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Baseball Joe of the Silver Stars

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<h2>CHAPTER XIV</h2> <h3>A KETTLE OF APPLE SAUCE</h3> “Well, Joe, are you all ready?” It was Tom Davis, and he had called at Joe’s house on his way from school, as Tom had to remain in physics class to finish an experiment, and Joe had gone on ahead. “I sure am, Tom. Where are we going to practice? Over on the fairgrounds?” “No, that’s too far. We’ll go down in the vacant lots back of Mrs. Peterkin’s house. There’s a high fence back of her house and that will be a good backstop, in case I can’t hold your hot ones.” “Oh, I guess you can all right,” replied Joe with a laugh, “though I wish I did have lots of speed.” “Say now, don’t make that mistake,” said Tom earnestly, as Joe came out to join him, having picked up some old balls and a pitcher’s glove. “What mistake?” “Trying for speed before you have control. I saw an article about that in the pitching book last night. I brought it along. Here it is,” and both[111] boys looked eagerly over the book as they walked along. As Tom had said, some of the best authorities on pitching did advocate the trying for control before a prospective boxman endeavored to get either speed or curves. “The thing seems to be,” remarked Joe, “to get a ball just where you want it, ten times out of ten if you can, and then when you can do that, try for the in and out shoots and the drop.” “That’s it,” agreed Tom. “Are you any good at throwing stones?” “I don’t know. Why?” “Well, one fellow says that the lad who can throw a stone straight can generally throw a ball straight. We’ll have a contest when we get down to the lots. Nobody will see us there.” “I hope not,” remarked Joe. “I don’t want to be laughed at the way I was when Sam caught me down at the fairgrounds. I guess he thought I was trying for his place then, and that’s what made him mad.” The two friends were soon down behind the high board fence that marked the boundaries of the Peterkin property. It was rather a large place—the Peterkin one—and was occupied by an aged couple. Mrs. Alvirah Peterkin was quite a[112] housewife, always engaged in some kitchen or other household duties, while Ebenezer, her husband “puttered” around the garden, as the folks of Riverside expressed it. “Well, I guess we’re all ready,” remarked Tom, when he had picked out a large flat stone to represent home plate. He took his position behind it, with his back to the fence, so that if any balls got by him they would hit the barrier and bound back. Joe began to pitch, endeavoring to bear in mind what the book had said about getting the balls where he wanted them. “That was pretty far out from the plate,” called Tom dubiously, after one effort on the part of his chum. “I know it was. Here’s a better one.” “Good! That’s the stuff. It was a strike all right—right over the middle. Keep it up.” For a time Joe kept this up, pitching at moderate speed, and then the temptation to “cut loose” could not be resisted. He “wound up” as he had seen professional pitchers do and let the ball go. With considerable force it went right through Tom’s hands and crashed up against the fence with a resounding bang. It was the first ball Tom had let get past him. [113] “That was a hot one all right!” the catcher called, “but it was away out.” “All right, I’ll slow down again,” said Joe. He was a little disappointed that he could not combine speed and accuracy. The boys were about to resume their practice when a face, fringed with a shock of white hair on top, and a little ring of whiskers encircling it below, was raised over the edge of the fence, and a mild voice demanded: “What you boys up to now—tryin’ to knock down my fence?” “Oh, hello, Mr. Peterkin,” called Tom. “We’re just playing baseball—that’s all.” “Where’s the rest of ye?” the old man wanted to know. “This is all there are of us,” replied Tom, waving his hand toward Joe. “Humph! Fust time I ever heard of two boys playin’ a ball game all by themselves,” commented the aged man with a chuckle. “But I s’pose it’s one of them new-fangled kind. Land sakes, what th’ world a-comin’ t’ anyhow, I’d like t’ know? Wa’al, keep on, only don’t knock any boards offen my fence,” he stipulated as he resumed the making of his garden. The boys laughingly promised and resumed[114] their practice. Tom was a good catcher and he had an accurate eye. He did not hesitate to tell Joe when the balls were bad and he was a severe critic, for he had taken an honest liking to the newcomer, and wanted to see him succeed. “Just try for control,” was the gist of his advice. “The rest if it will take care of itself.” “Don’t you want to pitch and let me catch for you?” asked Joe after a bit, fearing that he was somewhat selfish. “No, I don’t specially need any practice at throwing,” said Tom. “First is my position. I like it