“Come, Mittie, we must fix up in style for the dinner to-night, and it’s time we were at it.”

  When they reached the hotel Mac made a grab for Chase and beamed on him.

  “Chase, old boy, shure things are comin’ great. Cas goes to Cleveland fer a try-out. I’ve sold Benny to Cincinnati an’ you to Detroit. Burke offered twelve hundred fer you on Saturday, but I held out fer fifteen. An’ I got the check to-night. I promised you one-third if you hit 400, an’ you’ve gone an’ hit 416. Chase, thet’s awful fer a first season. You lead the league. An’ tomorrow you git yer five hundred bucks. Burke wrote me to tell you he’d send the contract. He offers two thousand. So you’re on, an’ I’m tickled to death. I’ve made you a star an’ you’ve made me a manager.”

  Somebody else made a grab for Chase. It was judge Meggs, who congratulated him warmly. Then Chase, with Mittie-Maru hanging to his coat sleeve, was deluged in a storm of felicitations.

  The banquet-room, with its long decorated table, brought a yell from the hungry ball players. The waiters began moving swiftly to and fro; the glasses clinked musically; the noisy hum of conversation and jest grew steadily louder and gayer. There were fourteen courses and every player ate every course, except Benny, who got stalled on the unlucky thirteenth. Then chairs were shoved back and cigars lighted.

  Judge Meggs, who was toastmaster, rose and spoke for a few moments, congratulating Findlay on her great ball-team, and the directors on their prosperous season, and the players on having won the championship. At the close he ended with a neat presentation speech.

  Then before each player was placed a large colored box with a fitting inscription on the lid. Chase’s was “416.” Enoch’s was “Mugg’s Landing.” Benny’s was “My Molly O.” On Cas’s was a terrible representation of a bulldog, with the name “Algy” above, and below Cas’s well-known “Wha-at?” And so on it went down the line.

  Inside the boxes were the purses, shares of benefit, presents from directors, and from individuals. Chase won both hitting and base-stealing purses, Cas the pitcher’s, Enoch the fielder’s. Each got a silver watch, a gold scarf-pin, and link cuff-buttons. Each got cards calling for an umbrella, a hat, a Morris chair, a box of candy. All received different presents from personal friends and admirers. Chase was almost overcome to find that judge Meggs and other friends had that very morning furnished his cottage completely.

  Then the toastmaster interrupted the happy buzzings and called on Mac. The little manager bounced up with shiny face; he lauded Findlay and its generous citizens; he raved about the baseball team; he spouted over Cas and Benny, and almost ended in tears over Chase.

  “Gentlemen,” said judge Meggs, impressively, “we have with us to-night a remarkable ball-player and good fellow. He has captained the team with excellent judgment; he has been a great factor in our victory. We have expected much of him and have not been disappointed. We expect much of him to-night. For surely a man with his wonderful command of language, his startling originality of expression, and his powers of uninterrupted, flowing speech, such as we are all so happily familiar with, will give us a farewell word to cheer our hearts through the long winter to come. Gentlemen, Mr. Enoch Winters.”

  Enoch rose as if some subterranean force had propelled him. His round red face and round owl eyes had their habitual expression of placid wisdom. But Enoch had difficulty with his vocalization. “Gennelmen,” he began, and then it was evident his voice frightened him. “I — this — y’see,” he stammered, rolled up his tongue into his cheek to find his never-failing quid this time failing him. “Great honor — sure — I — we ‘preciate—”

  Then the voluble coacher, the bane of pitchers and umpires, the terror of the inexperienced, stammered that something was “too full fer words” and sat down. Whether he said “stomach” or “heart” no one knew, but all assumed he meant the latter and roared their applause. Judge Meggs, with a few fitting words, called upon Castorious; and Cas, he of the iron arm, iron heart and voice, could not establish relations between his mind and his speech.

  Judge Meggs said: “Gentlemen, we want to hear from our great second baseman, who, we are sorry to say and happy also, will not be with us next season. For he is going higher up. We have heard of a yet better stroke of fortune that has befallen him. In brief, we understand he has won from our midst one of Findlay’s sweetest and best girls, and that the happy fulfillment of such good fortune is to be celebrated upon a day in the near future. We think he owes us something. Gentlemen, Mr. Benny Ross.”

