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Rival Pitchers of Oakdale

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<h3> CHAPTER XXII. </h3> <h3> SELF-RESTRAINT OR COWARDICE. </h3> Rackliff had succeeded in doubling Springer's hatred for Rodney Grant. So the fellow Phil had befriended and taught to pitch was sneering about him behind his back! And everybody was saying that Grant was already a better pitcher than his instructor ever could hope to become! Springer wondered how it was possible that, even for a moment, he had ever taken a fancy to such a chap. "He'd better not say too much about me," Phil growled to himself. "I know he is a fighter. I know he has a fearful temper. But he'll find out I'm not afraid of him." That very night Lela Barker, coming to the post office to mail some letters, was followed and annoyed by Rackliff when she started to return home. Herbert persisted in forcing his unwelcome company upon her until, catching sight of a familiar figure passing on the opposite side of the street, she called for assistance. Rodney Grant came running across, giving Rackliff a look, cap in hand, as he inquired the cause of the girl's alarm. "Oh, Rod," she said, "I do wish you would walk home with me. This—this fellow has persisted in following me and forcing his company upon me." "The onery, conceited, unmannerly cad!" exploded the Texan, evidently itching to put hands on Herbert, who bluffed the situation through with insolent effrontery, laughing as he lighted a cigarette. "What he needs is a good thrashing, and, if he wasn't a sickly, insignificant creature, it would give me a right good heap of satisfaction to hand him one." "Bah!" said Herbert. "You're a big blowhard, that's all. It betrays lamentably poor taste on Miss Barker's part to prefer the company of a lout like you to that of a gentleman." It was lucky for Rackliff that Lela was there and her hand fell on the arm of the boy from Texas, for otherwise Rodney might have forgotten himself. Fearing his lack of self-restraint, the girl urged him away, and they left Herbert leaning against a tree and still laughing, his cigarette in the corner of his mouth. Half an hour later Grant, having returned, was talking baseball with several fellows who had gathered in a group near Stickney's store, when Rackliff sauntered up. "Just a word with you, Mr. Cowpuncher," said Herbert in a loud voice. "You applied several objectionable adjectives to me a while ago, and now I want to tell you just what I think about you. You're nothing but a common, low-bred, swaggering bluffer, as the blind dubs around here are due to find out. You think you're a baseball pitcher. Excuse me while I laugh in my sleeve. You're the biggest case of egotistical jackassism it has ever been my luck to encounter. Next Saturday, when you get up against a real pitcher who can pitch, you'll look cheaper than thirty cents." Grant surveyed the speaker with mingled amusement and disdain. "Have you got that dose of bile out of your system?" he asked. "If it's all over, go lie down somewhere and forget yourself. That will be a relief. Being ashamed all the time sure must get tiresome." Herbert lost his head at once. "You're a duffer and a bluffer!" he shouted shrilly. "How any decent, refined girl can have anything to do with you I can't imagine. It just shows that Lela Barker is——" He got no further, for, brushing one of the fellows aside, Grant caught the speaker by the throat and stopped him. His face dark, the Texan shook Rackliff until his teeth rattled. "Shoot your mouth off about me as much as you please, you miserable sneak," he grated; "but don't you dare ring in the name of any decent girl unless you are thirsting to get the worst walloping of your life!" Rod's eyes blazed and he was truly terrible. Once before the boys had seen him look like that, and then they had realized for the first time that it was the young Texan's uncontrollable temper that he feared and which had made him, by persistent efforts to avoid personal encounters, appear like a coward. There was not a cowardly drop of blood in Grant's body, but experience and the record of his fighting father had taught him to fear himself. Even now the fact that he let himself go sufficiently to lay hands on Rackliff seemed to spur him on, and, still shaking the limp and helpless fellow, he maintained his hold on the city youth's neck until Herbert's eyes began to bulge and his face grew purple. Suddenly another lad pushed his way through the circle and seized Grant by the shoulders: "Lul-let up on that!" he cried, his voice vibrant with excitement. "What are you trying to do, choke the lul-life out of a fellow that you know isn't any match for you? If you want to ch-choke somebody, let him alone and take me." It was Phil Springer. His head jerked round toward his shoulder, Rodney Grant looked into the eyes of his friend of a short time past, and suddenly he released his hold on Rackliff, who, gasping and ready to topple over, was supported by one of the other boys. "If you want to choke somebody, take me!" repeated Phil savagely. