfully. “Do you – do you happen to know why he left?”

“Yes, and I guess you do, too.”

“You mean – ?”

“Yes. He stuck it out as long as he could, but I guess things got too hot for him. His note made mention of something that happened this morning at training-table.”

“By Jove!” muttered the other. “It’s a blamed shame! You know, Tidball, I never quite believed him the – er – coward they say he is. What do you think?”

“Me? Oh, I don’t know,” answered Anthony uneasily, puckering his lips together. “Maybe he isn’t.”

Joe looked a little surprised.

“I don’t know just why,” he said, “but I had an idea you’d support my judgment of him. Well, perhaps it’s just as well that he’s gone. Although he had the making of – ”

“No, no,” cried Anthony in sudden contrition, the blood rushing into his thin face. “I didn’t mean that! I shouldn’t have said it, Perkins! I think he’s – I don’t believe he’s a coward!” He pressed the other’s arm convulsively with his long fingers as though seeking to give added weight to the emphatic assertion and hurried away. “Come and see me,” he called back.

Joe stared after him in bewilderment.

“Strange duffer, Tidball,” he reflected. “Wonder if he and Weatherby had a row? Sounds like it. Poor old Weatherby! I’m sorry he’s gone; by Jove, I am sorry! And I fancy I might have prevented it if I’d got after Tracy sooner. Hang him, he ought to be licked!”

CHAPTER X

FLIGHT

When Jack left the house he hesitated a moment at the little gate. Then he turned to the left and hurried to Murdoch Street and down that to the railroad track. He was taking the longest route to the station; but, since his main desire was to avoid meeting any one he knew, it was also the safest. His battered valise, although by no means full, soon grew heavy and began to bump against his legs at every stride. When he reached the track, what with the aggravating behavior of the valise and the difficulty of walking over the uneven ties, speed was no longer possible. He had barely reached the Washington Street crossing when a whistle down the track behind him brought consternation. It was the 9.22 train, he told himself; and he knew that if he missed that he would have to wait a whole hour at the station before he could get another – an hour which might serve to bring Anthony upon him with a wealth of unanswerable argument in favor of his return.

So, after a quick glance over his shoulder in the direction of the warning blast, he shifted the valise again and set out over the ties at a run. Once he stumbled and the bag went hurtling down the bank and brought up against a board fence. When he had recovered it and had scrambled back to the track the train was but a few hundred yards away. But the station was almost gained now. He retired to a hand-car siding while the engine and its three cars whizzed past him with much grinding of brakes, and then ran on in the wake of dust.

There was no time to buy a ticket. When he reached the platform and the last car, the conductor had already swung his hand to the engineer. Jack pushed his valise on to the car-steps and crawled, breathless, after it. Then the train moved again, and a minute later Centerport was lost to sight. Jack, huddled upon the rear platform, saw it disappear with mingled emotions. Regret was prominent. He wondered at this. Surely, he thought, he had been miserable enough at Erskine to make the parting anything but regretful. And yet, even as he thought that, the idea of leaving the train at the next station and walking back came to him with strange attractiveness. Anthony would be glad; none else would know that he had contemplated flight; he would go back to the training-table, secure a place on the nine, and do great things – things that would make the college proud of him. And Gilberth might —

But at the recollection of Gilberth the plan lost its attractiveness. Jack gritted his teeth and shook his fist toward where the tower of College Hall was still just visible above the tree-tops. Then, having recovered his breath, he took up his bag and passed into the car. It proved to be the smoker and was almost deserted. He selected a seat on the riverside, placed his valise beside him, and gave himself up to his thoughts. These were not cheerful. He wondered what his father and mother would say to his return. As for the latter, he could count with certainty upon her sympathy and support. But his father was different. He was a man with a stern conscience, and one singularly devoid of the finer sensibilities. For him the path of duty was always clearly defined and he trod it unswervingly, no matter what might befall. And, as Jack well knew, he looked for and demanded the same moral courage from others that he himself displayed. No, there would be no sympathy forthcoming from his father. Jack could almost hear him now:

“You had done no wrong, my son. With a clear conscience you had nothing to fear. The wrong was in running away.”