  “No one ever had such friends!” cried Benny, dramatically. “No one ever had such friends!” And that was all he could say.

  “Gentlemen,” said judge Meggs, “we have with us to-night a lad who came to Findlay empty-handed, yet who brought much. We shall watch his future as we have watched him develop here. And when he returns to Findlay to become one of her solid, substantial business men, we shall not forget when he was a Star of the Diamond. Gentlemen, Mr. Chase Alloway.”

  Chase managed to rise to his feet, but was utterly unable to respond. Emotion made him speechless. He smiled helplessly at judge Meggs and sat down. The judge called upon several other players, and they too might as well have been dumb.

  Then Mittie-Maru laboriously climbed upon his chair, and raised his strange, shrunken figure. He put his right hand to his breast and beamed upon the company. “Mr. Toastmaster an’ friends,” began Mittie, “my worthy captain an’ fellow players are too full fer utterance. Mebbe the sparklin’ stuff in the long-stemmed glasses hes tongue-tied ‘em. Somebody must thank all you gentlemen fer this banquet, an’ it’s up to me. If the bases was full now we could feel sure of gittin’ a hit, fer we’re sure long on hits an’ short on speeches.

  “Fer the team I wanter say thet this is a gran’ an’ glorious occasion, thet Findlay is the finest town in the U. S., thet the directors an’ supporters of the team are real sports an’ good fellows, the best ever! This hes been a great Summer fer us all, an’ we’ve been happy. We’re sorry it’s over. Baseball players hev to go from town to town an’ part from each other an’ kind friends. An’ I’m sure none of us will ever forgit the fight we made fer the pennant an’ the friends we made in good old Findlay.”

  Right warmly did all join in applause. Then, after a parting word from the judge, good-nights were spoken, and the banquet to the championship team was over.

  Before Chase went home he wrote a letter to his mother, and told her, as he was still boss of the family, and disposed to become more so in the future, she and Will were to come to Findlay. They were to dispense with all the old useless furniture and belongings, that would only have reminded them of past dark hours, and to come prepared for a surprise and future brightness.

  Chase slept poorly that night, and kept Mittie-Maru awake, and in the morning got him out at an early hour to see the cottage. It seemed that a fairy’s hand had been at work during the last forty-eight hours. The cottage was furnished from one end to the other, not poorly nor yet lavishly, but in a manner that showed the taste of a woman and the hand of a man. Chase felt that some one had read his mind. Who had guessed which was to be his mother’s room, and Will’s, and his own, and therein placed such articles as would best please each? So Chase learned in another way that the needs of the human heart are alike in every one.

  That day he and Mittie loaded the pantry with all manner of groceries. Then while Mittie went out to his old home in the brick-kiln to fetch the few things he owned, Chase fitted up the little room next to his. When Mittie saw it he screwed up his face and sat gingerly on the little, white bed. “I’ll be dinged if it ain’t swell!”

  After this, Chase would have it that Mittie should go with him to a store and purchase a suit. Mittie submitted gracefully, and after a trying time in the store he produced a dilapidated pocket-book and began to count out the price marked on the tag of the selected suit.

  “No, you don’t,” said Chase, “this is on me.”

  “Mebbe you tho’t I was busted,” replied Mittie, with a smile. “I ain’t on my uppers yet, me boy. Never was much fer style, but, now when the time comes, I can produce.”

  Chase and Mittie were arguing the question when the storekeeper said they must regard the suit as a present, and refused to be paid.

  “Wot t’ ‘ll!” exclaimed Mittie. “Hev I ben hittin’ the pipe?”

  The afternoon and evening were very long to Chase. He slept that night from sheer exhaustion. He was up with the sun, woke Mittie, whistled, sang, and consulted his watch every few moments. The train he expected his mother and Will on was due at ten o’clock. He packed his effects, and sent Mittie for a wagon to take them to the cottage. Then he went, hours before train-time, to the station where he paced the platform. What an age it seemed! At last he heard the train whistle, and he trembled. He ran to and fro. Suppose they did not come? With a puffing and rumbling the engine slowed up and came to a stop.

