Bobby Blake on the School Nine: or, The Champions of the Monatook Lake League

“What do you suppose the picture means?” inquired Mouser, as though he could not quite make it out.

“I think it means that the fellow who would take a dead mouse from a blind kitten is about as mean as they make them,” put in Sparrow.

“Mean enough to torment a poor old soldier, I shouldn’t wonder,” added Shiner, pouring oil on the flames.

“Are you going to tell me who did it?” snarled Hicksley once more, snatching back the valentine, which he now regretted having shown, and doubling up his fist.

“I would have done it if I’d thought of it,” Fred came back at him.

Hicksley sprang forward, followed by Bronson and Jinks.

The boys stood their ground and there was a wild mix-up. In a moment they were all down in the snow in a flying tangle of arms and legs.

There was no telling how the tussle would have terminated, though Hicksley was getting his face well washed with snow that the boys were cramming into his mouth and eyes, when a shout arose:

“Cheese it, fellows, there’s a teacher coming!”

The combatants scrambled to their feet and scurried in all directions, and when Mr. Leith, the head teacher, arrived on the spot, there was no one to be seen.

Bobby and his friends found themselves, red, panting and uproariously happy, in their dormitory, where they flung their books upon their beds and fairly danced about with glee.

“I jammed so much snow in Tom Hicksley’s mouth that I bet he’ll taste it for a month,” chortled Fred.

“They tackled the wrong bunch that time,” gurgled Mouser.

“They thought we’d run,” chuckled Bobby.

“Wasn’t that a dandy valentine?” demanded Skeets.

“What a fool he was to show it,” grinned Pee Wee. “Now it’ll go all over the school.”

“Who do you suppose sent it?” wondered Shiner.

“I’d give a dollar to know,” declared Fred.

“All right,” grinned Sparrow, holding out his hand. “Pass over the dollar.”

“You?” cried the other boys in chorus.

CHAPTER XIX

SPRING PRACTICE

“I’m the fellow who did it,” admitted Sparrow modestly.

“Sparrow, old scout, you’re a wonder!” cried Mouser, clapping him on the back.

“It hit him right where he lived,” chuckled Skeets.

“That pays him up for scattering ashes on the hill,” grinned Fred.

“He’ll never hear the last of it as long as he stays in school,” said Shiner. “Every once in a while a dead mouse will turn up on his desk and make him hopping mad.”

“He’ll never be much madder than he was this morning,” put in Skeets. “His eyes were fairly snapping.”

“Bronson and Jinks got theirs, too,” said Pee Wee. “I guess they’ll think twice before they pick on the other fellows again.”

“They’ve been rather quiet since the goat tumbled them over at our last initiation,” laughed Bobby, referring to an incident of the previous term, “but since Hicksley came they’ve been getting ugly again. I guess what they got this morning will hold them for a while.”

As a matter of fact, the bullies did seem to be somewhat dashed by the stout resistance that the smaller boys had put up and they did not refer to the valentine again. They were only too willing to have it forgotten, and Tom Hicksley ground his teeth more than once at not having kept it to himself.

Spring was now at hand, coming this year a little earlier than usual. The snow disappeared from the ground, the ice vanished from the lake, and the soft winds that blew up from the south turned the thoughts of the boys to track games and baseball.

Fred and Bobby had done a good deal of practicing in the gymnasium and were in prime condition. But actual practice on the diamond was the real thing they wanted, and they were delighted when the ground had dried out enough to play in the open air.

Frank Durrock had been busy for a month past, getting all the details perfected for the entrance of Rockledge into the Monatook Lake League. But now everything was ready and he could devote himself to picking the members of the team.

This proved to be no easy matter. An unusually large number of good players were at Rockledge, and the struggle for places on the nine was interesting and exciting.

It seemed that Bobby should play in the pitcher’s box and Fred at short stop. They had both done exceedingly well at those positions the previous spring and fall. But there was a new boy, Willis by name, who had been a good short stop on his home nine before he had come to the school, and it seemed to be a toss up between him and Fred as to who could do better in the position.

Bobby, too, had rivalry to face in the person of Tom Hicksley.

On the first day that they actually had field practice, Hicksley came out on the ball ground in an old uniform that proclaimed that he had once been a member of the “Eagles” of Cresskill, his native town.

