The boys of Columbia High on the diamond — Text and Context

Bellport, where a ferry took farm wagons across. And on this road a cloud of dust told that all sorts of vehicles had been impressed into service to carry the baseball-mad people to the scene.

Fine cars shot along, blowing their horns, and steady-going farm horses trotted evenly by the side of the road, all heading in the one direction. It was enough to thrill the boys belonging to the team to realize that all this excitement in the county was caused by their crossing bats with the Bellport High nine.

“Poor old Clifford never got a peep in this year,” mocked Jack Comfort, said to be the best chaser after flies the school had ever known, and who guarded center field.

“Well, they had hard luck. The game they won from us showed that there was cracking good stuff on the team. I never saw a better game in my life, with the score tied in the ninth. Wow! that was some exciting!” exclaimed Lanky, his eyes sparkling at the recollection.

“It would have been our game if Ben Allison could have held that fly out in left. He made a big effort, but dropped the ball,” remarked Captain Seymour, sadly.

“Well, I reckon that failure just knocked poor Ben out. He’s been no good to the team ever since, and here we have to put our extra pitcher in right garden just to fill in, because he’s a crackerjack pinch hitter!” grumbled Buster.

“That’s all right, boys, and I’m only too glad of the chance to play at all. A freshman doesn’t often get on the team, and it’s mighty fine for you to boost me up this way,” Ralph West hastened to remark.

Ralph did not live in Columbia, being one of the pay students. He was anxious for an education, and a fortunate chance had allowed him to come to the thriving river town at the beginning of the school year. He and Frank had become good friends, and the latter was deeply interested in certain strange features connected with Ralph’s fortunes.

“I think it’s a poor rule that keeps freshmen off the team so much. They are better fitted to take part in sports then than later on, when filled with ambition to excel in their studies,” said Jack Eastwick, one of the juniors, and a substitute on the team.

At this there was a universal howl, for Jack was notoriously averse to studying under any and all circumstances, and depended upon a system of “cramming” just before examinations to carry him through.

“Now, there’s a wide difference of opinion on that question. For my part, I fully agree with Coach Willoughby, who says----” but Buster was seldom allowed to tell what this wonderful instructor, whom the boys really believed existed only in the imagination of the fat right fielder, had to say.

As usual, a shout cut him short, and with an injured stare at the laughing group, he relapsed into disdainful silence.

“Where are their grounds located?” asked Ralph, who had never as yet had an opportunity for visiting the Bellport field.

“Half a mile below the town. Bellport is something of a manufacturing place, and there’s going to be more or less of a rough element at the game, for the factories have shut down for a half holiday, beginning this Saturday, and the hands are sure to be out in force.”

Frank looked a trifle anxious as he spoke, for truth to tell he had more than once wondered whether a sense of fairness would animate that rough element, or the desire to see Bellport win at any cost.

“Listen! I thought I heard a roar just then. The wind is coming up the river, and it must have been shouts from the ball field,” and Seymour held up his hand to ask for silence.

It was while they were thus straining their ears to catch the sounds from below that all at once the familiar “pop-pop” of the exhaust connected with the motor boat ceased, and soon their rapid progress fell off.

Immediately everybody started to shout at once, wanting to know what had gone wrong. Frank sprang over to where Abner Gould bent over the little motor. The man lifted a troubled face toward him.

Every eye was glued on Frank as he started to examine the engine, for they knew he had more of a practical knowledge of such things than any one aboard, unless it might be the man hired by Commodore Adams to run his launch.

“What ails the thing, Frank?” demanded Buster, as the other raised up.