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Baseball Joe at Yale

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<h2>CHAPTER XXV</h2> <h3>AT WEST POINT</h3> “We’d a right to that game!” “Sure we had.” “And we did have it in the refrigerator, only it got out through the drain pipe, I guess.” “It’s tough luck!” The Yale team and its admirers—no, in this case its sympathizers—were coming off the field after the Harvard defeat. All sorts of comments, excuses, philosophical expressions, and revilings at fate, were heard. Joe said but little, though he thought much. Every error—every little point he had missed—seemed to stand out glaringly. “Never mind, old man!” It was Spike who spoke, putting his arm affectionately around his chum’s shoulders. “I—I can’t help it,” replied the pitcher, bitterly. “We lost the game.” “That’s just it—we did—not you. Cæsar’s ghost, man! You can’t carry the whole blame of losing the game, any more than you can claim the[211] whole credit when we win. It’s all in the day’s work.” “I know, but——” “‘But me no buts,’ now Joe. Just brace up. This is only one of the championship games. There are more to come, and we’ll get enough to put us on top of the heap. I only wish I had your chances to perform in public.” “I wish you had, Spike. But I guess this was my last chance.” “Nonsense! They’ll play you again. Why Weston—or Avondale either, for that matter—wouldn’t have done half as well, I think.” “Oh, so that’s your opinion; is it?” snapped a voice behind them. There was no need to turn to know that Weston was there, and it took but a glance to show that he was frowning and sneering. “It sure is,” retorted Spike, sturdily, for he was not afraid to air his opinions. “Well, you’ve got another think coming,” snapped Weston. “I’ll pitch a game pretty soon, and show you what’s what.” Joe did not make reply, but he wondered if Weston’s words held significance. “Maybe they won’t let me pitch after this,” he mused. Spike, reading his thoughts, said: “Now don’t you go to thinking gloomy thinks, Joe. You’re all right if you only believe so. Have some confidence in yourself.” [212] “I have, but after the way things went to pieces in the last inning I don’t know what to think.” “Oh, bosh! If you’d had anything like decent support it never would have happened. Hutchinson muffing that ball started us down hill.” “That’s what!” chimed in Jimmie Lee, coming along just then. “This is only one game—the fortunes of war. We’ll beat ’em next time; wallop Princeton, and take the championship.” “West Point is next on the list,” went on Joe. “I wonder what sort of a game they play?” “Like clockwork,” explained Spike. “I saw one, once, and they put it all over Yale. But we’ve got to win this one.” “That’s what!” declared Jimmie. “I say, I know a nice place where we can get a dandy rabbit. Let’s stay over to-night. I can stand some cuts, we’ll take in a show, and have supper after it. Come on, and we can go to New Haven in the morning.” “No, I guess I’ll go back with the team,” said Joe, slowly. “They might think I was trying to dodge if I sneaked off. I’ll go back with the rest.” “All right—then we’ll go to Glory’s and have a feed,” insisted Jimmie. “I’ve got to do something to raise my spirits.” They went to the dressing rooms, and soon the players and their friends were moving to the hotel where they had stopped. [213] Yale had cheered her successful rivals, and had been cheered in turn, and now, as the team walked through the Cambridge streets they heard, on all sides of them, the jubilant expressions that told of joy over the victory. To Joe it was gall and wormwood, for, in spite of the efforts of his friends to make him feel better, he half blamed himself for the defeat. On the way home in the special train he was gloomy and silent, but later, when he and his chums went to the well-known resort, and heard the Yale songs, and saw the jolly faces of the students—jolly in spite of the defeat—he felt better. “It’s only once in a while that the bulldog loses his grip,” declared Ricky Hanover. “We’ll get a strangle hold on the rest of the games and come out on top of the heap.” College life resumed its usual routine after this big game. There were others in prospect, though, and practice went on unceasingly. Joe half feared he would be displaced from his position on the ’varsity, but he was not. True, Weston and Avondale were called on at times, for the policy of the coaches was to have the best pitchers always in reserve. But Joe seemingly was the first one to be called on. Nor did Mr. Hasbrook reproach him, personally, for the defeat. All the players received a calling down for their[214] loose methods in the Harvard game, and their faults were pointed out in no uncertain fashion. In a way the loss of the contest did good, for, following it, the practice was snappier than it had been in a long while. “We want to defeat the army lads!” exclaimed the head coach a few days before the West Point game. Contrary to the general custom the two who were to pitch and catch were announced the night before. It was at a meeting of the team, during which the coaches gave some good advice. Joe saw Weston in close conversation with Mr. Benson and Mr. Whitfield, and he had a fear that the deposed pitcher was trying to “pull strings” and make a place for himself. “Of course you’ll pitch, Matson,” said Mr. Hasbrook, in such a matter-of-fact voice that Joe was rather startled. “And Kendall will catch.” There was a murmur, possibly at the remembrance of the Harvard game, but no one said anything. Joe, who sat beside Spike, whispered: “I wonder when you’ll get your chance?” “Oh, some day, maybe,” was the answer. “I can wait. I’m glad you’ve had yours.” “I must make good, though,” declared Joe, half fearful that he would not. They arrived at West Point to be enthusiastically greeted by the cadets, who took charge of the[215] team, the substitutes and the “rooters” in right royal fashion. A big crowd had assembled, and as the day was a fine one there was every prospect of a game that would be all that was desired. “I wonder if we’ll win?” mused Joe, as he got into his uniform and started out on the field. The cadets were already at practice, and showed up well. “A fine, snappy lot of fellows,” observed Jimmie Lee. “We’ve got our work cut out all right.” “That’s what,” declared Hen Johnson. As Joe left the dressing room, he saw Weston talking to Mr. Benson, who was having a conversation with the trainer. The former ’varsity pitcher—who was now second choice it seemed—was much excited, and as Joe passed he heard Weston say: “Well, I want half the game, anyhow. Can’t I have it?” “I—I’ll see what I can do,” replied Mr. Benson. “I’ll do all I can.” “I’m tired of playing second fiddle,” snapped Weston, as he drifted out behind a knot of players. Joe began to think of many things. <hr class="chap" />[216] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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