Frank knew that he had been a pitcher, and so he put him in the box and had him toss up some balls for the rest of the team in batting practice.

And Hicksley did exceedingly well. Whatever his defects in character, he certainly knew how to pitch. He had a good outcurve, a fair incurve and a high fast ball that Bobby himself generously declared to be a “peach.”

Hicksley’s height and strength, too, were greater than Bobby’s, which was not to be wondered at when it was considered that he was three years older. But he was inclined to be a little wild, and his control was not as good as Bobby’s.

But what made his work of special interest to Frank was that he pitched with his left hand. Most of the pitchers in the new league were right-handed, and the boys were used to hitting that kind of pitching.

Frank felt that with a left-handed pitcher he would have the other fellows all at sea when it came to “lining them out,” and for that reason he watched Hicksley with the closest attention.

“He puts them over all right,” conceded Bobby, as he watched Hicksley winging them over the plate.

“Yes,” said Fred, “when he gets them over at all. But lots of them don’t even cut the corners. He’ll give too many bases on balls.”

“And a base on balls is as good for the fellow that gets it as a base hit,” commented Mouser.

“His arm seems to be all right, but we don’t know how he’ll act when he gets in a pinch,” said Skeets dubiously.

“That’s what makes Bobby so strong as a pitcher,” said Shiner. “No matter how tight a hole he finds himself in, he’s cool as an iceberg.”

“That’s so,” remarked Pee Wee, who was too fat and too slow to play himself, but was an ardent rooter for the home team. “I’ve never seen Bobby get rattled yet.”

“That’s because there isn’t a bit of yellow in him,” said Fred, throwing his arm affectionately about his chum’s shoulder.

“And I’ll bet that Hicksley has a yellow streak in him a yard wide,” snapped Sparrow.

“Oh he may not be that way when it comes to baseball,” remonstrated Bobby who always tried to be fair. “At any rate he ought to have a chance to show what he can do before we make up our minds about him. You fellows know that I don’t like him a bit more than you do, but that doesn’t say he may not be a good baseball player.”

Jinks was not on the nine, but Bronson, who was a good batter and a fair fielder, was expected to play center field. They were both delighted at the showing that their crony was making and were loud in their applause. Their praise was so extravagant in fact that it was clear that they did it to depreciate Bobby.

“You’re the best pitcher we ever had at Rockledge, Tom,” cried Bronson, casting a side glance at Bobby to make sure that he heard.

“You lay over them all,” crowed Jinks. “There’s no one else can hold a candle to you.”

“Here, cut that out, you fellows,” called Frank Durrock sharply. “Blake has proved what he can do and I don’t want any talk like that. He won both of the last games he pitched against Belden, and any one who can do better than he did will have to be going some.”

“You bet they will,” cried Fred loyally, and there was a round of hand clapping from the other boys, with most of whom Bobby was a prime favorite.

Frank’s hearty defense put Bobby on his mettle, and when his turn came to put the balls over, he did so with a snap and skill that delighted his friends.

The practice all around was sharp and spirited, and Frank was greatly encouraged as he saw how well the team took hold. But it would not do to play too long on the first day, and after an hour or so, he called a halt.

“We want to keep an eye on those fellows, Bobby,” remarked Fred a little uneasily as they were going toward the school. “They’re going to crowd you out if they can.”

“Let them try,” replied Bobby. “I’m going to try my best to hold up my end with Hicksley and beat him if I can. But if he can prove that he’s a better pitcher than I am, I won’t kick if I have to play second fiddle. I’d be willing to do anything to help Rockledge win.”

CHAPTER XX

THE SUGAR CAMP

An untimely snow storm that was wholly unlooked for by the boys dismayed them by putting a stop to their practice for the time being. But the snow, though heavy, did not last long, and began to melt rapidly under the rays of the sun.

“See how the water is running down those trees,” remarked Shiner, looking out of the window one Friday morning.

“That isn’t water, boy,” said Sparrow. “That’s sap. The trees are bursting with it just now.”

“By the way, fellows,” put in Skeets, “have you ever been to a maple sugar camp when the sap was running?”

Most of them had not and Skeets went on to explain.

