Chapter I: The Scrub Ball Teams

“A dandy drive, Peg!”

“Good for a two-bagger, any day!”

“Look at him cover ground, will you?”

“Nobody’d believe Peg limps when he walks, to see him hustle like that in a game of ball!”

“Look out, Peg, he’s going to get you at second!”

“Slide, Peg! Slide, old scout!”

Amidst a cloud of dust “Peg” Fosdick went down safely to second, the ball arriving just as he clutched the bag with his outstretched hand. Peg arose to his feet, brushed himself off, and waved a hand to his cheering mates on the side that was just then at bat.

Cliffwood boys were having a glorious time on the green devoted to outdoor sports. Still, after all, these were only two scrub teams; for, somehow, up to the present time the bustling mill town on the Sweetbriar river had never mustered up enough energy to put a regular representative nine worthy of support in the field.

Neighboring places, such as Creston, Emoryville, and Barrtown, boasted good teams, and the boys of Cliffwood often found themselves openly taunted on account of their lack of zeal in the matter.

“But things are liable to change from now on!” declared one of the boys on the bench, when casual mention of this lamentable fact was made. “It’s time Cliffwood woke up from this Rip Van Winkle sleep, and made its mark in the world.”

“That time is going to come right away,” asserted the pitcher of his nine, a vigorous lad, Dick Horner by name, and who seemed to be a leader among the boys.

“It’s as certain as can be, or my name isn’t Leslie Capes!” declared the catcher, who was Dick Horner’s most intimate chum.

“Well, Cliffwood,” observed a third youth earnestly, “is a far different town from what it used to be before Mr. Holwell, the minister, and Harry Bartlett, leader of our local Y. M. C. A., organized the Boys’ Department.”

“That’s what nearly every one tells us, Elmer,” returned the sanguine Dick. “And by the coming fall we hope to be able to put a decent football squad in the field, to stand for our home town.”

“I’m mighty glad to hear that, Dick!” exclaimed still another of the players, Phil Harkness by name. And then raising his voice to a shout he went on to say: “Three balls and two strikes, Andy! Make Nat put the ball over, and meet his fast clipper for a homer!”

Almost immediately following the giving of this advice came the crack of the bat as it caught one of Nat Silmore’s speediest balls “on the nose.” The boy on second sprinted for home because he knew that was the play, there being already two out.

Away out in deep center Alonzo Crane made a vigorous effort to get the swift liner. He was coming in on a gallop, hoping to take the ball in his outstretched hands before it could touch the ground.

The onlookers saw Alonzo fairly hurl himself forward in a gallant attempt to make the spectacular play. Then he fell, rolled over several times, and arose finally with the ball held triumphantly above his head.

Nat and his side emitted a roar of applause, and with wild whoops started toward the home plate, as though that play ended the inning.

“Keep on running to second, Andy!” yelled Leslie Capes, excitedly. “He dropped the ball, and snatched it up again off the ground!”

“Sure he did! I saw him do it!” added Phil Harkness, indignantly, for there were several players on the opposing side who, like Nat himself, in times gone by, had been known to attempt just such sly tricks as this; and Alonzo was one of them.

“Aw! what are you givin’ us?” shouted Nat, with one of his old-time bullying frowns. “That was the greatest play ever seen on these grounds! He snatched the ball right out of the air before it ever touched the ground. And he held tight through all his tumble in the bargain. Your man is out, Dick Horner, and you know it, too!”

There threatened to be a furious dispute, which would break up the game; for each side acted as if determined to hold its ground. Fortunately, just at that critical moment a gentleman came sauntering along and approached the squabbling ball players, whose voices were mingled in a warm discussion, while all sorts of accusations were flying broadcast.

“What’s the trouble, boys?” asked the gentleman, who, to judge by the cut of his coat, was a minister.

The clamor ceased immediately. Even the turbulent Nat shrank back a little, as though unwilling that the Reverend Thomas Holwell should see one of his old-time frowns on his face, for Nat was supposed to have broken away from his former life, and to be marching along the narrow road nowadays.

“Why, it’s this way, Mr. Holwell,” explained Dick, himself quieting down considerably, for the minister was known to be the best friend the boys of Cliffwood had, and his unexpected appearance had cooled their ardor as nothing else could have done. “We say Alonzo dropped that liner and snatched it up again, which wouldn’t count for an out. Nat and his side all say he held it tight. So we’re up against a hard proposition, because neither side will give in.”

