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Rival Pitchers of Oakdale

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<h3> CHAPTER XIV. </h3> <h3> JEALOUSY. </h3> At the close of the game there was another boy on the field who was quite as glum and downcast as Hooker himself. This was Phil Springer, who remained seated on the bench while his team-mates and a portion of the enthusiastic crowd swarmed, cheering, around Grant and lifted him to their shoulders. Presently he realized that this behavior on his part must attract attention the moment the excitement relaxed, and he got up with the intention of hurrying at once to the gymnasium. Barely had he started, however, when something brought him to a halt, and beneath his breath he muttered: "That won't do. They'd notice that, too, and sus-say I was jealous." He was jealous—bitterly so; but he forced himself to join the cheering crowd and to make a half-hearted pretense of rejoicing. All the while he was thinking that Grant owed everything to him, and that perhaps he had been foolish in training a fellow to fill his shoes in such an emergency. For Phil had long entertained the ambition of becoming the first pitcher on the academy nine, and this year he had been fully confident until the present hour that the goal he sought was his beyond dispute. The victors did not forget to cheer courteously for the vanquished, and Barville returned the compliment with a cheer for Oakdale. So many persons wished to shake hands with Rodney Grant that he laughingly protested, saying they would put his "wing out of commission." Suddenly perceiving Phil, the Texan pushed aside those between them, sprang forward and placed a hand on Springer's shoulder, crying: "Here's my mentor. Only for him, I'd never been able to do it. I owe what little I know about pitching to Springer. Let's give him a cheer, fellows." They did so, but that cheer lacked the spontaneous enthusiasm and genuine admiration which had been thrown into the cheering for Grant, something which Springer did not fail to note. "Oh, thanks," said Phil, weakly returning the warm grasp of Rod's strong hand. "I didn't do anything—except blow up." Under cover of the chatter, joking and laughter, while they were changing their clothes in the dressing room of the gymnasium, Grant, observing the dejection Springer could not hide to save himself, again uttered some friendly words of encouragement. "Don't you feel so bad about it, old partner," he said. "The best professional pitchers in the business get their bumps sometimes, and I might have got mine, all right, if I'd started the game on the slab, as you did. You'll make up for that next time." "You're very kind, Grant," was Springer's only response. Phil got away from the others as soon as he could, and hurried home to brood over it. It had been a hard blow, and he had stood up poorly beneath it. Thinking the matter over in solitude, he was forced into a realization of the fact that he lacked, in a great measure, the confidence and steadiness characteristic of Rodney Grant, and he could not put aside the conviction that it was Grant, the fellow he had coached, who was destined to become the star pitcher of the nine. In spite of himself, this thought, aided by other unpleasant contemplations, awoke in his heart a sensation of envious resentment toward Rodney. He was sorry now that he had ever spent his time teaching the Texan to pitch, and it occurred to him that the same amount of coaching and encouragement bestowed upon Hooker would not have resulted in the training of a man to outdo him upon the slab and push him into the background. That evening he was missing from the group of boys who gathered in the village to talk over the game, and at school the following Monday he kept away from Grant as much as it was possible for him to do so. When practice time came after school was over, he put on his suit and appeared upon the field, but soon complained that he was not feeling well, and departed. The following morning, shortly after breakfast, Phil saw Rod turning into the dooryard of his home. Instantly Springer sought his hat, slipped hastily through the house and got out, unperceived, by the back door. When he arrived at school, a few minutes before time for the morning session to begin, Grant was waiting for him. "What became of you after breakfast, partner?" questioned Rod. "I piked over to your ranch looking for you, but you had disappeared. Your mother said you were around a few moments before, and she thought you must be somewhere about; all the same, I couldn't find hide or hair of you." "I—I took a walk," faltered Phil, flushing. "I've got a bub-bad cold." In evidence of which, he coughed in a shamefully unnatural manner. "Got a cold, eh?" said Rodney sympathetically. "You caught it sitting on the bench during the last four innings of that game, I reckon. I remember now