CHAPTER VII
A TEST FOR THE EAGLES
But Jared was to score still further. He came to bat confidently at the end of the third inning. With two of his side out and none on bases, he knocked a beautiful homer into left field. It was a really fine drive. The Hampton contingent went wild. The faces of the Eagle supporters, too, were cheerful, but anxious. As for Jared, he beamed, and then as his eyes met Rob’s, he gave the latter a malevolent glance.
At the end of the third inning each side had scored one run. The Eagles made no runs in the following three innings, while Hampton scored two, so that, when the seventh inning began, things looked rather gloomy for the Scouts. The score then stood three to one in favor of Hampton and the town players fairly swelled with confidence.
It was already painfully evident that, exercise his will power as he would, Merritt’s arm was getting sore. He had put redoubled efforts into his work but the score showed with how little success. At the beginning of the seventh, he told Captain Hiram that he thought the Hamptons had “found” his pitching, but he consented to stay in the box for one more inning.
The inning commenced with Merritt at the bat. He was given first base on balls. Paul Perkins made a base hit to left field. He got safely to first with Merritt hugging second. Tubby Hopkins once more struck out with the same cheerful grin on his round countenance. Hiram sent a slow grounder to Jared and was promptly thrown out at first, but Merritt reached third, and Paul second, very nicely.
Rob Blake now came to the bat. Jared determined to strike him out if it were humanly possible. After a lot of posing which he thought gave him quite a professional air, Jared delivered the best ball in his répertoire, a swift and vicious in-curve. It fairly hissed through the air.
Crack!
Rob’s willow collided with the sphere and away it sped far into right field. Merritt and Paul scored amidst tremendous enthusiasm; hats were thrown in the air. Things once more looked rosy for the Eagles. Rob was easily the favorite of the moment.
As for Jared, his feelings were not enviable. He felt that he would gladly have allowed the others to score if he had only been able to shut Rob out. He struck out the next batter, and then Hampton went to bat.
Merritt’s arm felt better and he went to the box without the misgivings that had assailed him earlier. But with the first ball he pitched he knew that he had deluded himself. The batter hit a fly to right field and was caught out. Merritt, summoning every ounce of resolution he could muster, struggled on right manfully. But it was a hopeless cause. Base hits were made with absurd ease. Jared was caught out on a fly. Finally there were two out and two on bases.
Higgins came to bat and made a second home run amidst yells of delight from the Scouts’ opponents.
It began to look like grim defeat for the Scouts. The Hampton contingent was jubilant. Jared danced mockingly about whenever he could catch the eye of a Boy Scout.
The next Hampton batter struck an easy fly to left field which was caught by Paul Perkins. The Scouts now came to the bat, beginning the eighth inning. The score was six to three in Hampton’s favor. Things looked black, but with the true Scout spirit the lads of the Eagle put the best face possible on matters. They noted Jared’s leering face without a sign that they saw his malignant triumph.
Jared struck out the first three Scout batters with ridiculous ease. When the Hamptons came to the bat, the Eagles made a change in pitchers. It was Rob, cool, self-confident and determined, who occupied the box. This followed a consultation at which it was agreed that, splendidly as Merritt had done, his arm had gone back on him.
As Hiram adjusted his catcher’s mask and Rob took his new position, things grew very quiet. It was palpable to all that the change of pitchers denoted a crisis in the game for the Scouts. Rob faced the first batter without indulging in any of Jared Applegate’s antics. Hiram signaled for a swift one. He braced himself as he saw it coming. He knew that Rob was a swift pitcher with a mighty right.
“Strike one!” yelled the umpire a fraction of a second later.
Jared, at the bat, looked angry and puzzled. He wondered why they hadn’t put Rob in the box at first. He did not know that Rob, while a splendid pitcher, was not to be relied on through a long game as was Merritt. Another thing he didn’t know was that Rob had determined with a grim resolution to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat, if possible. That’s a feeling that will carry any boy, or man either for that matter, a long way.
Hiram signaled for another cannon-ball. It was plain that those were just the kind of missiles that were not at all to Jared’s liking.
