CATCHER CRAIG

By

CHRISTY MATHEWSON

AUTHOR OF “PITCHING IN A PINCH,” “PITCHER POLLOCK,” ETC.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY CHARLES M. RELYEA

NEW YORK DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY PUBLISHERS

Copyright, 1915, by

DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY

ILLUSTRATIONS

[1]

CATCHER CRAIG

[2]

[3]

CHAPTER I SAM MAKES A PURCHASE

It was a window to gladden any boy’s heart. Behind the big plate-glass pane were baseball bats of all sorts and prices, masks and protectors, gloves and mitts, balls peeking temptingly forth from their tin-foil wrappers, golf clubs and bags, running shoes and apparel, and many, many other things to send a chap’s hand diving into his pocket.

Sam Craig’s hand was already there, jingling the few coins he had with him, while his gaze wandered raptly over the enticing array. Always, though, it returned to the display of catcher’s mitts.

He was seventeen, a sturdy, brown-haired youth with a well-tanned face from which dark grey eyes looked untroubledly forth. As he stood there in front of Cummings and Wright’s window his feet were planted apart, his attitude seeming to say: “Here I am and here I stay!” And the resolute[4] expression of his face backed up the assertion of his body, so that, had you for any reason wished to move Sam from in front of that window, it would never have occurred to you to try force. If persuasion failed you’d have let him stay there!

You wouldn’t have called Sam handsome, although, judged separately, his features were all good. His nose was straight and short, his eyes thoughtful, his mouth fairly wide and firm, and his chin purposeful. What you might have mistaken for a dimple in the cleft of the chin was in reality only a tiny scar, the result of collision with the point of a newly sharpened pencil caused by a fall on an icy sidewalk many years before. When accounting for that scar Sam was wont to indulge in one of his infrequent jokes. There was, he would tell you, a queer coincidence about it; it had happened in Faber-ary. If, through ignorance of the brand of pencils affected in Amesville, you missed the point of the joke, Sam didn’t explain it. He had evolved that pun all himself, and, not being addicted to airy persiflage, thought rather well of it. Consequently, if you didn’t catch it, Sam thought poorly of your sense of[5] humour and wasted no effort on you. He appreciated jokes when he heard them, but seldom perpetrated one himself. And his appreciation was

seldom demonstrative. When others laughed Sam confined himself to a slight lifting of one corner of his mouth and a quizzical expression in his calm grey eyes. When others doubled themselves over and frankly shouted their amusement, Sam merely chuckled.

He was captain of the Amesville High School Baseball Team. When, two days after the final contest with Petersburg, a contest which had resulted in a victory for Amesville and given the Brown-and-Blue the season’s championship, the players had met to choose a leader for the next year, the honour had gone to Sam. Probably had Tom Pollock, whose heady pitching had done more than anything else to win the Petersburg series, been in his final year at high school, the captaincy would have gone to him by acclamation. But Tom was still a junior and it was the custom to elect a senior, and, with Tom out of it, the choice fell naturally on Sam. The school at large was well satisfied. Sam Craig was well liked. It would be stretching a point to say that he was[6] popular, for he was quiet, unassuming, and kept pretty much to himself, and in consequence made friends slowly. Certainly he was not socially popular as was Sidney Morris, nor was he hailed as a hero as was Tom Pollock. But he was liked and respected, and, if he wasn’t called a hero, few

failed to realise that his steady, always cool-headed and sometimes brilliant work behind the bat had had more than a little to do with the successful outcome of the season just finished. Sam’s election had been made unanimous, Sam had faltered a much embarrassed speech of acceptance, and the team had disbanded for the summer.

To-day, a bright, warm morning in the latter part of June and just over a week after the election, Sam was seriously debating a momentous question, which was whether to deplete his slender hoard of spending-money for one of the brand-new mitts lying so temptingly beyond the glass, or to save his money and make his old one, a thing of many honourable scars, do him until next spring. If, he told himself, he had a lot of money, there were many things in that window he would buy: a new ball—his own had been several times restitched—a new mask and—yes, by jingo, if he could afford[7] it!—one of those dandy black-tipped bats bearing the facsimile signature of a noted Big Leaguer. More than once his hand came out of his pocket and more than once he half turned away, but each time his fingers went back to the coins again, and, at last, he entered the wide, hospitably open door of the big hardware and sporting-goods store. If he had not done so this story would have been far different, for more than the purchase of a catcher’s mitt resulted from his visit that morning

to Cummings and Wright’s.

