Chapter XXVII Visitors
Unless one or the other of the two camping parties on Storm Island sailed across to a weir for a mess of fish, they seldom saw a stranger to speak to. Fishermen and others kept away from the island because of the well-known rules of the Manatee Lumber Company against trespassing.
Had the two camping parties not become friendly to a degree, neither would have had so enjoyable an outing. Rex Kingdon, with his never-failing insight and clever ideas, had brought about a situation better than an “armed neutrality.” The boys of the two camps met on grounds of common interest at two points, baseball and rowing.
Each forenoon they spent an hour or two practicing on the ball field. Under Kingdon’s coaching they began to work together quite smoothly, although they lacked a complete nine to play against. But Yansey had threatened to bring over a nine of Blackport boys who could show them some “real baseball,” and the Storm Island lads were hoping he would not forget about it.
Towards evening of each day, as it grew cooler, they began practicing in the eight-oared shell. Meantime Kingdon and Pence were getting the fellows singly into the cedar boat to test their individual rowing.
Not a word had been said about who should be “captain.” Pence had once rowed stroke in a freshman eight at Belding. Frequently the chap in that place is captain of the crew, but not always.
“You’ve got a fat chance to be captain,” scoffed Harry Kirby, one evening when he and his three friends were by themselves. Joe Bootleg did not count, for he kept strictly away from the white boys unless he was told to do something by Ben, to whom he looked for his wages. “A fat chance,” repeated Kirby in the most irritating tone he could command. “Kingdon kid hogs everything. He doesn’t give anybody else a bite.”
“Talking about biting, you can growl, can’t you?” said Horace, placidly.
“Oh,” returned the other, “I don’t care about myself. I don’t care where I row—or if I row at all. I’m only doing it, anyway, to keep peace in the family.”
“Peace is sometimes hard to come by, isn’t it?” murmured Pence, with his cap over his eyes and an air of exaggerated carelessness that was bound to irritate a fellow as much worked up as Kirby was just then.
“You can make believe you don’t care——”
“Certainly I care! I’ve gone into this for one thing—just one thing,” Pence declared with sudden sharpness.
“I’d like to know what it is. We’ll bust up in a row with those fellows. I come near licking that redheaded guy to-day.”
“You’d have a nice time doing it, Kirby,” put in Ben Comas, delighted to see his two comrades on the verge of a scrap. “Phillips could eat you up. I saw him boxing with Kingdon the other morning, and, take it from me, he has a punch. King had hard work to keep away from it.”
“King!” snarled Kirby, like an angry dog. “You’ve got the disease, too, Comas!”
“What disease is that?” asked the lazy one, startled.
“Calling that curly-haired pet King. He’s a fine king! If it wasn’t for his name, he wouldn’t be leading that bunch. He’s got ’em under his thumb, and now he’s starting in on you fellows.”
“Hear him rave,” grunted Pudge MacComber, widely agrin. “Never did hear Harry take on so.”
“The whole thing will end up in a fight,” insisted Kirby, subsiding.
“That’ll be nice,” chuckled Pudge.
“You won’t be in it, if you see it coming,” drawled Pence. “We may be sure it suits Kingdon. He says he loves to fuss with us.”
“I’d like to give him all he’s looking for,” mumbled Kirby.
“Don’t try it, old chap,” advised Pence. “I’ve had the gloves on with Rex Kingdon myself. Phillips may have a punch, but Kingdon has a whole flock of them hidden in his sleeves.”
Kirby fell silent, feeling that they were all against him. Nevertheless, he stopped quarreling about Kingdon—for the time being, at least.
To the casual observer it would have seemed that Horace Pence worked with Kingdon in perfect harmony as they began to whip the crew into shape.
“Horrors knows a thing or two about rowing,” Rex said to his friends, “and there’s no reason he shouldn’t put it into practice.”
“He’ll do something to queer the whole business,” predicted Midkiff. “He’s too erratic.”
“Erratic fiddlesticks!” returned his roommate in Old Hall. “He’s got grit and some foresight. I notice that his judgment in anything but pitching is fine.”
Red laughed. “Don’t let him hear you say that. He’d be dead sore. But he’s improving at pitching, even, Rex.”
“Seems to be improving in general, if you’ll pardon me for saying so,” Kingdon said. “He’s doing his bit. It isn’t for Walcott Hall exactly. So, if we come a cropper over this rowing business, why shed tears?”