The ball shot from Rob’s hand apparently without effort. But it shot over the plate like a bullet.
“Strike two!” bellowed the umpire.
“Oh, you Rob!” yelled his friends.
“K-r-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee!” shrilled the Scouts.
But Rob took no notice; nor did he regard Jared’s look of hatred, oddly mixed with worry. Rob’s pitching bothered him. He wanted no more off that plate.
But whi-z-z-z-z-z-z! came another “cannon ball” like a high powered projectile burning up the atmosphere. Jared swung wildly an inch too high.
“Striker’s out!” came the call of Jared’s doom from the umpire.
It was a furiously angry youth that strode to the bench.
“Thought you were going to make ducks and drakes out of him, Jared?” grinned one of his fellow players.
“So I was. I was just trying him out,” grunted Jared disgustedly.
The next two batters couldn’t handle Rob’s pitching at all. The game began to look as if it might be retrieved after all.
“Blake! Blake! Blake!” chanted the crowd as Rob walked toward the batters’ bench.
Merritt was first at bat for the Scouts in the ninth inning. Jared began to pitch with as good an imitation of Rob’s speed as he could muster. Merritt let the first ball sing past him.
“Ball one.”
The second, also, went by in similar manner.
“Ball two!” sang out Sim in his high, nasal voice.
Jared pulled himself together. He sent the ball humming right over the home plate. Merritt swung at it and made a safe base hit to right field. Then came Hiram. He struck out. Jared and the Hamptonites began to feel better. Jared was still holding the Scouts down and they had a safe margin of runs.
Paul Perkins struck out this time. Then came Ernest Thompson, who dreamily submitted to the same process.
Rob Blake now came to the bat. His exhibition of pitching just previously earned him a round of applause. Jared looked positively bilious. He had actually been holding himself in reserve for Rob. It was his intention to shut him right out. Rob ignored Jared’s first ball.
“Ball one!” was the cry.
“Ball two!” followed in rapid succession. Rob smiled easily. Jared’s dislike of the boy at the bat was making him irritable and uneasy.
But he rallied his skill and threw what looked like an easy pitch. Rob struck at it but fanned the empty air.
Jared grinned, the Hamptonites yelled and the umpire called: —
“Strike one!”
“All right for you, Mister Casey at the bat,” snarled Jared, “watch out for this one.”
It came like a flash, a tricky, wavy curve. Rob swung with all his strength and – missed!
“Strike two!”
A groan went up from the Scout supporters. Their chances of victory looked slim indeed now.
“Wake up! You’re in a trance!” scoffed Jared, grinning at Rob. “Get out of the straw.”
“The straw in the red barn!” suddenly flashed Rob, in a low, but far-reaching voice. It was pregnant with meaning and Jared turned white as death. He fumbled the ball with trembling fingers.
“W-w-what do you mean?” he managed to gasp.
“Play ball!” yelled the crowd impatiently.
Jared, his fright still on him, pitched. He made a wild fling. Rob trotted to first base. Merritt boomeranged to second.
Simon Jeffords got his base on balls, advancing Rob to second and Merritt to third. Everybody began to sit up and take renewed notice. A home run now would add four to the Scout score. Could they get it? Jared had shown that he could hold them down. Could he still keep up his gait?
And now out strolled Tubby Hopkins. He paused first to insert a huge chunk of chewing gum in his capacious cheek and then, not noticing in the least the laughter and joking that greeted his appearance, he lounged to his place, his jaws moving rhythmically.
“It’s up to you, Tubby. Bring home the bacon!” some one yelled.
“He’s got the bacon with him,” shouted some other humorist.
Jared fixed his eyes quizzically on Tubby.
“Like a bottle of anti-fat, kid?” he sneered; and then, “Oh, what I won’t do to you! How do you like ’em?”
Tubby stopped chewing an instant. His large eyes opened wide as if he had just heard Jared’s voice.
“Oh, I like ’em Panama fashion, if you’ve got any of those about you to-day,” he said with a cherubic smile.
