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

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

“What do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The other shook his head.

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

“Oh,” said Joe, vaguely, “all right.” He wondered, rather uncomfortably, what was coming.

“It’s just this,” Jack continued. “I tried to get a word with you in the cage, but there was always some one around. I wanted to know if – if after what happened the other day at the river, you have any objection to my trying for the nine. You see,” he went on, hurriedly, “I know what the fellows call me, and I thought maybe you’d rather I didn’t come out. You just tell me, you know, and it’ll be all right. I won’t show up again.”

“I see,” said Joe. “No, I haven’t the least objection; in fact, I’m glad to have you. I don’t pretend to judge that – affair at the river, Weatherby; it’s none of my business. And the fact is, I want every man that can play baseball to report for practise. That’s plain, isn’t it?”

“Yes. I’ll keep on then for the present.”

“Of course, Weatherby, I can’t guarantee that you’ll be made welcome by the other candidates; you can understand that. They may act unpleasantly, or say ugly things. I’m not able to restrain them. You’ll have to risk that, you know.”

“I understand,” answered Jack calmly. “They’ve already called me a coward. I don’t believe they can say anything worse.”

“No, I guess not.” Joe looked curiously at the other. Then, “I say, Weatherby,” he exclaimed, impulsively, “what was the trouble, anyway, the other day? I’ve only heard one side of it, and I fancy there’s another, eh?”

“I’d rather not talk about it, if you please,” answered Jack coldly.

“Oh, all right! I beg pardon.” Joe felt somewhat huffed. His sympathy for the other was for the moment snuffed out. Jack moved toward the door.

“By the way,” said Joe, in business-like tones, “I think you told me you’d played ball some. Where was it?”

“At home, on the high-school team. I played three years.”

“What position?”

“I pitched the last year. Before that I played in the outfield, generally at right.”

“I see.” Joe’s hopes of the other’s usefulness dwindled. He had seen a good many cases of ambitious freshmen whose belief in themselves as pitchers was not justified by subsequent events. Every year there reported for practise a dozen or so of hopeful youngsters, who firmly believed themselves capable of filling all such important positions as pitcher and catcher, merely on the strength of having played such positions with more or less success on some fourth- or fifth-rate team. Joe mentally assigned Jack to this class of deluded ones.

“Well,” he said, “of course you may count on having a fair trying-out, but I wouldn’t hope for too much. You see, a fellow has to be something of an expert to get in the box here; it’s different from playing on a high-school team. Besides, we’re rather well fixed for pitchers: there’s Gilberth and King and Knox, all of whom are first-class men. Of course, we want new material wherever we can find it, and if you prove that you can pitch good ball we’ll give you all the chance you want. But if I were you I’d try for something else this spring, for some position in the field. We’re long on pitchers and short on out-fielders. Of course, you could keep your hand in at twirling; there’d be plenty of opportunity for that at practise.”

“I’ll take whatever I can get,” answered Jack. “I don’t lay any claim to being a wonder at pitching. I was the best we had in Auburn, but, of course, that doesn’t mean very much.”

“Auburn, Maine? Do you live there?”

“Two miles outside of town.”

“Is that so? Maybe you know a cousin of mine there, Billy Cromwell? His father has a big tannery. He graduated from here three years ago this coming spring.”

“I know him quite well,” replied Jack, smiling for the first time since he had entered the study. “It was Billy who persuaded me to come here. He used to tell me about Erskine a good deal. Of course, he’s seven or eight years older than I am, but he was always very nice to me.”