Barbour Ralph Henry
The Lucky Seventh
CHAPTER I
GORDON GETS A LETTER
When Gordon Merrick neared the corner of Troutman Street he slowed down his bicycle and finally drew in at the curb, putting out a foot to hold himself in the saddle while he deliberated. So deep in thought was he that when the yellow watering cart trundled up, the driver half asleep under the blue and white umbrella, he never knew of it until the sprinkler had drenched him from foot to knee. The driver awoke at that moment and, looking back, saw Gordon.
Hi, there! he shouted. Look out!
Gordon, aroused from his thoughts by the unexpected bath, smiled.
Why? he asked. Are you coming back?
The joke was lost on the driver of the watering cart, however. He only scowled and settled back to slumber again. Gordon chuckled, and glanced ruefully at his drenched trouser-leg. Except for the looks of that no harm had been done, for it was a hot morning in early July and the feeling of the cool water against his leg had been decidedly pleasant. Evidently the incident had brought a decision in the weighty problem which had confronted him, for with no more hesitation he turned his wheel to the left and peddled on down E Street.
Ill talk to Dick about it, he said to himself. He always knows what to do.
The Loverings lived in the third house from the corner, one of a half-dozen modest abodes occupying that side of the block. All the houses were painted white, although differing slightly in the simplicity of their architecture, and all were more or less hidden from view by hedges of lilac or arbor-vitæ. Old-fashioned white picket fences peeked out between the leaves of the hedges. The street itself was old-fashioned. Ten years before it had been in the desirable part of Clearfield, but since then the residential center had worked westward and the row of quiet, green-shuttered cottages was being closed in by such unsavory neighbors as livery stables and dye works and tenements.
Dick Lovering hailed Gordon from the vine-screened porch as the latter jumped from his bicycle and leaned it against the hitching-post in front of the little gate. Hello, Gordie! Come on up.
Dick was seated at the cool end of the porch, which stretched the width of the house. There was a table beside him which held a few flowers in a quaint old green vase and many books and magazines. Dicks crutches stood against the wall within reach, for Dick, as he put it, was very fond of his crutches and never went anywhere without them. He was seventeen, a tall, nice-looking boy with dark hair and eyes and just the smallest suggestion of pallor on his lean cheeks. As Gordon came up the steps Dick laid down the magazine he had been reading and smiled his pleasant smile.
Been in the pond? he asked, viewing the others wet trousers.
Watering cart soused me at the corner. How are you, Dickums?
Fine. Swell weather, isnt it? You look warm, though.
So would you if youd been riding all over town. Say, I got a letter from Bert Cable this morning and I want you to see what you think about it. Ive got it here somewhere.
Where is Bert? asked Dick as Gordon searched his pockets.
Bridgeport, Connecticut. Hes working for his uncle in some sort of a factory over there. He told me he was going to get eight dollars a week. Here it is. Youd better read it.
You do it, smiled Dick. Im lazy to-day.
Well, he says Where is it? Here we are. Im sending a letter that came the other day from Caspar Billings. He thinks were still playing ball and wants a game with us. I havent answered it. What I was thinking was why dont you and Lansing and Fudge Shaw and some of the fellows get a team together and play the Point? You could have a lot of fun. Those fellows at the Point arent anything to be scared of. You could get up a team that would wallop them easy. Tom Haley would pitch for you and Lansing could catch and you could play first. Why dont you? Anyway, you answer the letter. Im awfully busy here and dont have much time for writing letters. This is a swell town, lots going on all the time and plenty of baseball. Remember me to all the fellows and tell Harry Bryan when you see him that hes got my glove and is to send it to me because I may need it. Were getting up a team here at the factory. Weve got a dandy pitcher and I guess theyll put me at short. Dont forget to write to Billings anyway. Yours truly, Bert.
Gordon looked inquiringly across at Dick. What do you think? he asked.
Why, I dare say they will.
Dare say who will? Will what?
Put Bert at short, chuckled Dick.
Oh, you know what I mean! What do you think of the scheme?
Good, Id say. I suppose, with a humorous glance at his crutches, you came around to see if Id play third base for you.
Wish you could, Dickums. Gee, I dont see how you can always be so cheerful about about it! I couldnt.