Zang! came the ball. It was as swift as any that Jared had yet thrown. He would have liked to see it knock the disconcerting fat youth on the head. But it did no such thing. With an agility unsuspected except by those who knew him, Tubby swung viciously at the spheroid.
“Bin-go!” yelled the rooters.
Off into left field a hot liner whizzed its way.
“Go on!” shrieked the Eagles and their supporters, dancing up and down in excitement.
Off darted Merritt from third. He shot across the home plate an instant later and scored amidst loud cheering. Hot after him flashed Rob, with Simon close behind. Excitement rose to a point where it was almost unbearable.
Tubby had shot like a stone from a sling the instant he made his hit. And now more like a steam roller the fat youth cavorted over the bases while the crowd went crazy. Pandemonium reigned.
“Home! Home! Home!” shrieked the raucous crowd in a frenzy.
Boys hugged each other and the Scouts danced up and down.
Tubby, with amazing speed, his short fat legs working like piston rods, flashed by first, second and third bases. The next instant a yell went up that split the air. A rotund form sky-hooted across the home plate and then, tripping up, went rolling like a tub of butter into the arms of Rob and his team-mates. Tubby had made one of the most sensational plays ever seen on the Hampton field, and foes as well as friends generously applauded the fat boy. But he paid no attention to the plaudits.
“Great Scotland! I’ve lost my gum,” were his first words on being helped to his feet. “Anybody got a chew?”
“A barrel full, if you want them!” yelled the delighted Scouts, dancing about the boy who had hit out a home run with bases full.
The next batter, Walter Lonsdale, struck out. Then the town team went to bat for its last chance. The score now stood thus:
Eagles: seven. Hamptons: six
Rob resumed his place in the pitcher’s box. Higgins struck out. But Jared got his base on balls. Maybe Rob was overconfident. Conners came next. Two strikes had been called on him, when Rob, like a flash, hurled the ball to first. With neatness and expedition Jared was put out.
Incidentally, Conners had been so rattled by Rob’s pitching that, when the latter threw to first, Conners frantically struck at an imaginary ball, causing a roar of laughter. This disconcerted him so badly that he missed the next ball and struck out.
The Scouts had indeed snatched victory from the jaws of defeat. The game was theirs but by so narrow a margin that they hardly liked to think about it.
In an instant the crowd broke all boundaries and surged about the victorious Eagles.
“Three cheers for Home-run Tubby!” yelled somebody.
In a flash the fat youth was hoisted on half a dozen shoulders. Then began a triumphal march around the field to the music of Andy Bowles’ bugle, which he had suddenly produced from some mysterious hiding place.
“You see, I knew that I’d need it,” he explained afterward.
Rob, arm in arm with Merritt, brought up the rear of the tumultuous riot of enthusiasts. Suddenly Rob’s eye caught sight of a figure in the uniform of the Hampton’s players sneaking up behind a corner of the grand-stand which it was evident the crowd must pass in their march of victory. It was Jared Applegate. With him was the same young man the boys had seen in the barn the week before, as well as two other youths of bad character in the village, Hodge Berry and Maxwell Ramsay.
“What mischief is Jared up to?” breathed Rob, clutching Merritt’s arm.
“I don’t know, but he looks as sneaky as a pole cat. Let’s watch him.”
The two scouts followed, at a slight distance, the group of which Jared was the center. They saw the boys that they were watching sneak in behind the grand-stand, while Jared stooped and picked up a heavy stone. As the crowd, with Tubby’s rubicund countenance shining above their heads, came swinging around the corner on their way off the ball field, Rob gave a sharp exclamation and sprang forward.
Like a flash he gripped Jared’s arm just as it was about to launch the stone at Tubby’s head.
“You – you rascal!” he managed to exclaim, forcing Jared’s arm down with a firm wrist hold.
The next instant Hodge Berry and Max Ramsay, both of whom had played in the Hampton team, sprang at Rob furiously.
“You’re going to get a licking you won’t forget in a hurry,” they cried.
The crowd had swung on, not noticing the dramatic scene that was occurring so close to them. Rob dropped Jared’s wrist and turned to face his opponents.