The front of the store, to the left as you entered, was devoted to the sporting goods. The department was only about two years old, but already it had thrice outgrown its limit, until now it occupied fully a third of the store’s space. There were racks of golf clubs, shelves filled with enticing boxes, handsome show-cases over which a red-blooded boy could hang entranced for a long time, polished counters holding things cunningly displayed, and, between window and cases, an oak-topped desk, at which a boy of about Sam’s age was busily writing. He was a capable-looking fellow, with much red-brown hair and a pair of frank and honest blue eyes and a nice smile. And[8] the smile appeared the minute he glanced up from the letter he was writing and glimpsed Sam over the top of the desk.

“Hello!” he said, jumping up. “Haven’t seen you since they made you captain, Sam. How are you?”

“All right,” said Sam, viewing him, with his quizzical smile, across the bat-rack. “Say, Tom, I want to buy a mitt. How much do I have to pay?”

“Oh, we never tell you that till we’ve shown you the goods,” laughed Tom Pollock. “What you want is one of these, Sam. It’s just like your old one, I think, and you can’t beat it at any price. We’ve got them for more money, but——”

“This is all right, thanks.” Sam thrust a hand into the black leather mitt and thumped it experimentally with his right fist. “How much, Tom?”

“Well, you get the team discount, Sam.” Tom tore a piece of paper from a pad and figured on it. Then he pushed it toward Sam, and Sam read the result, hesitated momentarily, and then nodded.

“All right,” he said, “I’ll take it. You needn’t do it up.”

[9]

“Going to wear it home?” asked Tom, with a laugh. “By the way, Morris was talking the other day about getting the Blues together again this summer. You’ll play if we do, won’t you?”

“I guess so. I don’t know yet. I’m looking for a job, Tom. Know anyone who wants to hire a strong, willing chap like me?”

Tom smiled and shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t, Sam.”

“I went over to see Harper at the mills yesterday and got a sort of half promise of a job in the packing-room later. I’m not crazy about that, though. Maybe I’m lazy, but they sure do work you hard over there. I worked in the stock-room one summer and nearly passed out! And hot!”

“Must be,” Tom agreed. “Wish I did know of something, Sam, but——” He paused and glanced toward his desk. Then, “By Jove!” he muttered. “I wonder—Look here, Sam, mind going away from home?”

“How far? Where to?”

“Indian Lake.”

“Where’s that?”

“Up toward Mendon. About a hundred and twenty miles north of here.”

[10]

“What’s up there? Say, it isn’t peddling books, is it? I tried that one time and nearly starved to death. Sold four sets of Murray’s Compendium of Universal History and cleared just eleven dollars and eighty cents in a month!”

Tom smiled. “No, it’s—— Here’s—here’s the letter I got this morning. You can read it for yourself. I don’t know why they wrote to me unless this chap has bought goods from us. I haven’t looked him up yet.”

Sam took the brief typewritten letter and read it. It was addressed to “Manager Sporting Goods Department, Cummings and Wright, Amesville, Ohio,” and was as follows:

“Dear Sir:—Do you happen to know of a young man who will accept a position in a boys’ camp this summer, July 5 to September 13? We’ve only been running one year and can’t offer big pay, but we’ll provide comfortable sleeping quarters and plenty of good food and pay five a week. If you know of anyone, please drop me a line right away. Applicant must be moral, know something about handling boys—we take them from eleven to fifteen—and able to help instruct in athletics. References required. Thanking[11] you in advance for any trouble I am putting you to,

“Respectfully,

“Warren Langham, Director.”

The letter was typed on a sheet of paper bearing at the top the legend: “The Wigwam; a Summer Camp for Boys, Indian Lake, Ohio. Warren Bradley Langham, A.M., Director.”

Sam read it twice, the second time more thoughtfully. Then he looked questioningly at Tom.

“Interest you?” asked the latter. “If I could take it I’d do it in a minute, Sam.”

“Yes, but this man’s looking for someone a heap older than I am, I guess, Tom, although he doesn’t say anything about age. ‘A young man’; that’s all.”

“Well, aren’t you a young man?”

“I’m young,” agreed Sam, “but I’m no man yet. Anyway, I suppose I couldn’t go so far. There’s just my mother and Nell at home——”

“It would be only about nine weeks, though. The pay isn’t big, but——”

“The pay’s all right, Tom, because I’d be getting my board, you see. The only thing would[12] be leaving my folks alone so long. Still——” Sam thoughtfully fondled the catcher’s mitt.

