Chapter XI Enos Quibb Again
Pence got down to curving a few, and Red Phillips did not find it so easy to hammer the ball. The black-haired fellow’s benders weren’t remarkable; it was evident that he had gone in for speed almost entirely, and had not tried for control.
Without doubt Horace Pence felt that his showing was not of the first class. Used as he was to lording it over his fellows, being superior to them in almost every sport and pastime, it cut him to be criticized right where he felt himself to be strongest.
He was a small town ball-player, used to playing with High School nines and factory teams on Saturday afternoons. No real coach had ever trained Pence, and it is doubtful if he—with his excellent opinion of himself—would have taken at all kindly to the advice of an ordinary coach. That was really the principal trouble with Horace Pence; he had never been disciplined.
Rex Kingdon was different from the ordinary coach. Pence had gone up to the pitcher’s position with every expectation of making the blond chap flinch and cry quits. Kirby was a husky fellow, with hands toughened by hard toil; for his father made him work in his coal and wood yard when he was out of school. Harry at times had difficulty in holding Pence.
This catcher from Walcott Hall was not feazed by all the speed at Pence’s command. He came up smiling every time. Not only that, but he had used Kirby to display the fact that few of those speedy balls would ever pass muster in a regular game where there were good batters.
Kirby had scoffed at Kingdon and Red Phillips; Ben Comas had sneered; while Pudge’s expression of countenance was disdainful. Nevertheless, Pence knew his exhibition had not been distinctly brilliant.
These Walcott Hall fellows knew more about baseball than he and his friends. The confidence of that red-haired chap with the stick, the force and accuracy with which Midkiff flung the ball from behind second, and Kingdon’s ease and attitude of nonchalance, showed Pence that they all had attainments superior to his own.
He remembered Rex Kingdon from the time when the latter had come down out of the backwoods with the Ridgewood High nine to play a local team of which Pence was a member. Rex had pitched part of that game. The black-browed chap had nursed a grudge against Kingdon since that occasion because of some few personal remarks that were passed in the heat of argument over a play. Kingdon, of course, had forgotten all about it long ago.
At the time of that gone-by game Horace was sure he was a better pitcher than Rex, though he had little opportunity of learning much about Kingdon’s all-round ability in the game. Learning, through the refusal of the Manatee Lumber Company to grant Ben Comas and his friends permission to camp on Storm Island, that Rex Kingdon was to be there for the summer, Horace had instantly made up his mind that he desired to cross swords with the blond fellow of whom he had taken such a dislike.
With the two parties encamped upon the island, there would be plenty of opportunity to try conclusions with Kingdon. Pence had no intention of having the meetings of his party with the Walcott Hall boys to be so friendly. Somehow, Kingdon’s careless good nature had removed the friction.
Horace had the elements of a decent chap in his makeup. His standard of honor was not high; yet he was not of the caliber of Ben Comas. Having actually challenged Kingdon, and having been given a square deal, Horace could not bring himself to end the session in an open wrangle with Rex and his crowd.
“There!” he finally observed, sending in a twister that quite puzzled Red Phillips. “That’s my last for to-day. I’ve amused you chaps enough.”
“Didn’t want to suggest it,” Kingdon said seriously, coming forward to meet the black-haired fellow, “but I do think, old chap, that you rather overdo it. No wing will stand such a steady strain. You’ve got a lot of speed in that left arm, and you ought to take care of it. Where’s your sweater?”
“This hot day?” laughed Pence, uncertain that Kingdon was not chaffing.
The backstop picked up his own discarded jacket and held it out so that Pence could easily slip his arms into it.
“No josh,” he said as Horace slowly got into the coat. “I’m going to make my cripples work a little—if you fellows don’t want your diamond for a while.”
“Your cripples?” repeated Horace, interested in spite of himself.
“Cloudman and Midkiff, our two star pitchers. Both have done some good work this last term. And both of ’em have the spring halt in their elbows.” Kingdon laughed.
