The Triumph of "Curly"
"Curly" sat with head in hands, elbows on desk, and eyes fixed unseeinglyon the half-opened door. The afternoon sunlight made golden shafts acrossthe rows of empty seats. The windows were open, and with the sunlight camethe songs of birds, the incessant hum of insects, and occasionally a quick,rattling cheer.On the playground, under the bluest of blue skies, with a fresh,clover-perfumed breeze fanning their dripping brows, the boys of Willard'sSchool were playing the third and deciding game of baseball with the nineof Durham Academy. But Curly neither heard the cheering nor had thought forthe contest.Curly's real name was Isaac Newton Stone. He had taken the "A.M." degreethe preceding June at a Western university, and had entered his name in thelong list of those wishing to be teachers.As the summer had advanced his hope had waned. September found him withouta position. During the fall and early winter he waited with what philosophyhe could summon, and had studied doggedly, having in view the attainment ofa Ph. D.Then, in February, an unforeseen vacancy at Willard's School had given himhis place as instructor in Greek and German.It is a matter of principle at Willard's to haze new teachers. No exceptionwas made in the case of Isaac Newton Stone, A. M.He was twenty-three years old, but looked several years younger. He wassmall, slight and wiry, with pale blue eyes, a tip-tilted nose and a freshpink-and-white complexion. His hair was of an indeterminate shade betweenbrown and sand-color, and it curled closely over his head like a baby's.Three days after his advent at Willard's he had become universally known asCurly.Former teachers at Willard's, with experience to guide them, had toleratedthe hazing process, if not with enjoyment, at least with apparent goodhumor. But Curly, a novice, thought he saw his authority endangered, hisdignity assailed. The ringleaders in the affair, five in number, wereplaced upon probation in exactly two seconds.The class gasped. Such a thing had never happened before. The hazing died aviolent death, and Curly sprang into sudden fame as a tyrant.The role of iron-heeled despot was least of all suited to Curly or desiredby him, but having momentarily adopted it, he had to continue it. He darednot take the frown from his face for a moment; intimidation was his onlycourse.Meanwhile the faculty viewed events with dissatisfaction. Once or twiceCurly's punishments were not upheld. In May he was informed that unless hecould maintain discipline without such severity the faculty would be forcedto the painful necessity of asking his resignation. His election, theprincipal explained kindly, had been in the nature of an experiment, andunsuccessful experiments must of course be terminated.The experiment was unsuccessful. It was June now, and class day was but twoweeks distant. This morning there had been trouble in the German class, andas a result, two students had been placed on probation. The fact that oneof them, Rogers, was the best pitcher in school, and that the loss of hisservices would in all likelihood mean the defeat of Willard's nine in thisdecisive game was most unfortunate. To be sure, Rogers had merited hispunishment, but the school failed to consider that, and indignation ranhigh.Curly himself, seated in the silent class room, acknowledged failure atlast. He looked at his watch. It was quarter past three. With a sigh hedrew paper toward him, dipped pen in ink and began to write.The letter was brief, yet it took him nearly ten minutes. When at last itwas finished, lacking only the signature, he read it over. He had made noattempt at explanation or extenuation, but had thanked the faculty fortheir kindness and patience, regretted their disappointment, and beggedthem to accept his resignation. He subscribed himself "Respectfully yours,Isaac Newton Stone," sealed the letter and addressed it to the principal.This done, he gathered his books, took up his hat and stepped from theplatform. Footsteps sounded in the echoing corridor, and a flushed,perspiring face peered into the room. Then a boy of sixteen hurried up theaisle."Mr. Stone, sir," he cried, "will you help us? It's the beginning of thesixth inning, and the score's eight to six in our favor. They've knockedWillings out of the box, sir, and we haven't anyone else. Apthorpe's cousinsays you can pitch, and--and we want to know if you won't play for us,sir?" He ended with a gasp for breath."But--I don't quite understand!""Why, sir, we held 