“Oh! I think I can settle that dispute easily enough,” said Mr. Holwell, with a cheery smile. “You see, I was taking home this pair of opera glasses for my wife, after having had them repaired. As I came along I chanced to be testing them, and as luck would have it, I followed Alonzo as he ran forward to take that liner.”

“Yes, sir!” said Dick, eagerly. “And if anybody could know just what happened at the time he rolled over you should, I guess.”

“Alonzo did drop the ball, though he snatched it up instantly,” said Mr. Holwell. “I saw him do it distinctly. Of course he is just trying to have some fun out of the occurrence. Isn’t that so, Alonzo?”

The boy in question turned fiery red, and his eyes fell under the steady gaze of the minister.

“That’s what I was doing, Mr. Holwell,” he finally managed to say, with a nervous little laugh. “I knew there was a fine chance to have some fun teasing the other side, and I tried it. But I dropped the ball, all right. I did my best to hold on to the crazy old thing, though.”

Dick and Leslie exchanged glances. They felt pretty certain that only for the opportune arrival of Mr. Holwell, Alonzo would have stuck to his story through thick and thin. Nat shrugged his broad shoulders, and looked disgusted at such signs of what he would call weakness.

“Oh! well, if he owns up, of course the play goes,” he remarked, with a sneer, and an ugly glance at Alonzo. “Get back in your places, fellers; and Peg’s run goes. Andy, take second, and count yourself mighty lucky. Anyhow, the rest of us really believed he held it tight.”

Mr. Holwell presently left the scene of action and walked on, with a serious expression on his face. Some time before he and the young man who served as leader to the town Y. M. C. A. had organized a Boys’ Department, which gave promise of doing a vast amount of good among the younger element in Cliffwood.

There had been more or less trouble with Nat Silmore and several of his followers, although just at present they seemed to be getting on pretty well. Mr. Holwell knew boys “like a book,” however, and from the little incident of the day he feared the “snake was scotched, not killed,” as the saying has it.

While the boys are continuing their game after the sudden dispute had been settled by an umpire whose decision none of them ventured to question, a few words concerning Dick and his comrades may not come in amiss, especially to such readers as may not have read the preceding volume of this series, entitled, “The Y. M. C. A. Boys of Cliffwood.”

Dick Horner lived with his mother, grandfather and little sister Sue in a neat cottage close to the bank of the Sweetbriar river. They had been barely able to get along on the veteran’s pension and the proceeds from a small investment. Suddenly bad news reached them to the effect that part of their little property had been swept away.

As has already been related in the previous story, a splendid thing happened for the Horners, and they were now comfortably fixed, so that Dick need not worry concerning his future.

Some of his friends were Leslie Capes, Dan Fenwick, Phil Harkness, Elmer Jones, Andy Hale, “Peg” Fosdick, “Clint” Babbett and Fred Bonnicastle.

Among the new members of the Boys’ Club was Asa Gardner, a boy whose reputation had not been very good in times past, for he had always been called “light-fingered,” being prone to take things that did not belong to him. His mother, whom Asa dearly loved, had died not long before, and the boy was said to have solemnly promised her at the last that he would never again surrender to his strange weakness that had amounted to what is called “kleptomania”--an itching to take the property of others when an opportunity arises.

Some of the boys were doubtful as to Asa’s ability to overcome his faults; but Mr. Holwell stood by the lad, and stoutly backed him up. Dick, too, had a certain amount of faith in Asa, for reasons of his own, in spite of the fact that Dan Fenwick, who was more skeptical, had more than once urged him to “keep an eye on that Asa.”

Dick had been enabled to do Old Jed Nocker, the richest merchant in Cliffwood, a great favor, whereby he found happiness in the possession of a grandchild, little Billy, together with his only son’s widow, Tilly Nocker. Since that time Mr. Nocker had lost much of his former cynicism regarding boys in general, and found numerous opportunities to stretch out a helping hand to the growing Junior Department of the local Y. M. C. A.

It was the unexpected home coming of Silas Langhorne, a brother of Mrs. Horner, from the Alaska gold fields, that had brought contentment and peace to Dick’s family. That was a strange and dramatic homecoming, for an account of which the reader is referred to the previous volume of this series. These summer days were happy ones in the Horner cottage, and little seven-year-old Sue, Dick’s sister, went singing about all the time.

The boys had settled down once more to their game, and the greatest interest was seizing upon them, with the score a tie, when all of a sudden Phil Harkness, out in center field, was seen to be waving his arms excitedly as he gave vent to a series of shouts.

“Hey! look yonder!” they plainly heard him calling. “See all that smoke, would you? It’s Bratton’s barn afire!”