Well, it isnt hard, Gordie, when youve had seventeen years practice. Of course, if Id been able to get around like other fellows and then then had this happen I guess it would be different. Anyhow, a chap might as well be cheerful as anything else. After all, I dont miss much fun. I cant play games or run or skate or or do a lot of things Id like to, but I can watch the rest of you and I can make believe that if I could well, play third base, say, Id do it better than the next chap. The beauty of it is that you cant prove I wouldnt!
Ill bet you would, Dickums! Why, you know more baseball and more football than most of the fellows who play.
Why not? laughed Dick. They dont have as much time to study it as I do. They have to get out and play. I can watch and learn. But never mind about me. Whats this Billings chap say?
Oh! Gordon pulled another sheet of paper from the envelope and read its contents. Mr. Bert Cable, Captain Clearfield High School Baseball Club, Dear Sir: A lot of us fellows at the Point are getting up a ball team and we want games. Will you play us? Well play on our own field or on yours, just as you say. Any date after July 10th will suit us, Wednesdays or Saturdays preferred. Our fellows will average about the same as your team, I guess. Please let me hear from you, and if there are any other teams around Clearfield we could play with I wish youd let me know and send managers addresses. Very truly, Caspar Billings, Captain, Rutters Point Baseball Association.
Caspar Billings, mused Dick. Which one of the Silk Stocking Brigade is he, Gordon?
Gordon smiled. I dont remember him particularly. Hes a sort of chum of Morris Brent, though.
That all you can say for him? asked Dick. I suppose Morris will play with the Pointers?
I guess so. He wont be much of a help, though. He plays ball like like a turtle!
Morris says, replied Dick with his slow smile, that he can play a lot better than most of you fellows and that if Bert and Tom Haley and some of the others werent down on him hed have made the team last spring.
Guff! He cant catch a ball. Hes not a bad sort, Morris, if his dad does own the town, but hes no Ty Cobb! Well, what do you think about getting up a team, Dickums?
Why not? Youve got plenty of fellows. Most of the school team are still around, arent they?
All except Bert and Warner Jones and Joe Browne.
Wheres Warner?
I dont know. Gone away with his folks somewhere for the summer. Wish my folks would do that.
Well, get out your pencil, Gordie, and lets make up the team. Haley, pitch, and Lanny, catcher
Ill play first and Harry Bryan second
How about Will Scott?
Third. Then for shortstop
Jack Tappen?
N-no, hed better play in the outfield. Ill put him down for right. I guess Pete Robeys the chap for short. That leaves us Way for left field and I guess Fudge will do for center. He cant hit much, but he can pull down a fly.
There you are, then. What will you call the nine? You cant be the High School team, I suppose.
N-no, well have to find a name. The Clearfield what, Dickums?
Rovers?
Sounds like a troupe of trained dogs, laughed Gordon. We might call ourselves the Purple Sox, only its sort of hard to say.
Shorten it, suggested Dick. Call yourselves the Purps.
Thats worse than the Rovers! Why not just the Clearfield Ball Club?
Why not? Thats settled. Now you want a manager
Got one.
You have? Who?
You.
Me!
Surest thing you know. Thats partly why I came. To tell you. You see, I thought youd want to know it.
Very thoughtful of you, Dick laughed. But will you tell me how I can manage a ball team, you idiot?
Why cant you? All you have to do is to arrange games for us and look after the expenses and see that we behave ourselves. If they make me captain
Which they will, as its your scheme!
Its really Berts. But if they do Im going to tell the other fellows that theyve got to do just as you say. You know more baseball than I do and youre going to be the real thing.
Nonsense!
No nonsense about it. Thats settled, then.
But, look here, Id have to go to places with you and and well, you know, Gordie, I cant afford to do that very often.
It wont cost you anything. Your expenses will be paid by the club. Besides, well only go over to the Point and places like that, I guess. Now Im going to see Lanny and talk it over with him.
Well, all right. Ill be manager if you really want me to. Id like it. Only, if you change your mind, or the other fellows think
You know very well the other fellows will be tickled to death, replied Gordon severely. And it will be a good thing for you, too. Take you off this porch now and then. You dont get enough sunshine and fresh air.
Considering that Im outdoors all day and sleep with my head through the window, laughed Dick, thats a bit of a joke. But have your own way, Gordie. You always were a masterful brute. Going?
Yep. I want to catch Lanny. Ill come over again after dinner. Rah for the Clearfield Ball Club, Dickums! So long!
CHAPTER II
DICK CONSENTS
The only th-thing is, said Fudge, its going to co-cost a heap, isnt it?