“You could give him all the references he wanted,” urged Tom.

“Who from?” asked the other doubtfully. “What sort of references?”

“Why, from your minister and your school principal, of course.”

“Oh! Well, what about handling boys? I never handled any. And what about helping to instruct in athletics?”

“He doesn’t say that you must be used to handling them; only that you must know something about it. You do, don’t you?”

Sam looked blank. “Do I?” he asked.

“Of course you do! Any fellow does who has sense and has been a kid himself.” Tom laughed. “You’re too modest, Sam. Throw out your chest! Aren’t you captain of the Amesville High School Nine? As for instructing in athletics, why, all that means is that you’ll have to play ball with the kids and arrange running and jumping stunts and—— Say, you can swim, can’t you?”

“Yes.” Sam seemed quite decided about that.

[13]

“There you are, then! You take the letter and write to Mr. Whatshisname right off.”

“I’d like to,” mused Sam. “I’d like the job.”

“Take it then! I’ll drop the man a note and tell him I’ve got just the fellow for him; baseball captain, all-around athlete, fine swimmer, highly moral, and a wonder at handling boys! How’s that?”

“Pack of lies,” replied Sam, with a smile. “You let me take this letter and I’ll think it over to-night and talk to mother and Nell about it and see you in the morning. If they think it’s all right maybe I’ll try for it. Just the same, I know mighty well he’ll think I’m too young.”

“In years, maybe,” said Tom, “but in experience, Sam!” Tom shook his head knowingly. “It’s experience that counts, my boy.”

“You’re a chump,” said Sam. “Mind if I take this, though?”

“Not a bit. Let me know in the morning, Sam. Joking aside, I think it would be a first-rate thing. You’d come back in September simply full of health and able to lick your weight in bear-cats. We’ll miss you, though, if we get the ball team[14] together again. Who could we get to catch for us, Sam?”

“Buster Healey.”

“That’s so, he might do. Anything else I can sell you, Sam?”

“No, I guess not. Did I pay you for this?”

“Not yet. You needn’t if you don’t want to. Let me charge it to you.”

“No, thanks,” said Sam hurriedly, diving for his money. “If I get that place I’ll need this mitt, I guess. I’ve been trying to persuade myself all the morning that I really ought to have it.”

“Another reason for accepting the job, Sam,” said Tom cheerfully. “It’ll justify your extravagance.”

“That’s putting ’em over,” said Sam, with a chuckle. “‘Justify your extravagance!’ Gee, Tom, that’s real language, that is!”

“Yes, right in the groove, Sam. Say, I’d like to get out and pitch a few. What are you doing this evening? Let’s get a ball and see how it feels. Will you? Good stuff! Drop around here at five and get me.”

[15]

CHAPTER II OFF FOR CAMP

Sam gave his new mitt a good try-out that evening. He and Tom and Tom’s particular chum, Sid Morris, took possession of the alley behind the hardware store and, admiringly regarded by a dozen or so small boys, pitched and caught until supper-time. Sidney, a slim, lithe, handsome chap of nearly eighteen, had been told about The Wigwam and, like Tom, sighed because he could not accept the position himself.

“I’ll tell you what, though, Sam,” he said, as he made an imaginary swing at the ball just before it thumped into Sam’s new glove, “if you go up there Tom and I will come and visit you for a day or two. I suppose they’d let us, wouldn’t they, Tom?”

“I don’t see how they could stop us visiting the place, but they might object to our staying overnight. Here goes for a knuckle-ball, Sam. Watch it.” But the attempt was not successful and Tom[16] shook his head as the ball came back to him. “I guess I’ll never make much out of that,” he said. “What’s that, Sam? Four fingers? I can’t see very well. All right, here she goes.” A slow ball sped across the imaginary plate and Sidney, making believe to swing and miss, uttered a disappointed grunt and angrily slanged a non-existent umpire, to the delight of the gallery. It was time to stop then, and, pocketing his ball, Tom accompanied Sam and Sidney to Main Street and, after Sidney had jumped a car to hurry home to dinner, detained Sam a minute on a corner.

“Made up your mind yet?” he asked.

Sam hesitated a moment. “Mother wants me to try for it,” he said, “and Nell, too, but I don’t know as I ought to leave them so long.”