Something in his face made them halt an instant, and in that brief space of time Merritt was at his side. The strange youth who had said nothing so far now started to speak, but Rob checked him.
Utterly ignoring the others, he addressed himself to Jared.
“Well, what do you want?” he demanded.
“I want to get square with you,” replied Jared in a furious tone. He appeared almost beside himself with rage.
“Humph! and so you’ve brought a bunch of your amiable friends along to help you in case it proved too big a job to tackle alone.”
“See here,” exclaimed the stranger, stepping forward a pace, “I don’t know who you are except by name, but I’m not going to have you insult me. Jared here is a chum of mine. I knew him in New York – ”
“Sorry for you,” flashed out Rob curtly.
“None of your lip,” growled Max Ramsay sullenly; and yet, so electrical had the atmosphere become, and so capable of handling himself did the clean-living young scout look, that, uneven as the odds were, no further hostile move was made.
“Jared said he had a bone to pick with you,” went on the strange youth. “He told us he wanted to have it out with you Scouts. He invited us along. I’m not going to take any part in it, you can be assured of that. There’ll be fair play.”
“Like stone throwing, for instance,” retorted Rob contemptuously.
“I guess you’re scared,” sneered Jared.
“Who says so?”
“I do. You act so. You’re afraid of me.”
Jared was quite quick enough to see that Rob was unwilling to get into a fight. The leader of the Eagle Patrol abhorred, above all things, to be mixed up in a disgraceful set-to. But even Rob, who had unusual self-control, was fast beginning to lose patience.
“I don’t know what harm I’ve ever done you, Jared,” he said quietly, “but if you feel so, why I can’t help it.”
“I hate you, Rob Blake,” exclaimed Jared through his clenched teeth, “and I’m going to polish you off once and for all, – do you hear me?”
“I’m not deaf. Let us pass, please,” said Rob, still with that same calm, unruffled manner.
“Not till you’ve given me satisfaction.”
Jared interpreted Rob’s manner amiss. He was sure now that Rob would avoid a fistic discussion at all hazards. He determined to show his friends what a terrible person he was.
“Well, you heard what I said,” repeated Jared, thrusting out his jaw and stepping closer to the unmoved Rob, “you’ve got to give me satisfaction – understand?”
“Do you want me to fight you?” asked Rob, without the flicker of an eye.
“Yes, I do,” whipped out Jared boldly.
At the same instant, thinking to catch Rob off his guard, he aimed a vicious blow at the lad in front of him. Rob merely stepped to one side. Jared almost lost his balance as his fist encountered thin air, and just saved himself from taking an ignominious tumble.
“So; you’re a coward, eh?” cried Jared furiously.
“Possibly that’s your opinion,” spoke Rob calmly. “I don’t like fighting, Jared, it’s not gentlemanly and it’s not a Scout principle; but if you want fight, you’re going to get it!”
“Good for you!” cried Merritt, who had stood silent, well knowing Rob’s ability to handle himself, for the Scouts had many friendly sparring bouts with the gloves. The noble art of self-defense was cultivated by all of them, but as a means of self-defense and for the joy of the sport only.
Rob whipped off his coat in a jiffy. Jared, with a slight quiver of his lower lip, did the same. Both boys stood ready to defend themselves, and, while the shouts of the crowd bearing Tubby aloft died away in the distance, the fight, into which Rob had been unwillingly dragged, began.
CHAPTER VIII
SKILL VS. MUSCLE
Jared was heavily built and strong, but his science was nothing to boast of. Jared had never had the application to build himself up physically. Yet he was no mean opponent, as Rob saw. The leader of the Eagles was not as heavily muscled or as weighty as Jared, but he more than made up for it in his cat-like quickness and ability to spar.
The farmer’s son saw this and realized that his best opportunity to put a quietus on his hated opponent was to land a heavy blow before Rob’s perfect training had a chance to assert itself. He rushed in wildly, determined to battle his way through Rob’s defense and beat him down by sheer weight and force.