Fudge, whose real name was William Shaw, was fifteen years of age, had sandy-red hair and blue eyes and was short of stature and round of body. His habitual expression was one of pleased surprise, due probably to the fact that his blue eyes were very blue and very big. When Fudge was the least bit excited he stammered, but the habit was too slight to be an affliction, and his friends sometimes got Fudge upset in order to enjoy his facial contortions when the word wouldnt come promptly. It was Lansing White who, several years before in grammar school, had dubbed him Fudge. Lanny declared that pshaw and fudge meant the same thing and that fudge was more novel. At the present moment Fudge was seated in the apple tree which grew by the fence where the Shaws side-yard and the Merricks back-yard came together. It was a favorite retreat with Fudge, and he had built a shelf handy to the comfortable crotch he affected on which to place books and papers when, as was customary, he was studying his lessons there. To-day, however, as school was over for the summer, there were no books about and the shelf bore, instead, a tennis racket which Fudge had been mending when Gordon found him.
I dont see why, replied Gordon, leaning his arms on the top of the fence. Weve all got our High School uniforms and weve all got bats and mitts and things. All wed need to spend money on would be balls, I guess. Of course, when we went away every fellow would have to pay his transportation.
M-meaning carfare? queried Fudge. Say, its a peach of a scheme, Gordie! I wish I could bat better, though. Maybe Ill get on to it, eh? I guess what I need is practice. And Fudge, swinging an imaginary bat at an invisible ball, almost fell off the branch. Whos going to be captain? he asked when he had recovered his equilibrium.
Well vote, I suppose, replied Gordon.
Fudge grinned. Then itll be me. Im awfully popular. Have you told Lanny yet?
Yes, and he says if you play center theres got to be a rule that a hit to center field is good for only three bases.
Fudge snorted indignantly. If he ever hit a ball as far as the outfield hed fall in a faint! When do we start?
Ive got to see the other fellows yet. Harry is working in his fathers store and I dont know whether his dad will let him play.
Thats so. We need him, too. Hes a peach of a baseman. Whos going to play short?
I want Pete Robey to, replied Gordon doubtfully. Think hed do, Fudge?
We-ell, Pete isnt so much of a muchness. Why dont you p-put him in center and let me play short?
Because a fellow has to have brains to play in the infield, Fudge, and
Fudge tried to reach him with the racket, failed and, composing his features to an expression of grave interest, asked: Wont it be awfully hard to find anyone to play first?
Gordon smiled. Never you mind about first. Get your wheel and lets go around and see some of the fellows. We can catch Harry at the store if we hurry. I want to see Tom, too. If he wont go into it and pitch for us we might as well give it up.
Oh, Tomll pitch all right, answered Fudge, dropping from the tree, racket in hand. Hed rather pitch a baseball than eat. Ill meet you out front in two minutes.
He wormed his way through the currant bushes to the garden path and disappeared toward the house, while Gordon, dodging the clothes lines strung near the rear fence, went along the brick walk and gained the side porch by the simple expedient of vaulting the railing. The Merrick house was new most of the residences on that end of Troutman Street were and was mildly pretentious. Mr. Merrick was a lawyer and comfortably well-to-do. The family had lived in Clearfield for six generations and had given its name to one of the principal streets in the downtown business part of the city. I refer to Clearfield as a city, and it really was, but it was not a very large city. The latest census credited it with something over 17,000 inhabitants. Like many New England cities of its kind, it owed its growth and prosperity to factories of various sorts. Mill River, which entered the bay two miles distant, flowed along the edge of the town and provided water-power for a number of large manufacturing plants, knitting mills, a sewing machine factory, a silverware factory and several others.
The knitting mills were largely owned by Mr. Brent, the Honorable Jonathan Brent, as the Clearfield Reporter usually referred to him, and while Gordon had spoken of Mr. Brent owning the town, he had, of course, exaggerated, but still had not been very far wide of the mark. Mr. Brent was Clearfields richest and its leading citizen. Besides the knitting mills he controlled two banks and the street railway and lighting service and had a finger usually two or three fingers in many other enterprises. The Brent residence, standing imposingly in a whole block of land, was visible, further along Troutman Street, from the Merricks porch. In this, the more recently developed part of the town, the wide streets were lined with maples as yet too young to afford much shade, but a giant elm tree, which had been old long before Clearfield even thought of growing away from the river, stood just inside the Merricks front gate and effectively screened the house from the hot sunlight.