Red Phillips’ sturdy back and his rowing ability made him the choice of both Kingdon and Pence for bow oar. Number Two fell to Ben Comas. The latter stirred himself sufficiently to be valuable as an oarsman because he chanced to be very fond of the sport. Pudge MacComber fell heir to Number Three, because it seemed that he balanced the boat better in that place, Midkiff’s bulk occupying the next seat, Number Four.
Cloudman splashed a good deal in the beginning, and the fellows behind him kicked about it; nevertheless they made him Number Five. “Unless you want to give him your seat, Midget,” Kingdon chuckled, “and try to row against Kirby, here, at Six.”
“If I couldn’t do better than Applejack, I’d eat my oar,” Peewee maintained with his usual modesty.
“Just fancy yourself on a wild bronc, little one,” Phillips told the perky coxswain, “and think of what kind of a show you’d make beside Applejack’s performance. He’s at home on a bronc.”
“And Peewee would be at home in a peanut shell,” chuckled Cloudman.
“If I wasn’t more at home in this shell than you seem to be, Applejack,” scoffed Hicks, “I’d write a letter of introduction for myself before I tried to climb aboard.”
Cloudman really intended to learn to row. He was a determined fellow—nor could he be deterred by trifles from any point he wished to gain. He splashed less as time passed, and as Number Four, began to pull a strong oar. He possessed good muscle, did that Western boy!
Kirby was the best of all Pence’s band; Rex had seen that from the start. Short of Horace himself he pulled the strongest oar. They tried him in almost all the positions in the shell and he made good wherever he was placed. Kingdon saw, however, that Kirby seemed much more silent and sullen than he at first had been. He came to the ball-field and to rowing practice with a somber face; Horace was talkative as compared with Harry.
At other times Kingdon often saw the latter wandering about alone, or lying by himself under the trees and taking no part in the general activities or conversation of his comrades. He seemed to have nothing to do with Joe Bootleg. Indeed, the Indian was treated like a servant by the other members of Pence’s crowd. Joe kept strictly to himself, too. He did not even come down to the waterside to watch the rowing practice.
For a full week Kingdon and Pence were busy getting the boys properly disposed of in the shell. Then it seemed to come about naturally that Kingdon was put in as Number Seven and Pence took Number Eight oar.
“Set the pace, Horrors,” said Rex. “You’ve got to stroke us. Let’s see if we can’t work up speed enough to make those Blackport fellows hustle a little, at least.”
“Think I’m the best candidate for crew captain?” Pence asked almost in a whisper. “Really mean it?”
“I’d take it myself in a minute if I didn’t think you know more about the game than I do,” answered Kingdon frankly. “For the good of the crew, old boy!”
Horace Pence stared at him for several seconds. “I’m willing to try it because you say so, Kingdon,” he muttered presently in a queer voice.
“’Nuff said. Now we’ll do our prettiest to work up a little surprise for our Blackport friends.”
Following Kingdon’s advice, they declined to show off in the shell when the Nothing To It was loafing about in the sound, and did most of their rowing toward evening; for at that time it was less likely that any of the Blackport crowd would be in sight.
When Yansey brought over his nine of ball players one Saturday afternoon, however, the Storm Island boys were more than ready to play them.
“Give your eyes a treat,” urged Peewee to Kingdon and Pence, before the game. “Those huskies they’ve brought from the sawmill and the shipyard ought to be in the big league. Methinks they’ve played as far south as Providence. Look at that feller warming up over there. He ought to be pitching for McGraw.”
“Get a foot warmer,” chuckled Rex. “Don’t let the size of ’em scare you, my child. We will protect you.”
“How kind of you!” murmured Hicks. “I hope Middy bounces a fast one off his dome, just the same. He acts like he owned the earth and was just whitewashing the fence around it.”
“Let’s take care he doesn’t whitewash us,” said Kingdon.
The visitors won the toss and chose the field. The Storm Island boys did get whitewashed the first inning, while the Blackport players began to hit Midkiff rather freely. Nevertheless, they pushed only one man around to the scoring station, although it was more by good luck than good management that the island nine held them down so well.
Kirby started grumbling when the islanders were back under the trees for the first half of the second inning. “I thought you Walcott Hallers could play ball,” he said. “What kind of a pitcher is that Midkiff, Kingdon? I call him a frost.”
Midkiff was batting at that moment, but Kirby had not tried to keep his voice down, and John’s face seemed to indicate that he had heard. The situation was tense at the start of the game, and there was danger that trouble would be hatched in the ranks of the home nine. If Kirby’s critical attitude was going to become general, Rex knew the Blackport nine would not have much trouble in winning.