Rival Pitchers of Oakdale | Page 9

me they must need you."
"Oh, they'll need somebody, all right; but Springer's trying to coach up
our cattle puncher, Grant, to do part of the twirling. You don't know
Grant. He's a new man; came in last fall. He's from Texas."
"Can he pitch?"
"Pitch! Just about as much as an old woman."
"Well, I don't mind telling you that Oakdale is certainly going to need a
good man on the slab when she runs up against Barville this year.
Needn't think you'll have the same sort of a snap you had last season.
Lucky for you Lee Sanger hadn't developed when you played us. Gee!
but he did come toward the end of the season. Look how he held
Wyndham down; and he'd won that game, too, with proper support.
He'll be better this year."
"I hope Barville beats the everlasting stuffing out of Oakdale."
"Do you really?" chuckled Roberts. "How's your friend feel about it?
Does he play?"
"Nit," said Rackliff. "Draw poker is about the only kind of a game I
ever take a hand in."
"Oh, Herbert knows they've given me a rotten deal," said Hooker
quickly. "He's got his opinion about it. Honestly and truly, we'd both
like to see Barville win."
"If that is the case," whispered Roberts, with a secretively friendly and
confidential air, "you're just about dead sure to have your desire

gratified. We'll have the finest high school battery ever seen in these
parts. Got a new catcher, you know."
"No. I didn't know."
"Yep. He's a corker. Knows the game from A to Z, and he's coaching
Sanger. You should see them work together. By the way, he comes
from a town near Boston. Part of the city, isn't it--Roxbury? He knows
more baseball than any fellow in these parts."
"What's his name?" asked Rackliff, lighting a fresh cigarette.
"Copley."
"What?" exclaimed Herbert, nearly dropping his cigarette. "Not Newt
Copley?"
"That's him."
"Great scott! Say, he is a catcher. He's the trickiest man who ever went
behind a bat. I know, for I've seen him play. He knows me, too. Say,
isn't it odd that I should have a chum pitching for Wyndham this year
and an acquaintance catching for Barville?"
The face of Len Roberts wore a look of satisfaction.
"Of course, we haven't seen Cop in a real game yet, but he brought his
credentials with him, and they were sufficient to satisfy everybody that
he was the real thing. Glad to meet somebody who knows about him.
With Sanger handing 'em up, and Cop doing the receiving, you can bet
Barville is going to take a fall out of Oakdale."
"I'd like to bet on it," said Herbert, with a touch of eagerness; "but I
don't suppose I could find anybody down around here with sporting
blood enough to risk any real money on the game. Say, do me a favor;
tell Newt Copley that Herbert Rackliff is here in this town. He'll
remember the fellow they called 'the plunger,' and 'the dead-game
sport.' Even if I don't play baseball, I've sometimes made a few easy

dollars betting on the games."
"And you'd bet against Oakdale?"
"Sure thing, if I felt certain she would lose."
"I'm afraid," grinned Roberts, "that neither you nor Hooker is very
loyal to his school."
"Loyal!" snarled Roy. "Why should we be?"
"When it comes to wagering money," observed Rackliff wisely, "the
fellow who bets on sympathy or loyalty is a chump. I always back my
judgment and try to use some common sense about it. I hope you don't
think for a fleeting moment that I contemplate finishing my preparatory
school education in this stagnant hole. Not for little Herbert. I'd get
paresis here in less than a year. I'm pretty sure the governor simply
chucked me down here for a term, as sort of a warning. I'll go back for
good when the term's over."
"Well, now if you fellows really want to see Oakdale surprised, and
enjoy the pleasure of witnessing Barville hand 'em a good trimming,
perhaps you won't say anything about our new catcher."
"Not a word," promised Hooker.
"Not a whisper," assured Rackliff. "And perhaps I'll catch a sucker or
two if I fish around for them. Really, the prospect is inviting, for it
seems to promise a break in the deadly monotony."
"Here come some of the fellows now," said Hooker, as two or three
boys were seen coming down Lake Street. "Practice is over. Let's sift
along, Rack. I don't care to see them. So long, Len. Good luck to you."
"So long, fellows," said the boy from Barville, as they turned up Main
Street. "You'll have a chance to be happy Saturday. Bet all you can on
it, Rackliff, old fel."

CHAPTER V.
HOOKER'S MOTORCYCLE.