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Rival Pitchers of Oakdale

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<h3> CHAPTER VI. </h3> <h3> A DEAD SURE THING. </h3> Thereafter Rackliff took great interest in Hooker's motorcycle—more interest than the languid, indifferent fellow had seemed to show over anything else except his cigarettes. Even one rather severe fall from the machine, which sadly soiled his elegant and immaculate clothes, did not deter him from continuing to practice upon it whenever it was not being used by its owner and he could find the opportunity. To the satisfaction of both lads, the machine behaved very well indeed, and Roy decided that, without knowing how he did it, he had fortunately succeeded in curing its "balkiness." It was Roy, taking an early morning spin on the machine, who saw Phil Springer wearing the big catching mitt and coaching Rodney Grant to pitch in Springer's dooryard. "You poor lobster!" muttered Hooker contemptuously, as he chugged past. "If Grant really should pan out to be the better man, you'd feel like kicking yourself. I'd like to tell you what I think of you." That night after supper, as usual, Rackliff strolled over to Hooker's home, but he strolled with steps somewhat quickened by the prospect of taking a turn on his friend's motorcycle. At first Roy was not to be found, and his mother said she did not know where he had gone. The motorcycle was standing in the carriage house, causing Rackliff to wonder a little. "Queer," muttered Herbert, rubbing his chin with his cigarette-stained fingers. "When the old lady said he wasn't around I thought sure he must be off with this machine." To his ears came the sound of a dull thump, repeated at quite regular intervals. At first he thought it must be the horse stamping in the near-by stable, but the regular repetition of that thumping sound convinced him that such could not be the case and led him to investigate. Within the stable he was surprised to hear the sound coming like a blow upon the back of the building, round which he finally sauntered. There was Hooker, coat and cap off, sleeves rolled up, face flushed a little, throwing a baseball at the rear wall of the building, recovering it when it rebounded, taking his place at a fixed distance, and throwing again. Unperceived, so intent was Hooker, Herbert stood and watched for several minutes. Finally he spoke up interrogatingly: "What are you trying to do, anyhow, old man? What in the name of mystery do you mean by sneaking out here and trying to wallop your arm off all by your lonesome?" At the sound of the city boy's voice Roy had given a start and turned, ball in hand. He frowned a bit, then followed it with a rather shame-faced grin, as he wiped the perspiration from his forehead with the back of his hand. "Just amusing myself a little," he answered. "Queer sort of amusement. Might satisfy a kid who couldn't find anything else to do. I thought likely you'd be using your motorcycle; and, everything considered, I didn't suppose you'd care a rap about fingering a baseball." "If you could catch me," returned Roy, "I'd have you put on my glove and see if I couldn't get 'em over a piece of plank the size of the home plate; but you can't catch, and so I'm trying to see how often I can hit that white shingle yonder. I actually hit it twice in succession a few minutes ago." "Huh!" grunted Herbert. "What's the good of that?" "I'm trying to get control, you know. They say that's what I lack. Even Eliot has acknowledged that I might pitch some if I wasn't so wild." Herbert burst into soft, half-mocking laughter. "'Hope springs eternal in the human breast'," he quoted. "Nevertheless, good, plain, common sense should teach you that you're wasting your time. You're not wanted as a pitcher, and so you won't get a chance to do any twirling." "You never can tell what may happen," returned Roy. "I never thought Springer was so much, and I haven't any great confidence in Grant. What if they should both get theirs? Eliot might be forced to give me a show, and if that happens I'll deliver the goods——" Rackliff snapped his yellow fingers. "You've got the baseball bug bad," he said. "It's a disease. I suppose it has to have its run with the fellows who become infected. All right, waste your time; but while you're doing it, if you don't mind, I'd like to take a spin on your motorcycle. There is some fun in that, I own up." "Well, don't be gone long," said Roy. "I guess I'll get enough of this in ten or fifteen minutes more, and I want to ride some myself to-night." Trundling out the machine, Rackliff heard the ball thudding again against the back of the stable. Friday afternoon Herbert did not appear at school. Hooker looked for him in vain and wondered why he had remained away. Alone he watched the boys