  Only two passengers got off, and upon these Chase swooped down like a hawk. He gathered the little woman up in his arms and smothered all her voice except “my Chase.”

  “Hello, Will! How about college, old boy.”

  “You great, brown giant!”

  And that was all. Chase bundled them into a hack, and telling the driver where to go, he looked at his mother and brother, so as really to see them. How changed they were! His mother’s face had lost its weary shade. She was actually young and pretty again. And Will-he was not the same at all. Bells of joy rang in Chase’s heart. Then he began to talk and he talked like a babbling brook. Baseball, the championship, his leading the league, his sale to Detroit, his many friends, about the certainty of Will’s going to college-everything but where they were going. Then the hack stopped. Chase helped them out, and turning to the hackman, thanked him and held up a dollar.

  “This’s my treat,” said the hackman, tipping his hat.

  “Say, isn’t my money any good round here?” demanded Chase.

  “Your money’s same as counterfeit in Findlay. Good luck!” With a smile, the hackman turned his team and drove away.

  “Chase, what a pretty place!” said his mother.

  “Do you board here?”

  “Well, not yet. But I hope to.”

  Chase opened the front door and ushered them in. A bright fire crackled in the open grate.

  “Mother, this is home.”

  Then for a brief space the three mingled tears with their happiness. And at last the mother raised her face with a flush.

  “How I have worried — for nothing!”

  Chase called up the stairway. “Mittie! Come down. We’ve company.”

  Then he whispered to them, “Mittie is my little friend of whom I wrote. He’s a hunchback. If you look at his eyes you will never think of his deformity.”

  Mittie came down without reluctance, yet shyly. The new suit considerably altered his appearance: nevertheless, as always, he made a strange and pathetic little figure. He advanced a few steps, stopped and waited, with his fine eyes fixed gravely and steadily upon them.

  “I am very glad indeed to meet my son’s friend Mittie,” said Chase’s mother. “My name’s Mitchel Malone,” answered Mittie, “an’ I’m happy to know you an Chase’s brother.”

  “Mittie-Maru, he’ll always be to me,” said Chase. “Mother, he is going to live with us.”

  “I hev no home,” replied Mittie, to Mrs. Alloway’s kind questioning look.

  “My parents are dead. I never saw them.”

  Then followed the pleasant task of showing the cottage and grounds. The day passed like a happy dream. At sunset Chase slipped away from them and went down through the grove to the river.

  He was rejoicing in the happiness of others. Yet now that his hopes were realities an unaccountable weight suddenly lay heavy as lead on his heart. He had succeeded beyond his wildest fancy. There was the cottage, and it contained his friend Mittie-Maru, and Will, with the clear light of joy in his eyes, and his mother, well, and happier than he had ever seen her. These were blessings such as he was sure he did not deserve, but humble and thankful as they made him, he was not entirely content. Suddenly the glamour of all he had been working to accomplish paled in the moment of its achievement.

  The swift-flowing river murmured over stones and glided along the brown banks toward the setting sun. The song of the water was all the sound to break the silence. Silver clouds and golden light lay reflected in the river, and slowly shaded as the sun sank. This hour with its diminishing brightness, its slow approach of gray twilight, its faint murmuring river-song, sadder than any stillness, singularly fitted Chase’s mood.

  A shout from Mittie-Maru brought Chase out of the depths. He answered and turned toward the grove. Mittie came hobbling with a celerity that threatened peril to the frail limbs so unaccustomed to such effort.

  “Lock the gate!” he called out, waving a letter at Chase.

  “Wonder who’s writing me?” asked Chase, failing to note Mittie’s agitation.

  “Thet’s Miss Marjory’s writin’.”

  Chase’s hands trembled slightly. Mittie’s eyes were gloriously bright.