“Help yourself,” said Horace carelessly. “I want a rest, and Harry and the others won’t play if I don’t.”
Kingdon’s voice dropped a point or two as he said:
“I’d like to show you a few, Pence, if you’ll stand without hitching. You don’t play regularly with any team, do you?”
“No.”
“If our coach could get hold of you he’d turn out a real ball-player before he got through with you, believe me!”
“Indeed?” drawled Horace. “I had no idea you had a coach at that fresh-water kindergarten. Thought you were the whole cheese there.”
“Oh, no,” laughed Kingdon, apparently not at all ruffled. “There are other cheeses at Walcott Hall.”
He turned away and called his crew together, while Pence went back to his friends and sat down in the shade.
“Say!” exploded Ben Comas. “You’re thicker’n hasty-puddin’ with that blond fellow. What’s the idea?”
“Why didn’t you knock his head off?” growled the glowering Kirby. “He’s too fresh!”
“He wasn’t fresh with me,” Horace Pence returned cheerfully. “Knock his head off yourself, Harry—if you think you can do it.”
“Huh!” grunted Ben. “You said you was going to fix him if he came to Storm Island. Didn’t he, Pudge?”
“That’s what you did, Horrors,” agreed the fat chap.
“Wait till he gives me an opening, will you?” snapped Horace with some fretfulness.
“What sort of an opening do you want?” demanded Ben. “Look what he did to us last night.”
“Old stuff,” responded Horace, cool again. “We’ve made a bargain, haven’t we, that wipes that out?”
“Bargain!” sneered Ben.
“He stole our canoes,” said Kirby.
“And he did it to make the bargain,” laughed Pence. “Smart chap, that Rex King. You got to hand it to him.”
“Wait till Joe Bootleg gets a chance at him,” said Ben. “He’ll hand him something he won’t forget. Joe’s eye is in mourning, and he’s as lame and bruised as though he’d been through a threshing machine.”
Horace remained silent.
Kingdon sent out his men to bat and practice base running, and Hicks gave an exhibition of his ability to steal sacks, being highly successful. Horace Pence was really interested in this practice. Such snappy work he had never seen before. Kirby and Ben Comas lighted cigarettes.
“You fellows better cut out the coffin-nails if you want to keep your wind,” Kingdon advised them.
“You better smoke a few yourself, Blondy,” growled Kirby, “if they’ll really reduce your supply of hot air.”
“He’s right,” drawled Horace. “I guess I won’t smoke now.” But his real reason for not smoking was that he had discovered he was not wearing his own coat.
The sun was getting low when Kingdon called it a day’s work. Horace and his party scrambled to their feet, too, when the Walcott Hall boys collected their possessions and prepared to go down to their camp. Horace tossed the borrowed jacket to Kingdon, saying:
“Much obliged.”
“Same to you,” Kingdon returned, “for the use of your lay-out here.”
“You’re welcome whenever we’re not playing,” Horace said lazily and walked off with his crowd.
“What d’ye think of that bunch?” Cloudman said as the Walcott Hall boys approached camp.
“That Horrors has some speed,” little Hicks stated wisely.
“He’s an ugly brute,” was Red’s opinion.
“So are you,” laughed Kingdon. “There are no medals on you, Bricktop, for politeness. And as for Mid—he’s got a grouch that won’t rub off.”
“Well,” said Midkiff, decidedly, “I don’t like one little thing about that gang.”
“And here is this blue-eyed beauty,” said Red, “wants to inveigle Horrors into——”
He broke off suddenly; but it wasn’t a warning from Kingdon that hushed Phillips. They had come in sight of the camp. Moored to the bank below it was a motorboat. A fellow with a straw-colored chin whisker and a plentiful sprinkling of freckles on his red face, sat on a rock before their tent.
“Hullo! Who’s the guest?” drawled Kingdon.
“Look!” whispered Hicks. “It’s a constable! See his badge, fellows?”
The freckle-faced officer was none other than Enos Quibb, of Blackport.