“Well, you know best, Sam. Only, if you can do it you’d better. You know as well as I do that there’s mighty little chance of a fellow’s getting work in Amesville in summer, except at the mills; and they don’t pay anything over there.”

Sam nodded agreement. “I guess,” he answered thoughtfully, “I’ll write and see what Mr. Langham says. I suppose, though, he will tell me I’m too young.”

[17]

“How would it do,” asked Tom, “to say nothing about your age? He didn’t seem particular about that, you know. Just tell him you’re in your senior year at high school and are captain of the nine; and that you think you could hold down the place to the King’s taste, and so on!”

“I might, only—I’d feel pretty cheap if I got up there and he told me I wouldn’t do. Besides, it wouldn’t be quite honest, I guess.”

“I suppose not. No, you’d better tell him you’re nearly eighteen.”

“But I’m not,” objected Sam gravely. “I won’t be until December.”

“Then tell him you’re well over seventeen,” laughed Tom. “Anyway, make yourself out as old as you can, you fussy old chump! And don’t be too modest. I don’t know but that I ought to see that letter before you send it, Sam.”

Sam shook his head. “I’ll do it all right,” he said. “And you write to him, too, if you don’t mind.”

“I’ll do it this evening. So long. You ought to get an answer by Friday, I should think. I hope it comes out all right, Sam.”

“So do I,” said Sam soberly. “It would be a[18] dandy job if I could get it. Good night, Tom, and thank you for telling me about it.”

That wasn’t an easy letter to write, as Sam discovered later when, with the assistance of his mother and sister, he set about its composition. Nell, a pretty girl a year older than Sam, scored his first draft indignantly.

“Why, you haven’t said a thing about what you can do,” she exclaimed. “You’ve just told him what you can’t! The idea of saying that you’re a fair swimmer! You know very well, Sam, that you’re a perfect wonder in the water.”

“Pshaw, lots of fellows can swim better than I do.”

“No one around here, anyway. And you practically tell him that you don’t know a thing about looking after young boys.”

“I don’t!”

“But you don’t have to say so, do you? Now, you write that all over and—I tell you what, Sam! Write it just as if you were trying to get the place for someone else!”

Finally both Nell and Mrs. Craig approved, and Sam made a clean copy of the letter, slipped it into an envelope, stamped and addressed it, and[19] went out to the mail box with it so it would be gathered up at eleven-thirty and go off on the early morning train. Now that he had made up his mind to get the position if he could he was impatient to learn his fate.

But three days passed without any response and he had begun to think that nothing was to come of his application, when one afternoon a messenger boy brought a telegram. It was extremely brief.

“Mail references immediately. Langham.”

“It doesn’t look as though he thought you too young,” said Tom when, later, Sam dropped in at Cummings and Wright’s to tell the news. “If he did he wouldn’t bother with your references. I guess you’ve got it, Sam.”

And Sam acknowledged that it looked so. The letters of reference went off that evening, one from the High School principal and one from the minister of the church Sam attended. Both were, he considered, undeservedly flattering. They bore immediate result. Just thirty-four hours later another telegram arrived, this time not quite so brief.

[20]

“Satisfactory. Join camp July fifth. Rail to East Mendon, stage to Indian Lake. Bring grey flannel trousers, blue sleeveless shirt, sweater, sneakers, mackintosh. Langham.”

They referred to that telegram at intervals all day. Sam was a bit troubled because it said nothing about socks or a hat, but Nell said she supposed Mr. Langham gave him credit for enough sense to bring such things without being told.

“He doesn’t say whether the sweater has to be any special colour, either,” mused Sam. “Mine’s grey.”

“That thing!” exclaimed Nell scathingly. “Why, mother’s darned that and darned it, Sam. It isn’t fit to be seen in. You must have a new one.”

“Gee, if I buy a new sweater besides all those other things I won’t have any money left! I asked Miller, at the station, what the fare to Indian Lake is and he said it’s four dollars and sixty cents.”

“I don’t care, Sam, you can’t take that old sweater. You can get a new one for three dollars, I guess.”

“Can’t afford it,” said Sam decisively.

[21]

“Then I’ll present it to you. I’ve got a lot of money.”

“I think,” said Mrs. Craig, “it would be nice if Nellie and I bought those things for you, dear. How much would they cost, do you think?”

Sam demurred, but in the end they had their way, and the next morning Sam set out to Cummings and Wright’s with his precious telegram in hand and laid the matter before Tom Pollock.