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself!" Grant took a long breath. "That's right, Springer," he admitted, "I reckon I ought. I allow I clean forgot myself." Somehow this quiet admission, which was wholly unexpected, seemed to enrage Phil still more. "I suppose you think everybub-body around here is afraid of you now that they've found out your father was a genuine bad man," Springer sneered. "Well, you'll discover there's one person who isn't afraid. I'll fight you." To the amazement of all present, the boy from Texas shook his head, something like a conciliatory smile appearing on his face. "You won't fight me, Phil," he retorted, "for I won't fight." Phil himself could not understand why this refusal simply added fuel to the flame of his wrath. He felt himself a-quiver with the intensity of his emotions, and, seeing Grant so calm and self-possessed, he was obsessed by a yearning to strike him in the face. "Oh, so you won't fight, eh? Why not?" "We have been friends." "We have been, but aren't any more, and we never will be again; for I've found out just what sort of a fellow you are. You think yourself a better pitcher than I am or ever can be, do you? Oh, I've heard what you've been blowing around here about me, and you needn't deny it. You've had some luck in one or two games, but you're due to get your bumps. If you've got any fuf-further talk to make about me, come and make it before my face. It's a sneak who goes round shooting off his mouth behind another fellow's back—and that's what you are, Rod Grant!" "Now there'll be something doing, sure!" breathed Chipper Cooper, agitated by great expectations. Still, to the increasing wonderment of the boys, Grant held himself in hand. "I couldn't take that off you, Phil," he said, a bit huskily, "if we hadn't been friends and I didn't realize that you sure would never say it in your right mind. I'm right sorry——" "Oh, yes," scoffed Phil derisively, "you're sus-sorry you can't work me for a chump any more. You know what I think of you, and if you've got any real sand you'll pick it up. All I ask is a square show, and I'll give you the scrap of your life. You can't frighten me with your savage looks, and I've got my bub-blinkers on you so you can't catch me off my guard and hit me. That's the way you've won your reputation as a fuf-fighter around these parts. You've never faced anybody in a sus-square stand-up scrap, but you've grabbed and ch-choked fellows like Bunk Lander and Herbert Rackliff when they weren't expecting it. I know a little something about handling my dukes, and I'll bet I can lick you in less than tut-ten minutes." "Perhaps you can," said Grant. "Gee whiz!" spluttered Chipper Cooper. "What do you know about that, fellows?" It was true that Grant had never engaged in a real fist fight since coming to Oakdale, but he had once stretched an enemy prone and stiff with a single sudden blow, and since the brave part he had played in rescuing Lela Barker from drowning Phil was the first to question his courage. Herbert Rackliff, having recovered his breath and found sufficient strength to stand without assistance, was looking on and listening in the greatest satisfaction. "Soak him, Phil!" he whispered faintly. "Go for him!" "Perhaps you're right," said Grant again, as Springer surveyed him with marked contempt. "Anyhow, I certain am not going to fight you." Springer seemed genuinely disappointed. "I have a mind to punch you," he declared. "Perhaps you'd brace up then and show a little manhood." Rod retreated a step, which added to the impression that he was afraid. "You'll be sorry some time, old chap," he said, "just as I would be if I permitted you to lead me into a wretched fight. You don't understand——" "Oh, yes I do; I understand everything. I've gug-got you sized up for just what you are, a big case of bluff. I've cuc-called you, and your show-down is mighty rotten. Bah! If the fellows around here want to think you the whole shooting match after this, they're welcome to do so. But in order to keep your reputation as a dangerous character you'll have to do something besides jump on fellows like Rackliff and Lander." Disdainfully he turned his back on Grant. "You chaps can sus-see just what sort of a creature your fine hero is," he said. "Now hang around him as much as you like, and worship him. You all make me sick!" He walked away, followed hastily by Rackliff. At the corner above the square Herbert overtook Phil, who seemed surprised as he came up. "Oh, say," chuckled the city youth, "you did bore it into him fine! And he didn't dare put a hand on you, either. That was queer, for, my word! he's strong as Sandow. He handled me as easy as if I wasn't out of knickerbockers." "Paugh!" said Phil. "Anybody could do that. You've sus-sucked cigarettes until you haven't as much strength as a sick kitten." "Oh, I don't know about that," retorted Rackliff resentfully. "I guess I'm about as strong as the average fellow; but I tell you he's a holy terror—a perfect Hercules. I thought every minute he'd open on you. I don't see why he didn't, for you rubbed it in to the limit." "He didn't dare, that's the reason why," declared Springer. "I've got him sized up now; he's the kind that strikes when the other chap isn't lul-looking." "I guess you're right. I called him a bluffer, too. It was first rate of you to step in and take my part." "I didn't do it on your account." "No?" "Not at all. I was itching for an excuse to get at him, and you provided one, that's all." Herbert was somewhat taken aback by this frank confession. "Well," he said slowly, "anyhow, you showed him up to that bunch of lickspittles. They were surprised." "I fuf-fancy so. This whole town has got the notion that Rod Grant is simply it. They thought he would fight at the drop of the hat." "What would you have done if he'd taken you up?" "Whipped him," answered Phil confidently. "I've taken boxing lessons. What does he know about scientific fighting? I had made up my mum-mind to take care that it was a regular fight by rounds, with seconds and a referee to see fair play. I'd certainly fixed him that way, all right." Still, to his annoyance, Rackliff seemed doubtful. "Perhaps you would, but if he'd ever got in one wallop——" "Oh, you make me tut-tired!" exclaimed Springer. "Well, even if you didn't butt in on my account, I'm much obliged, just the same. You're all right, Spring, old fel, and if I can do you a good turn I will. Perhaps I'll have the chance. Gee! I want a whiff. Have a smoke?" "No," declined Phil. "I'm going home. Good night." He left Herbert there, lighting a cigarette and coughing hollowly. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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