“It’s the best fun ever,” he said; “and now’s just the time to see it running full blast when the snow is melting and the air is warm. On a day like this the sap comes down in bucketfuls. And you can see just how they collect it, and how they boil it down until it’s a thick syrup, and the way that hot maple sugar does taste – yum yum!” and here he closed his eyes in blissful recollection.

“Sounds mighty good to me,” said Pee Wee, with whom the memory of Meena and her breakfast of buckwheat cakes and maple syrup still lingered.

“You can take out the hot sugar in big spoons and let it cool on a pan of snow,” continued Skeets, drawing out the details as he saw that his friends’ mouths were watering in anticipation, “and when you get the first taste of it you never want to stop eating.”

“I wonder if there’s a sugar camp anywhere around here,” said Pee Wee with great animation.

“I know of one that’s about three miles away,” said Sparrow. “What do you say to our making up a party and going out there to-morrow if Doc Raymond will let us go out of bounds?”

There was a general chorus of gleeful assent.

“What we ought to do,” said Skeets, “is to have a couple of fellows go out there to-day and make arrangements. We want to take up a collection and fix it up with the farmer’s wife to have hot biscuits and other things ready for us. I tell you what, fellows, hot biscuits and fresh butter and hot thick maple sugar just out of the boiler – ”

“Don’t say another word,” cried Pee Wee frantically, “or I’ll never, never be able to wait till to-morrow.”

They took stock of their resources and collected several dollars between them, enough they thought to cover the expense. Bobby and Fred were appointed as a committee of two to go out to the camp that afternoon so that everything would be in readiness on the morrow.

Dr. Raymond’s permission was readily obtained, and the chums set out on their three mile walk. They had no trouble in finding the camp and the farmer’s wife, a bright, cheery person, was very ready to entertain the party and promised to have an abundant lunch provided for them.

The boys would have dearly liked to inspect the camp, but they had promised their chums that they would not do so until all could see it together, and they kept loyally to their word.

No finer day could have been selected for that particular outing than the one that dawned the next morning. The air was mild and the sun shining brightly. The only drawback was the walking, as the roads were full of mud in some places and melting slush in others, but as they were all warmly shod that made little difference.

Pee Wee groaned occasionally as he lagged along in the rear, but they had no fear of his dropping out. It would have taken a good deal more than a three-mile walk to keep Pee Wee away from that sugar camp after Skeets’s description.

“There it is,” cried Fred at last, pointing to a big grove of trees in the rear of a farmhouse.

Pee Wee sniffed the air.

“Seems to me I can smell the sugar cooking from here,” he said joyously.

They left the road now, took a short cut across the fields and soon entered the grove of maples.

It was an extensive grove, containing several hundred of the stately trees. Into each one of these that had reached their full growth a hole had been made, a spigot driven in, and a bright tin pail suspended from each spigot. Into these pails the sap was falling with a musical drip so that a tinkling murmur ran through the grove as though some one were gently touching the strings of a zither.

An old horse attached to a low sled was shambling slowly along through the woodland paths, stopping at each tree. The driver would empty the pail into one of several large cans that the sled contained, replace the pail and go on to the next.

“Seems almost a shame to tap those splendid trees,” murmured Mouser. “It’s almost like bleeding them to death.”

“Doesn’t do them a bit of harm,” explained Skeets cheerfully. “The farmers take good care not to drain out more sap than the tree can spare.”

When the sled had made its round, the boys followed it to the shed where the sap was boiled down into sugar. Here they saw an enormous caldron with a roaring fire underneath. Into this caldron the sap was poured, and here its transformation began. A delicious odor arose that made the nostrils of the boys dilate hungrily.

Every little while, the man who was supervising the boiling drew out a huge ladleful to see how thick it was getting. At a certain stage he turned to the boys with a grin.

“Each one of you take one of those pans,” he directed, pointing to a bright row of dairy tins which the housewife had made ready. “Fill them up with snow and pack the snow down hard.”

In a twinkling the boys were ready. Then, as each held up his pan, the man poured a big ladle of the hot syrup on the snow. The rich golden brown against the whiteness of the snow would have delighted the soul of an artist. But these lads were not artists, only hungry boys, and their only concern was to get the sugar cool enough to eat.

Pee Wee in fact burned his lips and tongue by starting too soon, but he soon forgot a trifle like that, and in a moment more he and the others were eating as if they had never tasted anything so good in all their lives.