'em down until the fifth, and then they made six runs.Maybe they've scored some more. If you could only come right away!""But who said I could pitch, Turner?""Tom Apthorpe's cousin, sir; he's down for Sunday.""But how did he know?""Why, sir, he knew you at college, and--""What's his name?""Harris, sir. He said--""Jack Harris!" The instructor's eyes lighted. He tossed the books on thedesk. "Run back and tell them I'll come as soon as I leave this note at Dr.Willard's."There came a cheer from the playground. It was not a Willard cheer.Turner listened dismayed. "Couldn't you come now, sir?" he begged. "It maybe too late. They're batting like anything. Couldn't you leave the noteafterwards, sir!""Well, may be I could," said Curly. He dropped it into his pocket, put onhis hat and strode down the aisle. "Come on, Turner!" he cried.Along the terrace of the playground, under the elms, were gathered thespectators--the boys of both schools and their friends. At the foot of theterrace, just back of first base, a striped awning warded off the sunlightfrom a little group of professors and their families. On the field theblue-stockinged players of Willard's were scattered about, and on a benchbehind third base a row of boys wearing the red of Durham Academy awaitedtheir turns at bat. This much Curly saw as he crossed the terrace.Then a tall, broad-shouldered man came toward him with a pleasant smile andoutstretched hand. Curly recognized Harris, and sprang down the steps tomeet him. At college they had been hardly more than acquaintances, yetto-day they met almost like fast friends."I never thought to find you in this part of the world, Stone," saidHarris. "I'm awfully glad to see you again. You're badly needed. TomApthorpe, my cousin, was bewailing the fact that he hadn't anyone to pitch.I saw that Durham was playing her professor of mathematics on first base,and asked him if there wasn't anyone in the faculty who could takeWillings's place. Willings is used up, as you can see. Tom said there wasno one unless "--Harris paused and grinned--"unless it was Curly. He didn'tknow whether you could play or not. Inquiries elicited the astounding factthat 'Curly' was none other than Newt Stone, pitcher and star batsman onour old class nine. I told him to hurry up and get you out. And so, forgoodness' sake, Stone, get into the box and strike out some of those boysfrom Durham! The score's eight to eight now, and if they get that man onsecond in they'll have a good grip on the game and championship.""I'm afraid I'm all out of practice," objected Curly. "I haven't handled aball for two years, but I'll do what I can. I wish you'd come round to myroom afterwards and have a talk, if you've nothing better to do."Time had been called, and Apthorpe, who was both captain and catcher, ranacross to them."It's good of you, Mr. Stone," he said, wiping the perspiration from hisface. "I don't think we fellows have much right to ask you to help us out,but if you'll do it for the school, sir, everyone will be mighty glad.""For the school!" Curly wondered rather bitterly what the school had donefor him that he should come to her rescue. But he only answered gravely:"I'll do what I can, Apthorpe."He threw aside his coat and waistcoat and tightened his belt. Then hewalked across the diamond and picked the ball from the ground.On the terrace bank a boy armed with a blue and white flag jumped to hisfeet, and amidst a ripple of clapping from the audience above, called for"three times three for Curl--for Mr. Stone!" There was a burst of laughter,but the cheer that followed was hearty.The batsman stepped out of the box and Curly delivered half a dozen ballsto Apthorpe to get his hand in. Then the two met and agreed on a few simplesignals, the umpire called, "Play!" and the game went on again.It was the first half of the sixth inning; the score was eight to eight;there was one man out, a runner on second, and Durham's left fielder atbat.Curly looked over the field, glanced carelessly at the runner, turned, andsent a swift, straight ball over the plate. Durham's players were eager forjust that sort, and the batsman made a long, clean hit into the outfieldbetween first and second.When the new pitcher got the ball again the man on second had gone tothird, and Durham's left fielder was jumping about on first.Durham's next man up was her catcher. Curly strove to wipe out theintervening two years and to imagine himself back at college, pitching forhis class in the final championship game. But