practice a while when school was over, Grant doing his full share of pitching to the batters. Despite prejudice and envy, Roy could see that Springer's pupil was gaining confidence and beginning to carry himself with the air of a real pitcher. "But he hasn't had any experience," muttered the jealous and unfortunate lad. "Wait till he gets into a game and they begin to bump him. That temper of his will make him lose his head." Which was evidence enough that Roy little understood Rodney Grant, who invariably became all the more resolute and determined by opposition, and stood in no danger of giving way to his fiery temper, except when met by buffets of physical force in the form of personal violence. Reaching home, Hooker went out behind the stable and plugged away at the white shingle until supper time, fancying he was gaining some skill in accuracy, although it seemed almost impossible to score a hit or come near it when he used a curve. Supper over, he looked for Rackliff to appear. "He'll be around pretty soon, so I'll just take a short ride and come back." In the carriage house he stopped, his undershot jaw drooping; for the motorcycle was missing from the stand on which it was always kept, when not in use. "What the dickens——" he cried, and stopped short. After looking all around to make sure the machine was not there, he rushed into the house and questioned his mother. "It must be there, Roy," she said. "I'm sure nobody has touched it. I would have heard them." "But it isn't there," he shouted. "Somebody has stolen it." Then he caught his breath, struck by a sudden thought. "Has Herbert Rackliff been around here to-day?" he asked. "I haven't seen him, but I hope you don't think your friend would take your motorcycle without——" He did not wait to hear any more. Rushing out of the house, he had reached the sidewalk when, to his unspeakable relief, round the corner from Willow Street came Rackliff, somewhat dust-covered and perspiring, trundling the motorcycle. Hooker glared at him. "What do you mean by taking my machine without asking?" he rasped. "Where have you been with it?" "My dear old pal," said Herbert soothingly, "do give me time to get my breath, and then I'll seek to conciliate you with a full explanation. I've had to push this confounded thing for at least five miles, and I'm pretty near pegged out. It stopped on me on my way home." "Five miles?" snapped Roy, taking the machine from the limp and weary city boy. "Where in blazes have you been with it?" But not until he had seated himself to rest in the carriage house, and lighted a cigarette, did Rackliff offer any further explanation. Finally, with a little cough and a tired sigh, he smiled on the still frowning and outraged owner of the machine. "You didn't see me around school this afternoon, did you?" he asked. "No. I wondered where you were." "I was out laying my pipes." "Doing what?" "Making sure that you and I could form a little pool and seek a few wagers on the game to-morrow, with the dead certainty of winning. I've been over to Barville to see Newt Copley." "Oh!" muttered Hooker. "And you put my machine on the blink!" "It simply quit on me, that's all. I didn't do a thing to it—on my word, I didn't. There's nothing broken, old man. I'm certain you'll be able to tinker it up again all right. You can bet your life I'd never made that trip if I'd dreamed it would be necessary for me to push the old thing so far. Still, I'm mighty glad I went. Say, Roy, Copley is dead sure Barville will have more than an even show with Oakdale to-morrow, and you know what I think of his judgment. Now, if you've got any money, or can raise any, just bet it on Barville and make a killing." "But I wouldn't want to be seen betting against my own school team." "Ho! ho!" laughed Herbert derisively. "Then let me have your cash, and I'll place it for you. I haven't any scruples." "But you may be mistaken. Even Copley may be, for he hasn't seen Oakdale play." "He says Sanger is a wiz. Look here, Roy, do you know Eliot's finger signals to the pitcher?" "Why, yes." "Uses the old finger system, doesn't he?" "Yes." "One finger held straight, a straight ball. Two fingers close together, an outcurve; spread apart, one on the inside corner. One finger crooked like a fish-hook, a drop." "You've got 'em correct, but what's that got to do with——" "Oh, I just wanted to know," chuckled Rackliff. "Get your loose change together and let me handle it. If I don't double it for you to-morrow I'll agree to stand any loss you may sustain. You won't be even taking a chance. What do you say?" "Well, if you're as confident as that," answered Roy, "I'm certainly going to raise a little money somehow to bet on that game." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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