“Hot biscuits coming, boys,” smiled the farmer. “Better leave some room.”

“Let them come,” mumbled Mouser with his mouth full of sugar. “None of them will go away again.”

And they made good this prophecy when a little later they were called into the farmhouse, where a table was spread, heaped high with fluffy biscuits just from the oven. On these the boys spread butter and then piled them up with the delicious syrup. There were other things on the table too, pickles and pies and cakes, but to these the boys paid slight attention. They could have those any day, but to-day maple sugar was king.

When at length they were through, they all acknowledged to having eaten more than was good for them.

“We’ll have to use a derrick to get Pee Wee on his feet,” laughed Bobby.

“And borrow the horse and sled to take him back to school,” said Sparrow.

But it was not quite so bad as that, though after they started back the other boys had to moderate their gait in order not to leave Pee Wee too far behind.

“Hurry up, Pee Wee,” admonished Skeets. “You’re slow as molasses.”

“Slow as maple syrup when it’s cooling,” amended Sparrow.

“Well, fellows, this has sure been a bully trip,” remarked Shiner, summing up the sentiments of all.

“This is the end of a perfect day,” Fred chanted gayly, lifting up his voice in song.

CHAPTER XXI

THE FIRST GAME

Notwithstanding Fred’s jubilant song, the day was not yet ended.

As the boys approached the school, they saw a figure in the road a little way ahead that seemed familiar to them. They quickened their pace, quickly overtaking Dago Joe.

“Hello, Joe,” came from many voices at once.

Joe flashed them a smile, showing his fine, white teeth.

“Hello,” he answered genially.

“Wonder if he’s as fond of hash as ever,” Fred remarked in a low voice to Mouser.

“What are you doing up this way, Joe?” asked Bobby.

“Looking for any one?” inquired Sparrow.

But Joe was wary and refused to be drawn out.

“Can’t get that old fox to give himself away,” muttered Skeets.

Just then Tom Hicksley approached, accompanied by Bronson and Jinks. They caught sight of Joe at the same time that he saw them, and tried to retreat. Bronson and Jinks succeeded, but Joe was too quick for Hicksley, and hurrying forward laid his hand on his arm, while he jabbered away excitedly.

“Ha ha!” exclaimed Fred in a tragic way. “I see it all now.”

“He’s boning Hicksley for something,” guessed Sparrow.

“Money, I’ll bet,” ventured Shiner.

“I shouldn’t wonder if it’s on account of that job he did for those fellows, hauling those ashes,” said Bobby.

“Wasn’t it luck that we happened along just at this minute?” chuckled Mouser delightedly.

As Joe and Hicksley were right in the path that led up to the school, the boys sauntered along carelessly until they were nearly abreast of them.

For a man who understood so little English, Joe was talking at a great rate.

“I wanta ze mon,” the boys heard him say.

“I tell you I haven’t got it with me just now,” Hicksley responded in an undertone, trying to quiet the man and keep the boys from hearing.

“I wanta ze mon now,” repeated Joe doggedly.

“Oh, give the man his money, Hicksley,” broke in Sparrow suddenly.

“He needs it to buy hash with,” said the irrepressible Fred.

“Let’s take up a collection to help out,” suggested Skeets sarcastically.

“You fellows shut up,” cried Hicksley, turning on them fiercely.

“We know how he earned it,” returned Bobby undauntedly.

“You don’t know anything of the kind,” snarled the bully, but his eyes wavered as they met Bobby’s fixed upon them.

“It was pretty hard work carting ashes all that way to spoil our coast,” went on Bobby. “You’d better pony up, Hicksley.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” growled Hicksley.

But as he did not like the way the boys were gathering around him, he put his hand in his pocket, drew out the dollar and a half that he had promised to pay when the work should be finished and which he had ever since been trying to cheat Joe out of, and slunk away, glad to escape the contempt that he felt in the eyes and manner of the boys.

“Caught with the goods!” cried Fred jubilantly, throwing his cap into the air.

“Couldn’t have been nicer if we’d planned it ourselves,” exulted Sparrow.

“Well, now that we’re sure that he did it, what are we going to do about it?” asked Skeets.