alas! his arm was stiff andmuscle-bound, and creaked in the socket every time he threw.There was a wild pitch that was just saved from being a passed ball by abrilliant stop of Apthorpe's; then the batsman hit an infield fly and wascaught out."Two gone, fellows!" shouted the captain.The runner on first took second unmolested, and the Durham coaches yelledthemselves hoarse. But Curly was not to be rattled in that way; andbesides, the stiffness was wearing out of his arm. He set his lips togetherand pitched the ball."Strike!" cried the umpire. Willard's cheered vociferously. Then came aball. Then another strike. Then the batter swung with all his might at aslow, curving ball--and missed it."Striker's out!" called the umpire.Willard's rose as one man and cheered to the echo. In the tent theprincipal and his associates forgot their dignity for an instant, and addedtheir shouts to the general acclaim. The new pitcher, his eyes sparkling,retired to the bench.The fielders, as they joined him, shot curious and admiring glances towardhim. Harris leaned over the bench and talked with him about the incidentsof old college games. And the boys near by listened, while the curly-hairedinstructor grew before their eyes into an athletic hero.The last of the sixth inning ended without a score. Pretty as it was towatch, the first of the seventh would make tame history. Not a Durhamplayer reached first base. One--two--three was the way they struck out.Curly's arm worked now like a well-lubricated piece of machinery, and theoutshoots and incurves and drops which he sent with varying speed intoApthorpe's hands puzzled the enemy to distraction.Nor was the second half of the inning much more exciting. To be sure,Apthorpe put a fly where the Durham right fielder could not reach it, andso got to first base, and Riding advanced him by a neat sacrifice; but hehad no chance to score.Durham's best hitter was Mansfield, the instructor, who played first base.Just when or how the peculiar custom of recruiting baseball and footballplayers from the faculty originated at Willard's and Durham is not known;but it was a privilege that each enjoyed and made use of whenever possible.This year, for almost the first time, Willard's team had been, untilto-day, composed entirely of students. On the other hand, Mansfield hadbeen playing with Durham all spring, and to his excellent fielding andhitting was largely due the fact that she had won the second of the threegames.He was a player of much experience, and in the eighth inning, when he cameto bat, he made a three-base hit. The little knot of Durhamites shriekedjoyfully and waved their cherry-and-white banners.Curly faced the next batsman, tried him with a "drop," at which he promptlystruck and failed to hit, and then gave his attention to Mansfield onthird. Curly watched him out of the corner of his eye and pitched again.The umpire called another strike.Apthorpe threw back the ball to the pitcher; Curly dropped it, recoveredit, and threw swiftly to third base.Large bodies move slowly. Mansfield was caught a yard from the base. Heretired in chagrin, while Willard's cheered ecstatically. Then the batsmanstruck out on a slow drop ball.The third man made a leisurely hit and was thrown out at first.During the next half inning Curly held his court on the players' bench.Little by little timidity wore away, and the boys gave voice to theirenthusiasm. They wished they had known he was such a ball player early inthe spring. Next year he would play on the team, would he not?Curly remembered the letter in his pocket and sighed.Again Willard's failed to get a man over the plate, although at one timethere was a player on third. The ninth inning began with the score stilleight to eight. The spectators suggested ten innings, and fell to recallingformer long-drawn contests.Curly had found his pace, as Harris put it. His white shirt was stainedwith the dust of battle; his shoes were gray and scuffed; his curly lockswere damp and clung to his forehead; but his blue eyes were bright, and ashe poised the ball in air, balancing himself before the throw, he no longerlooked ridiculous.Harris, observing him from the bench, rendered ungrudging admiration."Good old 'Newt' Stone!" he muttered. "It's the little chaps, after all,who have the pluck!"But pluck alone would not have succeeded in shutting Durham out in thatinning. Science was necessary, and science Curly had. He had not forgottenthe old knack of "sizing up" the batsman. He found, in fact, that