He might, thought Jack, even insist upon his returning. But that he would not do. He would find work and, as soon as possible, would pay back to his father the money wasted upon him at Erskine. He had intended becoming a teacher. But now that was impossible. Perhaps he could get employment from Billy Cromwell. But, whatever happened, he would not, having once reached home, go back to Erskine!

Had Jack been less busy with his thoughts he might, perchance, have taken notice of a passenger who sat across the car and a little to the rear. He was a man of about forty years, with small, clearly cut features, brown eyes, and carefully trimmed mustache and beard. His attire was notably neat. In his mouth was a cigar, in his hands a morning paper, and at his feet a handsome suit-case. Ever since Jack’s advent he had been watching him over the top of his paper with a puzzled frown. The boy’s face, seen against the white light of the car window, expressed every passing emotion, and the passenger across the aisle, who was a good reader of expressions, felt a stirring of sympathy at the pervading look of despondency he saw.

Presently the conductor entered, and Jack remembered that he must pay his fare. He felt for the little roll of money that was to take him home, first in his vest pocket, then in his trousers. Then, while an expression of bewilderment came over his face, he searched hurriedly in every pocket he possessed. The conductor came and waited patiently. Jack seized his valise and began to unstrap it. Then he paused and glanced uneasily at the conductor.

“I can’t find my money,” he said. “If you’ll just give me a minute or two – ” The other nodded and passed on down the car. Jack opened the valise and feverishly searched it. But when it was thoroughly upset he was forced to acknowledge with a sinking heart that the money was not there. He had taken it out of the trunk; he remembered doing that perfectly; he had meant to put it into his vest pocket. But it was not there.

He stared blankly out of the window, still searching his clothes hopelessly. Well, he was not going home after all. Fate had intervened. Disappointed and chagrined, he counted the few coins in his trouser’s pocket and found that while they would pay his way to the next station they would not serve to take him back to Centerport. He blinked his eyes to keep back the tears. Tears, he reflected miserably, were always trying to crawl out nowadays. And then —

“What’s wrong, Weatherby?” asked a voice over his shoulder, and Jack looked up with startled eyes into the face of Professor White.

For a moment his surprise kept him silent. And in that moment he saw in the professor’s face a kindliness that he had never before noticed. The professor’s brown eyes were plainly sympathetic and the professor’s lips held a little reassuring smile at their corners. And Jack, wondering more, found his tongue.

“Well, that is hard luck,” said the professor when he had heard the story. “And you’re going home, you say? How much money will it take?”

“About ten dollars,” answered Jack. The other shook his head.

“That’s not much,” he replied, “but I’m sorry to say that it’s more than I’ve got with me. You see, I’m only going to Hampden, three stations up the line, and so didn’t bring much. But wouldn’t it do if you got off at the next station and went back and got your money? Would the delay matter? How long leave have you got?”

The conductor came back and smiled questioningly at the pair. Jack shook his head.

“I’ve got to go on,” he muttered.

“Well, here now, I’ll pay your way to Hampden, anyhow. That will give us time to consider things. Here you are, conductor.”

When the change had been made and the professor was in possession of an elaborate rebate slip, the conductor went off and the professor removed Jack’s valise from the seat and sat down at the boy’s side.

“How long are you going to be gone?” he asked pleasantly.

Jack hesitated. Then —

“I’m not coming back,” he answered defiantly.

“What? Leaving college?”

Jack nodded.

“Why, how’s that? What’s the trouble?” questioned the professor kindly. “Nothing wrong at home, I hope?”

“No, sir.”

“Then what is it?”