“Oh, I guess there’s nothing to be done,” said Bobby slowly. “If it wasn’t that he’s likely to be on the baseball team we might make it hot for him. Not with the teachers of course, but among ourselves. But we want Rockledge to win the championship, and it won’t help any to have trouble with any boy on the nine. Besides, he’s had a good deal of punishment just in the last few minutes. I never saw a fellow look as cheap as he did when he faded away just now.”

“I guess you’re right, Bobby,” assented Sparrow. “But all the same he wouldn’t let up on you if he had you in a fix.”

The next day they all felt rather logy after their feast of the day before, and Pee Wee, who had a severe stomach ache, did not get up at all. Fortunately it was Sunday, and the day of rest helped to get them in shape again before their school duties began on Monday morning.

From that time on the weather was all that the boys could ask, and every hour the ball players could spare was spent in practice on the diamond.

Gradually, under the coaching of Mr. Carrier, their athletic instructor, ably assisted by Frank Durrock, the nine was getting into good form.

Fred, at short stop, was thought to be a shade better than Willis, and he was slated to play in the first game.

As to the pitchers, while there was no doubt that they would be Bobby and Hicksley, it was by no means certain which of them would twirl in the opening game, which was to be with the Somerset nine on the Rockledge grounds.

Each was doing well, and each had some points that the other did not possess. Hicksley, the older of the two, had more muscular strength, and could whip the ball over with more speed than Bobby. But Bobby was a better general, a quicker thinker, and he had a control of his curves that was far better than his rival’s.

“One thing is certain,” said Mr. Carrier, in one of his conferences with Frank. “We’re better fixed in the box than we ever were before. It’s hard to choose between them, though, take all things together, I think Blake is the better pitcher of the two.”

“Yes,” agreed Frank. “I feel a little safer myself with Bobby in there than I do with Hicksley. Hicksley has lots of speed but he’s liable to go up with a bang. But I’ve never yet seen Bobby get rattled.”

The long expected day arrived at last, and all Rockledge turned out to see the game. The stand was full, and Dr. Raymond himself, with most of the teachers, sat in a little space that had been railed off and decorated with the Rockledge colors.

The Somerset nine, made up of strong, sturdy looking boys, had come over with a large number of rooters from their town. They were full of confidence, and they went through their preliminary practice with a snap and a vim that showed they were good players.

Frank had watched them as they batted out flies, and noted that several of them were left-handed batters. He held an anxious conference with Mr. Carrier, and then came over to Bobby who was warming up.

“I had expected to have you pitch to-day, Bobby,” he said; “but I’ve just been noticing that those fellows have two or three left-handed batters. Now you know as well as I do that for that kind it’s best to have left-handed pitching. They can’t hit it so easily.”

“Sure,” replied Bobby.

“And so I think I’ll have to put in Hicksley,” continued Frank.

“That’s all right,” said Bobby heartily, “and I’ll be rooting my head off for him to win.”

“You’re a brick, Bobby!” exclaimed Frank. “I was sure you’d understand.”

When the umpire cried: “Play ball!” there was a buzz of surprise among the spectators, when, instead of Bobby, it was Tom Hicksley who picked up the ball and faced the batter.

CHAPTER XXII

TO THE RESCUE

Hicksley started off in good shape. The first man up went out on a foul that Sparrow caught after a long run. The second batter, who was left-handed, could do nothing with the ball at all and went out on strikes. The third man connected and shot a sharp grounder which Fred picked up neatly and threw in plenty of time to Durrock at first.

The side was out, and hearty applause greeted Hicksley as he came in to the bench, Bobby joining in as heartily as any of the others.

“That was a dandy start!” cried Bronson.

“Keep it up, Tom!” exclaimed Jinks, encouragingly. “They can’t touch you.”

Rockledge was more fortunate in its half of the inning. Frank, who led off in the batting order, had two halls and one strike called on him, but on his second attempt he sent the ball on a line between center and right for three bases. He was tempted to try to stretch it to a home run, but Bobby, who was coaching, saw that the ball would get there before him and held him at third.

The next batter fouled out, but Mouser, who followed him, sent a neat single to left on which Frank scored easily. Barry went out on strikes, and Mouser was left on the bag when Spentz died on a weak dribbler to the box.

But Rockledge was one run to the good and had shown that they were in a batting humor, so that their rooters in the stand were jubilant at the promising beginning.