Those Smith Boys on the Diamond; or, Nip and Tuck for Victory

“Come on now, Bateye, soak it in!”

“Say, are you going to hold that ball all day?”

“What’s the matter with you; didn’t you ever see a horsehide before?”

“Oh, for the love of Mike! Throw it! Throw it! Do you want to give ’em a run?”

“That’s the way! Wake up, Bateye!”

These were only a few of the expressions and questions hurled by the other players at Bateye Jones, the Freeport rightfielder, who, after running back to recover a ball that had passed high over his head, was holding the sphere for a moment until he had made sure of the position of the runner, Jake Jensen, of the Vandalia team.

“Throw it! Throw it! You can take a picture of it after the game!” howled Captain John Smith of the Freeport nine, as he danced about behind home plate, and saw Tom Evans come in from third, and noticed Jensen legging it around from second.

Bateye threw, and, mingling with the cries of the players and the yells of the crowd, there were groans of anguish as the ball passed high over the second baseman’s head, who jumped for it in vain.

Bill Smith, the wiry little pitcher, made a successful grab for the horsehide as it bounced on the ground, captured it, and hurled it to third, just in time to catch Jensen there.

“Out!” yelled the umpire.

“Aw, say, I beat it a mile!” protested the panting runner. “What’s the matter with you, Foster?”

“Out,” said the umpire again, waving his hand to indicate that Jensen was to leave the bag.

“Say, I’ll leave it to anybody if I—”

“Come on in,” invited Rube Mantell, captain of the Vandalias in a weary tone, and Jake shuffled to the bench.

“Mighty lucky stop, Bill,” called Pete, or “Sawed-off” Smith, to his brother the pitcher. The small-statured lad again took his position at short stop which he had left for a moment. “I wonder what’s the matter with Bateye to-day? That’s the second error he’s made.”

“Oh, I guess he got a bit rattled with so many howling at him,” spoke Bill good-naturedly. “Come on now, Pete. There are two down, and we ought to wallop ’em easy when it comes our turn. Watch me strike Flub Madison out.”

Bill, who was the best pitcher the Freeport team had secured in several seasons, again took his place in the box, while his brother John, or “Cap” from the likeness of his name to that of the old Indian fighter, resumed his mask, after shooting a few indignant looks in the direction of the unfortunate Bateye Jones.

“He’s got to improve if he wants to stay on the team,” murmured Cap Smith as he waited for the next ball. “I s’pose he’ll excuse himself by saying the sun was in his eyes, or something like that. Or else that he can’t see well in the daytime. He certainly can see good at night. Old Bateye—well, here goes for the next one,” and Cap plumped his fist into the big mitt, and signalled to his pitching brother to send in a slow out curve to Flub Madison who took his place at the plate.

It was the ending of the eighth inning, and the score was seven to six, in favor of the Freeport lads. The game was far from won, for their opponents were playing strong, and still had another, and last, chance at the bat. To win meant much for the team on which the Smith Boys played, for they wanted to capture the championship of the County League, this being one of the last games of the season.

“One ball!” hoarsely called the umpire, as Bill unwound, and sent the horsehide sphere plump into the mitt of his older brother.

Cap looked an indignant protest, and hesitated as he tossed the ball back. It was as clean a strike as could be desired, but it was not the first time the official had favored Vandalia that day. The game was on their grounds, and the rivalry that existed between the two cities, located on either side of the Waydell river, was carried even into baseball.

“Make him give you a nice one, Flub,” called some of his friends.

“He’ll walk you, anyhow,” added another sarcastically.

Bill Smith gritted his teeth but said nothing. He shook his head as his brother signalled for the same kind of a ball, and sent in a swift drop. Flub bit at it, and swung viciously.

“Strike one!” sounded sweet to the ears of the pitcher and catcher.

There was a vicious “ping” as the next ball was sailing over the plate, and for a moment the hearts of the Freeport nine and the hopes of their supporters were like lead, but they turned to rejoicing an instant later, as they saw the ball shoot high over the extreme left grandstand, and disappear.

“Foul strike!” called the umpire, as he tossed a new ball to Bill.

Cap signalled for the fast drop, and his brother nodded in assent.

“Three strikes! Batter out!” was yelled a moment later and Flub threw down his stick in disgust, and walked toward the outfield.

“Now’s our last chance!” exclaimed Bill to John, as he came running in, while the teams changed places. “We ought to get at least three runs—in fact we need ’em if we’re going to win, for they’ve got three of their best hitters up when they come for their last dips. But if we can get a lead of four runs we’ll be all right.”

“Yes, we’ll be all right if Bateye doesn’t go to sleep again,” grumbled Cap. “Say, what’s the matter with you?” he demanded as the unlucky rightfielder filed in.

“Why—er I—that is I—”

“Oh, out with it! You’re holding that talk as long as you held the ball. Don’t do it again!” and Cap, who never could be ill-natured for very long, condescended to smile, while Bateye promised to do better in the future.

“Now Doc, show ’em how to make a home run,” suggested Pete, as Harry or “Doc” Norton, dubbed with the medical term by virtue of his father’s profession, came up to the bat. Doc tried hard, but only got a single. He was advanced to third when Norton Tonkin rapped out a nice two bagger, but that was as far as luck went for the Freeport nine that day. The next three players struck out under the masterly pitching of Nifty Pell, and the three Smith Boys did not get a chance.

“Well, we’re one run to the good. If we can hold ’em down the game’s ours,” observed Pete, as he walked out with his brothers, followed by the rest of the team. “It’s up to you, Bill.”

“I know that, Sawed-off,” was the answer. “I’ll do my best, but I can’t play the whole game. Crimps! But I would like to win this game! They’ve been making so many cracks about putting it all over us!”

“We’ve got to win!” said Cap Smith fiercely. “We need this to help us get the pennant. Don’t get nervous Bill, and you can do ’em. Try that up shoot on Scurry Nelson.”

The last half of the ninth inning began. There were agonized appeals from the Vandalia supporters for the nine to cinch the tying run, and then to bring in half a dozen more for good luck.

“They shan’t do it, if I can help it!” murmured Bill Smith half-savagely, as he took his place.

Noticing the manner in which Bill stung in a few practice balls his brother behind the plate smiled happily.