he swung at one of the slow, tantalizing balls to miss it, he frothed at the mouth in his fury. His reputation as a great hitter was undone that day, and he died hard.
In the eighth inning, with the score 11 to 0, matters were serious when the Jacktown team came in for their turn at bat. They whispered mysteriously and argued aloud, and acted altogether like persons possessed. When the first batter faced Chase the other players crowded behind the plate, where already a good part of the audience was standing.
“It’s his eye, his crooked eye,” said one player, pointing an angry finger. “See thet! You watch him, an’ you think he’s goin’ to pitch the ball one way, an’ it comes another. It’s his crooked eye, I tell you!”
A sympathetic murmur from the other players and the crowd attested to the value of this remarkable statement. The first batter struck futilely at the balls, getting slower and more exasperating, and when he had missed three he slammed his bat on the ground and actually jumped up and down in his anger. The second batter aimed at a slow coming ball and swung with all his might, only to hit a hole in the air.
With that the umpire tripped lightly before the plate, and standing on his tiptoes, waved his hand to the spectators. His eyes were staring with excitement, and on his cheek blazed the hue of righteous indignation.
“Ga-me cal-led!” he yelled in his penetrating tenor. “Game called, 9 to 0, favor Jacktown! BROWNSVILLE PITCHER THROWS A CROOKED BALL!”
Pandemonium broke loose among the spectators. They massed on the field in inextricable confusion. The noise was deafening. Hats were in the air, and coats, and everything available for throwing up.
Hutchinson fought his way through the crazy crowd, and grasping Chase pulled him with no gentle hand from the mob in the direction of the barn. Once out of the tumult, he said, “Hurry and change. I don’t like the looks of things. These Jacktown fellows are rough. I think we’d better hurry out of town.”
It was all so amusing to Chase that he could not help laughing, but soon Hutchinson’s sober aspect, and the wild anger of the other Brownsville players, who poured noisily into the barn, put a different coloring on the affair. What had been pure fun for him was plainly a life-and-death matter to these rustics. They divided their expression in mauling Chase with fervid congratulations and declarations of love, and passionate denunciations of the umpire and the whole Jacktown outfit.
Suddenly, as loud shouts sounded outside the barn, Hutchinson ran out, to return at once with a startled look.
“You’ve got to run for it!” he cried. “They’re after you; they’re in a devil of a temper. They’ll ride you on a fence-rail, or tar and feather you. Hurry! You can’t reason with them now. Run for it. You can’t wait to dress.”
One look down the field was sufficient for Chase. The Jacktown players were marching toward the barn. The blacksmith led the way, and over his shoulder hung a long fence-rail. Behind them the crowd came yelling.
“Run for it!” cried Hutchinson, greatly excited. “I’ll fetch your clothes.”
Chase had removed all his uniform except stockings and shoes, and he had put on his shirt. Grabbing up his hat, trousers, and coat, he bounded out of the door and broke down the field like a scared deer.
When the crowd saw him they let out a roar that lent wings to his feet. It frightened him so that he dropped his trousers, and he did not dare stop to recover them. Over his shoulder he saw the Jacktown players, with the huge pitcher in the lead, start after him.
The race was close only for a few moments. Chase possessed a fleetness of foot that now served him in good stead, and undoubtedly had never appeared to such advantage.
With his hair flying in the wind, with his shirt-tails standing straight out behind him, he sped down the field, drawing so rapidly away that his pursuers seemed not to be running at all.
CHAPTER IV
VICISSITUDE
Not until he had leaped fences and crossed half a dozen fields did Chase venture to look back. When he did so, he saw with immense relief that he had distanced his pursuers. Several were straggling along in front of the others, but all stopped running presently, to send after him a last threatening shout.
It made Chase as angry as a wet hornet. With all the power of his lungs he yelled back at them: “Hayseeds! Hayseeds!”
Then at sight of his bare knees he took to laughing till he nearly cried. What would his brother Will have thought of that run? What would his mother have thought? This last sobered him instantly. Whenever he remembered her, the spirit of adventure fled, leaving him with only the uncertainty of his situation.
“It won’t do to think of mother,” he soliloquized, “for then I’ll lose my nerve. Now what’ll I do if those dunder-headed hayseeds steal my pants? I’ll be in a bad fix.”
He climbed a knoll which stood about a mile from the ball-grounds, and from which he could see the surrounding country. The sun slowly sank in the west. Chase watched and watched and strained his eyes, but he could not see anyone coming. The sun went down, leaving a red glow behind the hills; twilight, like a gray shadow seemed to steal toward him from the fields.
He had noted a haystack at the foot of the knoll, and after one more hopeless glance over the darkening meadows, he went down to it. He had visited farms in the country often enough to know that haystacks left to the cattle usually had caves in them; and he found this one with a deep cavern, dry, sheltered, and sweetly odorous of musty hay.
“If things keep up the way they’ve started for me, I’m likely to find worse beds than this,” he muttered.
He discovered he was very tired, and that the soft hay was conducive to a gradual relaxing of his muscles. But his mind whirled ’round and ’round. Would Hutchinson come? What had happened to the other Brownsville players? A savage bunch of Indians, that Jacktown nine! How easy it had been to fool them with a simple, slow outcurve!
“It’s his crooked eye! He looks one way an’ pitches another!” That jaunty umpire with his dainty shoes and velvet knickerbockers—wherever on earth did he come from?
So Chase played the game over in his mind, once more ran his desperate race, to come back to his predicament and the fear that he might not recover his trousers. At length sleep put an end to his worry.
* * * *
In the night he awoke, and seeing a bright star, which only accentuated the darkness, and smelling the fragrant hay, and hearing a strange sound, he did not realize where he was, and a chill terror crept over him. This soon passed. Still the low sound bothered him. Stretching forth his hand, he encountered a furry coat and heaving warm body. A cow had sought the shelter of the haystack and lay beside him chewing her cud.
“Hello, bossy!” said Chase. “I’d certainly rather sleep with a nice, gentle cow like you than a dead man in a boxcar.”
The strangeness of it all kept him awake for a while. The night was very quiet, the silence being unbroken save for the “peep, peep,” of spring frogs and the low munch beside him. He asked himself if he were afraid, and said “No,” but was not sure. Things seemed different in the dark and loneliness of night. Then his brother’s words, “Hang on!” rang out of the silence, and repeating these in his heart, he treasured up strength for the future, and once more fell asleep.
* * * *
The sun was rosy red on the horizon when he awakened. His gentle friend stood browsing on the grass near at hand, and by way of beginning the day well, he said, “Goodmorning” to her.
“Now what to do!” he said, seriously. “There’s no use to expect anyone now, and no use to go back to look for my trousers.”
The problem seemed unsolvable, when he saw a farmer in the field, evidently come out to drive up the cows. Chase covered his nakedness as well as possible with his coat, and hailed him. The farmer came up, slapped his knee with a big hand, and guffawed.
“Gol