  “Last innin’s!” Sang out the lad. “You waited it out, Chase. An’ now’s the time to dig. Git up on yer toes an’ run, Chase, — run as yer never run turnin’ third in yer life, an’ when yer reach home base an’ Miss Marjory, an’ score-why — why just give her one fer Mittie, who umpired yer game.”

  Chase scarcely heard his little friend, and did not see him hurry away toward the cottage, for his eyes were now fixed on the opened letter.

  “This letter is as difficult to write now as it has been to keep from writing sooner. I have so much to tell you. Ever since you saved the Geyser well father has been on my side, and I persuaded him to take me to see that last Columbus Findlay game. “He had forgotten he used to play ball when a boy, and it came back to him. First he grew excited, then red in the face, and he shouted till he lost his voice. Before the game was half over he turned purple. When you made that wonderful, wonderful hit he smashed a hole right through his hat.”

  “Such a state as he was in when we got home! His hat was a wreck, his coat mussed, his collar wilted, and his face all crimson. But I never saw him so happy, and even mother’s disgust at his appearance made no difference.”

  “I think — I am sure — we made life miserable for her. She said you might come to see me. And — I say come soon.

  “Marjory.”

  THE END

  The Young Pitcher

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER XIII

  CHAPTER XIV

  CHAPTER XV

  CHAPTER XVI

  CHAPTER XVII

  CHAPTER XVIII

  CHAPTER I

  THE VARSITY CAPTAIN

  KEN WARD HAD not been at the big university many days before he realized the miserable lot of a freshman.

  At first he was sorely puzzled. College was so different from what he had expected. At the high school of his home town, which, being the capital of the State, was no village, he had been somebody. Then his summer in Arizona, with its wild adventures, had given him a self-appreciation which made his present situation humiliating.

  There were more than four thousand students at the university. Ken felt himself the youngest, the smallest, the one of least consequence. He was lost in a shuffle of superior youths. In the forestry department he was a mere boy; and he soon realized that a freshman there was the same as anywhere. The fact that he weighed nearly one hundred and sixty pounds, and was no stripling, despite his youth, made not one whit of difference.

  Unfortunately, his first overture of what he considered good-fellowship had been made to an upper-classman, and had been a grievous mistake. Ken had not yet recovered from its reception. He grew careful after that, then shy, and finally began to struggle against disappointment and loneliness.

  Outside of his department, on the campus and everywhere he ventured, he found things still worse. There was something wrong with him, with his fresh complexion, with his hair, with the way he wore his tie, with the cut of his clothes. In fact, there was nothing right about him. He had been so beset that he could not think of anything but himself. One day, while sauntering along a campus path, with his hands in his pockets, he met two students coming toward him. They went to right and left, and, jerking his hands from his pockets, roared in each ear, “How dare you walk with your hands in your pockets!”

  Another day, on the library step, he encountered a handsome bareheaded youth with a fine, clean-cut face and keen eyes, who showed the true stamp of the great university.

  “Here,” he said, sharply, “aren’t you a freshman?”

  “Why — yes,” confessed Ken.

  “I see you have your trousers turned up at the bottom.”

  “Yes — so I have.” For the life of him Ken could not understand why that simple fact seemed a crime, but so it was.

  “Turn them down!” ordered the student.

  Ken looked into the stern face and flashing eyes of his tormentor, and then meekly did as he had been commanded.

  “Boy, I’ve saved your life. We murder freshmen here for that,” said the student, and then passed on up the steps.

  In the beginning it was such incidents as these that had bewildered Ken. He passed from surprise to anger, and vowed he would have something to say to these upper-classmen. But when the opportunity came Ken always felt so little and mean that he could not retaliate. This made him furious. He had not been in college two weeks before he could distinguish the sophomores from the seniors by the look on their faces. He hated the sneering “Sophs,” and felt rising in him the desire to fight. But he both feared and admired seniors. They seemed so aloof, so far above him. He was in awe of them, and had a hopeless longing to be like them. And as for the freshmen, it took no second glance for Ken to pick them out. They were of two kinds — those who banded together in crowds and went about yelling, and running away from the Sophs, and those who sneaked about alone with timid step and furtive glance.