that you didn't even put on your sweater." "Yes, I guess that's when I got it," agreed Phil. "Well, you've got to shake it in time for the game with Clearport. That's when you'll even things up." All that day Springer sought to avoid talking baseball with any of the fellows, for invariably they spoke of Grant's surprisingly successful performance; and when they did so something like a sickening poison seemed to bubble within the jealous youth, who told himself that he could not long continue to join in this praise, but must soon betray himself by bursting forth into a tirade against the Texan. In a measure he did relieve his feelings by expressing his opinion of Herbert Rackliff, who was brazenly seeking to ignore the open disdain of his schoolmates. He did not come out for practice that night, and Grant explained to the others that Phil was knocked out by a cold, whereupon Cooper chucklingly remarked that he thought it was Barville that had knocked Springer out. Shortly before dark, Phil, chancing to take a cross cut from Middle Street to High Street, observed Roy Hooker pelting away with a baseball at the white shingle on the barn. Drawing near, Phil asked Roy what he was doing, and the latter, startled and perspiring, looked round. "Oh, is it you?" said Roy. "I thought perhaps it was Rackliff. I'm practicing a little by my lonesome." "That's a hard way to practice," said Springer. "You can't get much good out of that." "Oh, I don't know. I'm getting so I can hit that shingle once in a while, and use a curve, too. I couldn't seem to hit it with a straight ball when I began." "You haven't given up the idea of pitching?" "Not quite. After watching your performance Saturday—seeing you soak a batter in the ribs, and then hand out free passes enough to force a run—I came to realize what control means. I'm trying to get it." Phil felt his face burn. "Control is necessary," he admitted; "but it isn't everything. When I put the ball over, they pup-pounded it." "But they wouldn't if it hadn't been for——" Choking, as he realized what he had so nearly said, Hooker bit his tongue. Then he hastened to make an observation that snapped Springer's self-restraint. "They didn't seem to pound Grant much, and he appeared able to put the ball just about where he wanted to." "Grant!" snarled Phil furiously. "That's all I've heard since the game! Grant, Grant, Grant! It makes me tired!" "Oh, ho!" muttered Roy. "It does, does it? Well, say, didn't you realize what you were doing while you were coaching that fellow? I knew what would happen. I knew the time would come when you'd be mighty sore with yourself. I'm going to talk plain to you. This fellow Grant is practically an outsider; he doesn't belong in Oakdale. He's a presuming cub, too—always pushing himself forward. Here I am, an Oakdale boy, but you pick up with Rod Grant and coach him to pitch so he can step into a game when you're batted out and show you up. You won't be in it hereafter; he'll be the whole show." "Oh, I don't know," returned Springer sourly. "He may get his some time." "He may, and then again he may not; you can't be sure of it. If you'd only spent your time with me, I would have been willing to act as second string pitcher, and you would not have been crowded out. You put your foot in it, all right, old man." "I suppose I did. But let's not talk about it. You weren't at school to-day." "No." "How did that happen?" "Working." "Working? How careless! I didn't know you ever did such a thing." "Well," said Roy slowly, "this was a case of necessity, you see." "Oh, you needed the money, eh?" "No; it wasn't that, though I earned a dollar and a quarter helping shingle John Holbrook's barn. You see—my mother, she—she lost some money recently." "Lost it?" "Yes; lost it, or—or something," Roy replied stumblingly. "It wasn't much, but it was all she had. She'd saved up a little at a time to buy material for a new dress." "How did she happen to lul-lose it?" "I can't tell. She doesn't quite know herself. She put it in a drawer in the house, and when she went to look for it, it was gone." "That sounds like a robbery instead of a loss." "But it couldn't be a robbery," protested Hooker quickly and earnestly. "Nobody would come into the house and take money out of that drawer—nobody around here. You never hear of such a thing happening around this town. Perhaps mother mislaid it somewhere. Anyhow, it's gone, and I'm going to try to earn enough to replace it." "Well, say, Hooker," exclaimed Phil, "you're all right! I didn't suppose you'd stoop to work, even under such circumstances. Do you know, lots of times we're liable to misjudge some one until something happens to show us just the sort of a person he is." "Yes; I suppose that's right," said Roy. But he did not look Phil in the eyes. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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