Jack was silent, looking scowlingly out of the window at the flying landscape of freshly green hills and meadows with an occasional glimpse of the sparkling river. He would accept the other’s help as far as Hampden, he decided; from there he would work his way home somehow; perhaps he could steal a ride now and then on the trains.

“You don’t want to tell me, I see,” said Professor White. “And I dare say that’s natural, Weatherby. You and I have had a couple of unpleasant conversations, and I suppose the experience doesn’t recommend me as a confident. But you’re in some sort of trouble and I think you’d better make a clean breast of it and let me help you if I can.

“And while we’re speaking of former encounters, Weatherby, I want to tell you that I made a mistake that day down at the coal wharf. I’ve got lots of faults, and one of the worst of them is an inclination to judge hastily. I accused you of cowardice that day, and I’ve regretted it very often since. I can understand how it might be possible for you to have hesitated about going into the river and yet not be guilty of cowardice in the strict sense. You see, I’ve given some thought to the matter, after it was a bit too late. I’ve been watching you since that day, and I think I made a mistake; I’m certain I did. And I want you to forgive me for the injustice I did you and for the hurt I inflicted. Will you?”

“It doesn’t matter,” answered Jack drearily. “You only said what all the others thought. I guess it did hurt, but I don’t mind now; you see, there’s been a lot worse since then.”

“Ah!” said the other comprehendingly. “I understand. Don’t you think you might tell me something about it, Weatherby?”

And after a doubtful glance at the professor’s face, in which he read only sympathy, Jack told him. He spoke bitterly, giving free rein to the pent-up anger and indignation of the past month; and, perhaps, he may be forgiven if unconsciously he exaggerated the tale of his troubles. When he had finished Professor White nodded gravely, and then, after a momentary silence, asked:

“How old are you, Weatherby?”

“Seventeen. I’ll be eighteen in July.”

“Well, I’m not going to tell you that the thing is trivial, nor that were you older it would appear less tragic. Nothing is trivial that influences our lives, no matter how small it looks; and it is just the things that happen to us when we are young and receptive that are most important. I said I would help you if I could, and I’m going to. But in order to do it I must first convince you that I am your friend, and I fear that’s going to be difficult. And,” he added, as the train slowed down for the second station, “what’s more, I haven’t much time to do it.”

“Friends,” said Jack sagely, “always advise you to do things you don’t want to.”

“Yes, I guess that’s so,” answered the professor, smiling. “And I think what I’m going to advise will prove me your friend.”

Jack watched the coming and going on the station platform for a minute, then, as the train began to move again, he asked:

“Would you mind telling me – what it is, sir?”

“No; it’s this.” He laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder and spoke earnestly. “Come back, Weatherby, and have another try. Wait,” he continued, as the other started to speak, “let me finish first. I’m not going to belittle your trouble; it’s a big one and it’s hard to bear. But you’ve borne it for a month and more. You can bear it longer, if you try. Make up your mind to it and you’ll do it. From what I can see, Weatherby, you’ve given up the fight just on the verge of victory. A while back you had the whole college against you; now there is but one fellow actively opposed to you. From what you have told me I can see that Tidball believes in you, and Perkins, and King. They are all men of prominence and their views have weight. Hold on a little while longer and you’ll find that the college has come around to their way of thinking. If you give up now you’re losing a year of your life that you can’t catch up with again if you live to be a hundred. Stick it out and you’re a year nearer your degree. Besides, there are your parents, Weatherby; what are they going to think about it? Maybe they’ll say you’ve done right in leaving, but down in their hearts they are going to be disappointed over this wasted year.”

Jack stared dumbly at his hands, and presently the other went on.

“Come back, and I’ll do everything I can to help you, my boy. Just what that will be or what it will amount to, I can’t say at this moment; but what assistance I can give you may be certain of having. You won’t find it an empty promise.”

He paused, and Jack looked up.

“I wish I’d – wish I might have talked to you before,” he said.