he hadforgotten nothing.Durham made the supreme effort of the contest in that first half of theninth inning. It might be the last chance to score. The first man struckout as ingloriously as his predecessors; but the second batsman, afterknocking innumerable fouls, made a slow bunt and reached his base.At that Durham's supporters found encouragement, and her cheers rose oncemore. Then fate threw a sop to the wearers of the cherry and white.The third man up was struck on the elbow with the ball, and trottedgleefully to first, the player ahead going to second. But Curly caught therunner on first napping, and the next batsman struck out. Theblue-stockinged players came in from the field."Stone at bat!" called the scorer. "Brown on deck!""A run would do it, sir," said Apthorpe, eagerly."One of those old-fashioned home runs, Newt," laughed Harris.Curly walked to the plate, and stood there, swinging the bat back of hisshoulder in a way that suggested discretion to the wearied Durham pitcher.From the bank came encouraging cheers for "Mr. Stone." He made no offer atthe first ball, which was out of reach. Then came a strike.The spectators fidgeted in their seats; the field was almost quiet. Thenbat and ball met with a sharp crack, and Curly sped toward first.Across that base he sped, swung in a quick curve, and made for second. Thecenter fielder had picked up the ball and was about to throw it in.It was a narrow chance, but when Curly scrambled to his feet after hisslide, the umpire dropped his hand. Curly was safe. From the bank and alongthe base line came loud cheers for Willard's.But the following batsman struck out miserably. The next attempted asacrifice, and not only went out himself, but failed to advance the runner.Then Curly, seeing no help forthcoming, advanced himself, starting like ashot with the pitcher's arm and rising safe from a cloud of dust at third.Apthorpe went to bat, weary but determined. Curly, on third, shot back andforth like a shuttle with every motion of the pitcher's arm. With two ballsin his favor, Apthorpe thought he saw his chance, and struck swiftly at anoutshoot.The result--he swung through empty air--appeared to unnerve him. He struckagain at the next ball, and again missed.But he found the next ball, and drove it swift and straight at the pitcher.Curly was ten feet from the base when ball met bat. He stopped, poised togo on or to scuttle back, and saw the pitcher attempt the catch, drop theball as if it were a red-hot cinder, and stoop for it.Then Curly settled his chin on his breast, worked his arms like pistons andhis legs like driving shafts, and flew along the line.Beside him scuttled a coach, shouting shrill, useless words. All about himwere cries, commands, entreaties, confused, meaningless. Ten feet from theplate he launched himself through space, with arms outstretched. The dustwas in his eyes and nostrils.He felt a corner of the plate. At the same instant he heard the thud of theball against the catcher's glove overhead, the swish of the down-swingingarm, and----"Safe at the plate!" cried the umpire.At second Apthorpe was sitting on the bag, joyfully kicking his heels intothe earth. On the bench the scorer made big, trembling dots on the page.Everywhere pandemonium reigned. The home nine had won game andchampionship.Curly jumped to his feet, dusted his bedraggled clothes, and walked intothe arms of Harris."The best steal you ever made!" cried Harris, thumping him on the back. Ashe went to the bench he heard an excited and perspiring youth exclaimproudly, "I have him in Greek, you know!"Two minutes later the cherry-colored banners of Durham departed, flauntingbravely in the face of defeat.Willard's danced across the terrace, shouting and singing. In theirpossession was a soiled and battered ball, which on the morrow would beinscribed with the figures "9 to 8," and proudly suspended behind a glasscase in the trophy room.Curly and Harris sat together in the former's study. Supper was over. Curlyheld a sealed and addressed letter in his hands, which he turned over andover undecidedly."Then--if you were in my place--under the circumstances--you--you wouldn'thand this in?" he asked."Let me have it, please," said Harris, with decision. He tore the letteracross, and tossed the pieces into the waste basket."That's the only thing to do with that," he said. And in the successful twoyears of teaching since then Curly has come to feel that Harris was quiteright.
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