But in this he had reckoned altogether without his host. Rob cleverly dodged Jared’s savage swings, and, watching his opportunity, countered with amazing swiftness. None of the onlookers saw the blow, but they heard the sharp crack of Rob’s knuckles on Jared’s jaw. As for Jared, he beheld a swimming galaxy of brilliant constellations.
Rob saw that he was dazed for an instant and dropped his hands to his side.
“We’ll stop right here if you like, Jared,” he said.
“Not much you won’t,” shouted Jared, shaking his head, “I’ve only begun.”
“Well, don’t keep on the way you’re going,” laughed Merritt cheerfully. Jared’s friends began to look rather gloomy. In their hearts both Max Ramsay and Hodge Berry felt heartily glad that they hadn’t tackled the Boy Scout.
Once more Jared rushed in on Rob. A second later his nose stopped a solid blow straight from the shoulder. It felt to Jared as if he had inadvertently collided with the rock of Gibraltar.
“Ouch!” he yelled in spite of himself.
Then, losing his head completely, he rushed at Rob and seized him in a wrestling grip. Rob, caught off his guard, lost his feet and the two toppled to the ground, going at it in rough-and-tumble fashion.
“Magnificent, but not war!” cried Merritt as he danced about.
Over and over they rolled, Jared managing in this style of battling to get in some heavy blows that caused Rob to gasp. But in a short time Rob had Jared fairly howling for mercy.
“Help!” he bawled out, “take him away, you fellows! He’s not fighting fair.”
“Don’t be a cry baby,” was all the consolation he got from his friends. “Give it to him hard.”
Thus counseled, Jared made one last effort to triumph over Rob. He suddenly disengaged himself and jumped to his feet. Rob was up as quick as the other and met Jared’s last rush calmly. Jared, by this time, had lost his head utterly. He waved his arms wildly in a whirlwind of blows that Rob contented himself by ducking and dodging. He had no wish to punish Jared any more severely.
Suddenly the battle came to an abrupt termination, and that through no effort of Rob’s. It had rained the week before, and back of the grandstand was a depression in which water had gathered in sufficient quantity to form a small pond.
His wild evolutions had brought Jared close to the edge of this miniature lake. The ground there was muddy and slippery, and, before he knew what had happened, Jared’s feet slipped from under him. He staggered, clutching at the air to save himself; but although his friends rushed forward to help him, they were too late. With a mighty splash the luckless Jared toppled backward into the pond.
He was helped out, a truly pitiable object; but even his friends could not help laughing at him. Plastered with mud and streaming with water, his enraged countenance excited nothing but mirth.
“Come on,” said Max Ramsay as soon as he could for laughing, “we’ll get you to the buggy, Jared, and you can drive out home. Good thing you won’t have to go through the village.”
“Shake hands, Jared,” exclaimed Rob impulsively, for the moment forgetting what they had overheard at the barn, in his sympathy for Jared’s plight.
He extended his hand, but Jared dashed it furiously aside.
“I’ll get even with you, you – you tin soldier!” he shouted, shaking with rage, and also with the chill of his immersion.
“I’m sorry you feel that way about it,” rejoined Rob, as he turned aside and put on his coat, which Merritt had held for him.
“Yes, and you’ll be sorrier yet,” snarled Jared, as his friends walked him off toward the shed where his buggy was tied.
Just then, from across lots, there came a summons: —
“Hey, Rob! Where have you got to?”
“I’m coming right along,” was Rob’s reply; “wait a second.”
He jammed on his cap and stepped out from behind the grandstand. Running toward him was Tubby, who had somehow escaped from his admirers.
“What’s up?” cried Rob, as he saw the lad’s flushed, excited face.
“Say, you know that note you left for Mr. Mainwaring?”
“Yes.”
“Well, he’s just got back. He’s over in that auto yonder and asked me to find you as soon as possible.”
Tubby pointed to the road on the outskirts of the village, where a big torpedo-bodied auto was drawn up. In it was seated a man of past middle age, with iron-gray hair and keen eyes, who was watching the boys closely as they came toward him.
As they drew nearer he got out of the car and addressed the chauffeur.
“You needn’t wait for me, Manning. I’ll walk home,” he said.