“So do I, Weatherby; but it isn’t too late now. I have a suspicion that you’ve come away without signing off. You needn’t tell me whether I’m right or wrong. But you may rest assured that there’ll be no trouble about it. To-morrow you and I’ll go back together and try it over.”

“But what – where am I going to go now?” asked Jack dismally.

“Why, you’ll come home with me, of course,” replied the professor. “No one need ever know but that you and I came off together. We’ll have to take a pretty early train back in the morning, but I guess you won’t mind that. My mother and sister will be very glad to see you, and – Hello, here we are! Grab your bag, Weatherby, and come along.”

“But – ” stammered the boy.

“All right; you can tell me about that when you get outside. Besides,” he laughed, “you’ve got to get off here, anyhow; your fare is only paid this far. Hurry up, or we’ll both get left!”

A moment later Jack found himself out on a sunny platform, dodging a baggage-truck and following his hurrying guide through the throng.

CHAPTER XI

ANTHONY MAKES A STATEMENT

The morning after Jack’s departure Anthony turned in through the little gate at Mrs. Dorlon’s and strode quickly up the short path. The time was but a quarter before eight. The sun was out, but was hidden behind a low-lying bank of mist, through which it glowed wanly. In the elms along the street the sparrows were chattering and scolding until one would have thought that every family circle was in the midst of domestic strife, possible because of overlate worms or underdone beetles. It was a tepid sort of morning; the bricks in the pavement were wet with the fog and the air was warm. Anthony wore his coat-collar turned up, not to protect his throat, but to hide the fact that there was no other collar beneath. In his hand he carried a can of condensed milk and a little paper bag of coffee. He had been upset by the events of the preceding day and had neglected to replenish his provision cupboard; hence a postprandial journey to Main Street.

As he climbed the stairs and caught sight of the half-opened door of Jack’s room, recollection of that youth returned to him and he sighed as he crossed the little hall and thrust his own door open. Then he stopped short and gave vent to an exclamation of surprise. The condensed milk dropped with a thud and rolled under the cot-bed. Jack, nodding drowsily in the rocker, opened his eyes and jumped to his feet. Then he grinned sheepishly.

“I – I’ve come back,” he muttered.

He partly extended his hand, thinking Anthony would take it. But the latter, after a moment of silent surprise, only said:

“Well! I’m glad to see you.” He crawled awkwardly under the cot and recovered the milk. “Changed your mind, eh?” he asked, as he emerged.

His voice was hearty enough, and he smiled behind his spectacles as though pleased, yet Jack felt a chill of disappointment and answered soberly:

“Yes, I changed my mind. I came back on an early train. You weren’t in and so I sat down to wait for you; I guess I must have come pretty near to falling asleep. Well, I must go to breakfast.”

Anthony fought for a moment against the restraint which gripped him. When he spoke his tones held the old warmth.

“Nonsense, Jack, stay here and have some with me. I haven’t any fatted calf to kill for you, but I can fry a couple of eggs and give you some good coffee, and – ”

“I can’t drink coffee,” Jack answered, “but if you really want me to stay, I’ll be glad to. I – I’d rather not go to training-table this morning.”

“Course I want you to,” answered Anthony. “Why can’t you drink coffee, though?”

“Training.”

“What? Why, coffee never hurt any one; best thing in the world, coffee; strengthening, elevating, enlarging; good for body and brain. But tell me all about your vacation.”

And while Anthony bustled about over his little stove, handling pots and pans with a deftness remarkable in a person usually so awkward, Jack recounted his experiences rather shamefacedly.

“Right about the professor, wasn’t I?” interrupted Anthony once.

“Yes, you were. He’s mighty good, Anthony. He treated me as though I was the President; and so did his mother and sister. I had a bully little room with an open fireplace in it and blue roses all over the walls and all sorts of easy chairs made out of rattan stuff; and the sun just flooded in the window this morning. My, but I wish I lived there all the time!”