better than any other, and catching is the best practice I can have for that. Keep it up.” So Joe kept on, using moderate speed after the warning of Mr. Peterkin, so that no more balls struck the fence. But then again came the almost irresistible desire to put on “steam,” and indulging in this Joe sent in another “hot one.” Almost the instant it left his hand Joe realized that he had lost control of the ball and that it was going wild. He instinctively reached out to pull it back, but it was too late. “Grab it!” he yelled to Tom. The plucky little first baseman made a magnificent jump up in the air, but the ball merely grazed the tip of his up-stretched glove. Then it went on[115] over the fence at undiminished speed. An instant later there was the cry of alarm. “Who did that?” demanded the voice—a voice full of anger. “Who threw that ball? Oh! Oh! Of all things! I demand to know who did it?” Joe and Tom were silent—looking blankly one at the other. Up over the fence rose the mild and bewhiskered face of Mr. Peterkin. “Boys,” asked the aged man gently. “Did anything happen? It sounds like it to me.” “I—I threw the ball over the fence,” admitted Joe. “Hum! Then I’m afraid something did happen,” went on Mr. Peterkin still more gently. “Yes, I’m sure of it,” he added as the sound of some one coming down the garden path could be heard. “Here comes Alvirah. Something has happened. Do—do you want to run?” he asked, for rumor had it that Mrs. Peterkin was possessed of no gentle temper and Mr. Peterkin—well, he was a very mild-mannered man, every one knew that. “Do you want to run?” he asked again. “No,” said Tom. “Of course not,” added Joe. “If we broke a window we’ll pay for it—I’ll pay for it,” he corrected himself, for he had thrown the ball. [116] Mrs. Peterkin advanced to where her husband was working in the garden. The boys could not see the lady but they could hear her. “You didn’t throw that ball, did you, Ebenezer?” she asked. “If you did—at your age—cutting up such foolish tricks as playing baseball—I—I’ll——” “No, Alvirah, I didn’t do it, of course not,” Mr. Peterkin hastened to say. “It was a couple of boys. Tom Davis and a friend of his. They were playing ball back of the fence and——” “And they’ve run off now, I’ll venture!” exclaimed the rasping voice of Mrs. Peterkin. “No—no, I don’t think so, Alvirah,” said Mr. Peterkin mildly. “I—I rather think they’re there yet. I asked ’em if they didn’t want to run and——” “You—asked them—if—they—didn’t—want—to—run?” gasped Mrs. Peterkin, as if unable to believe his words. “Why, the very—idea!” “Oh, I knew they’d pay for any damage they did,” said her husband quickly, “and I—er—I sort of thought—well, anyhow they’re over there,” and he pointed to the fence. “Let me see them! Let me talk to them!” demanded Mrs. Peterkin. “Stand on that soap box an’ ye kin see over[117] the fence,” said Mr. Peterkin. “But look out. The bottom is sort of soft an’ ye may——” He did not finish his sentence. The very accident he feared had happened. Mrs. Peterkin, being a large and heavy woman, had stepped in the middle of the box. The bottom boards, being old, had given way and there she was—stuck with both feet in the soap box. “Ebenezer!” she cried. “Help me! Don’t you know any better than to stand there staring at me? Haven’t you got any senses?” “Of course I’ll help you, Alvirah,” he said. “I rather thought you’d go through that box.” “Then you’d no business to let me use it!” she snapped. “It allers held me up when I wanted to look over the fence,” he said mildly. “But then of course I never stepped in the middle of it,” he added as he helped his wife pull aside the broken boards so she could step out. “I kept on the edges.” “Have those boys gone?” she demanded when free. “I don’t think so. I’ll look,” he volunteered as he turned the soap box up on edge and peered over the fence. “No, they’re here yet,” he answered as he saw Joe and Tom standing there,[118] trying their best not to laugh. “Was you wantin’ to speak with ’em, Alvirah?” “Speak with them! Of course I do!” she cried. “Tell them to come around to the side gate. I’ll speak to them,” and she drew herself up like an angry hen. “Did—did they smash a window?” asked Mr. Peterkin. “Smash a window? I only wish it was no worse than that!” cried his wife. “They threw their nasty baseball into a kettle of apple sauce that was stewing on the stove, and the sauce splashed all over my clean kitchen. Tell them to come around. I’ll speak to them!” “I—I guess you’d better come in, boys,” said Mr. Peterkin softly, as he delivered the message over the fence. Then he added—but to himself—“Maybe you might better have run while you had the chance.” “We’re in for it I guess,” murmured Tom, as he and Joe went around to the side gate. <hr class="cb" /> [119] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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