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Rival Pitchers of Oakdale

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<h3> CHAPTER XXIX </h3> <h3> PHIL GETS HIS EYES OPEN </h3> "Too bad little Herbie Rackliff isn't here to witness the fate of his chum, the wonderful pitcher from Boston," laughed Jack Nelson. "Where is Rackliff?" questioned Stone. "Why, don't you know? He's sick abed; just went down flat after reaching this town, and had to have a doctor." With the bases full, Chipper Cooper longed for a handsome clean drive; but fortune seemed to favor Crowell, for when Chipper did hit the ball he simply rolled it straight at the man on the slab, who scooped it and snapped it back to the catcher with Eliot only a little more than halfway down the line from third. Taking the ball, with one foot on the plate, the catcher hummed it past Cooper's ear to first, completing a double play. Of course the downcast Wyndhamites awoke and cheered, but the visitors, although disappointed by the abrupt ending of their "streak," felt very well satisfied. "Now keep steady and play the game, boys," called Eliot. "This is the game we want to win." Springer, literally a-tingle with joy over the turn the game had taken, watched Hooker, who was given excellent support, pull through the fifth without letting more than one man reach first base. "I'm glad," muttered Phil. "I don't care if it does cost me seven dollars, for Wyndham deserves to be beaten." Eliot, removing his cage at the end of the inning, looked for Springer and found him. "Come here, Phil," he called, beckoning. Phil hesitated, more than half disposed to pretend that he did not hear and to get away from that locality at once; but, realizing he would find it necessary to face Roger's questions sooner or later, he finally plucked up courage to answer the summons. Greatly to his relief, the captain of the nine did not question him then; instead of that, Roger said: "I'm much obliged to you, old fellow, for putting me wise, although I'm ashamed that I didn't tumble to the fact myself. I hope we can win this game now; we must win it somehow. Grant is knocked out for some time to come, and there's only Hooker left to depend on. If anything happens to Hook, it's all off; there's no one to take his place." Suddenly Phil understood what Roger was driving at, and his pale face flamed with color. "If I can——" he began eagerly, and then stopped, choking a bit. "I thought so!" exclaimed Roger, with great satisfaction; "I thought you must be still loyal and true. I've got to pay close attention to the run of the game. Won't you find Grant and ask him to let you have his suit? Get into it as soon as you can, and hurry back here; for Wyndham is liable to solve Hook's delivery any minute. Hustle, old chap—do." With this admonition, he turned to give his attention to his players. "Still loyal and true!" muttered Phil. "If he only knew the truth! Well, I suppose he'll find out before long, for Rackliff will blow on me. I'll have to face it, that's all. I wonder wh-where Grant is." A few moments later he found the fellow he was seeking, the doctor having just finished bandaging Rod's injured fingers. Springer hesitated, feeling that it was almost impossible for him to approach the Texan, and, as he was wavering, Grant, still wearing his playing suit, started for the Oakdale bench. "I—I bub-beg your pardon," stammered Phil as Rodney was passing. "Oh!" exclaimed the young Texan, stopping short. "Is it you—Phil? What's the matter?" "I—want—your—suit." Springer could not meet Rod's eyes, and he could feel his cheeks burning; for over him had swept a full and complete understanding of his own folly in permitting jealousy to lead him into the course he had been pursuing. "My—my suit?" said Rod, as if he did not quite understand. "You——" "Eliot sus-sent me for it," Phil hastened to explain. "You know he hasn't a spare man on the bench now, and if anything should happen to another pup-player——" "Come on," said Rod, turning sharply. "The dressing room is over back of the seats here." In the dressing room Grant got out of the playing suit as quickly as possible, while Springer stripped off his street clothes and unhesitatingly donned each piece as it was tossed to him. Both were silent, for the situation was such that neither could seem to find words to fit it. However, having put on Rod's clothes down to the brass-clipped pitching shoes and being on the point of leaving the Texan struggling slowly into his everyday garments, Phil stopped and half turned, after taking a step toward the door. "I'm sus-sorry you got your fingers busted," he stated in a low tone. "Thanks," returned Rod, without looking up. "He despises me," whispered Springer, as soon as he was outside. "Well, perhaps I deserve it." At the end of the tiered seats he came upon Herbert Rackliff, who had just arrived at the field. Herbert's eyes widened on beholding Springer in that suit. His face was pale save for two burning spots upon his hollow cheeks. "What the dickens does this mean?" exclaimed Rackliff, his wondering eyes flashing over Phil from head to heels. "Nothing," was the answer, "only Grant's hurt, and I'm going onto the bub-bench as spare man—at Eliot's request." An odd smile twisted Rackliff's lips. "Now wouldn't that kill you dead!" he coughed. "At Eliot's request! Ha! ha! ha! If he only knew! But of course he doesn't suspect, for I haven't given you away. Well, this is a joke!" "I'm in a hurry, so I'll hustle along." "Wait a jiffy. I've just got here. Sort of went to pieces after landing in this town, and they stowed me in bed, with a pill-slinger looking at my tongue, taking my pulse and asking a lot of tiresome questions. He even sounded my lungs, though I protested against it. And then he told me I was to stay in bed, and left a lot of nasty medicine for me to take. I stayed in bed as long as I could, knowing this game was going on. Now that I'm here, how does it stand?" "Your great pup-pitcher, Newbert, was batted out in the fifth inning." "What's that? I don't believe it!" "It's a fact." "The score—what's the score?" "It was four to three in Oakdale's favor at the end of the fifth." "Rotten!" snarled Herbert, and a tempestuous burst of coughing shook him frightfully. When Phil started away the still coughing lad grasped his arm and restrained him. "You—you wait!" gasped Rackliff. "Wyndham must win this game—she just must, that's all. Did you say Grant was hurt?" "Yes." "How much?" "Enough to knock him out; he got two fingers busted by a liner hot from the bub-bat." "Good! Then I suppose that dub Hooker is pitching now?" "Yes." "Well, if I had any more money I'd be willing to bet the limit that Wyndham gets to him, all right. He'll get his." "Perhaps not. He fuf-finished the fifth in style." "He'll get his," repeated Herbert positively. "Then you'll be run in. That's why Eliot wants you. That will fix things beautifully. You know what to do." "Yes, I know what to do," said Phil slowly, "and I shall do it if I get the chance." "That's the talk! You can do it cleverly enough so no one will suspect that you're throwing the game, and we'll win——" "If I'm put in to pitch," said Springer, still uttering his words in that slow and positive manner, "I shall do my level best to hold Wyndham down and give Oakdale a chance to win the game." "You—you'll what?" spluttered Rackliff incredulously. "Why, you're joking! Your money, seven dollars which you gave me, is bet on Wyndham. If Oakdale wins you lose the seven." "If I could do anything to help Oakdale win, I'd do it, even if I stood to lose seven hundred dollars by it," declared Phil. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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