“Oh, that would be very bad!” cried Larry. “I don’t mind your saying in the paper that Mr. Burton has been obliged to leave the club, and that we have supplied his place by placing Mr. Albert Heaton at shortstop, Mr. William Sprague being unable to play, on account of having sprained his thumb while practicing with the club. But don’t let us disgrace the town and the club by making public Ben Burton’s treachery!”
A new light seemed to dawn on the reporter’s mind, and he sucked his pencil reflectively. Finally, he brightened up and said, “Well, you must go and see Mr. Downey. He was reckoning that we would have a first-class story out of this. I have no authority in the premises. I am only an humble scribbler, a mere local-items, so to speak. But a word from you to the editor-in-chief, Mr. Boyne, will have its effect. Yes, it will have its effect. But that is a lovely story spoiled, Mr. Boyne.”
Mr. Downey, when sought in the office of The Leaf, was deeply chagrined to learn that the members of the baseball club were unwilling that anything should appear in next morning’s paper regarding the unfortunate affair in which Ben Burton was involved. News was news, he said, and, what was more, news was very scarce at this season of the year. Harvesting was not wholly completed. No shooting matches had been yet arranged, and there was a frightful dullness throughout the county. His hated rival, The Dean County Banner, would be almost certain to get hold of the affair, and, as The Banner was a semiweekly, instead of a daily, like The Leaf, he would have time to work it up into that dime novel sensation to which The Banner was so addicted. And the editor of The Leaf curled his lip with fine contempt for his rival.
But the arguments of the young men overwhelmed the generous mind of the editor, who, on condition that similar persuasion should be brought to bear on the editor of The Banner, consigned to the wastebasket, but with a pang, the highly-seasoned narrative which his reporter had prepared.
The substitution of Albert Heaton for the derelict Ben Burton was not effected without a struggle. His mother, firm in her conviction that baseball was not an aristocratic game, held out against the arguments of her husband and her son, until Judge Howell, accidentally meeting her on the street, one day, craftily won her over by informing her that he wished that he had a son big enough to play baseball. He was sure that the honor and the glory of defeating the crack baseball club of the State would now fall to the Catalpa nine. It would be a great day for Catalpa when this happened.
The good lady surrendered. What Judge Howell thought and said seemed to her like law and gospel, social and moral. Albert joyfully received consent to play with the nine—“just for this once.”
XVII
A Famous Victory
It was a great day for baseball when the far-famed Calumet club came to Catalpa to play the home nine. The visitors arrived by the evening train and were met at the station by the greater part of the Catalpa club, who escorted their friends to the hotel in which quarters had been engaged. To say that the strangers were objects of curiosity to the youths and lassies of the town would only faintly describe the enthusiasm with which they were received by the people of Catalpa. The morrow was to witness the final game of the struggle, already made sufficiently notable by the narrowness of the margin left for the two contestants, and by the notoriety given to it by the treachery of Ben Burton, now town-talk, but (thanks to the discretion of the players) not known outside of Catalpa.
So high ran the excitement that there were many sleepless youngsters in Catalpa, that night, although the seasoned veterans who were the actors in the drama slept as soundly as though the next day would not dawn, big with the fate of rival baseball clubs. Tom Selby, as his father reported, arose at frequent intervals through the night, looked out on the cloudless sky across which the harvest moon was riding, and went back to his bed with a deep-drawn sigh of satisfaction at the prospect of another fine day for the great match.
It was a beautiful day that lighted up the valley of Stone River; and the mellow October sun flooded the scene with splendor, when the crowds began to flow towards the Agricultural Fair Grounds, now refurbished with great care, and decorated with every available bit of bunting in the place. An enormous throng greeted the sight of the players as they entered the enclosure and made their way directly to the officers’ old rooms, now set apart for the use of the members of the two nines. Special trains had been run on the two railroads entering the town, and from the country round about came long lines of farm-wagons filled with rustic belles and beaux, stalwart young fellows from the rural districts, elder people from outlying villages, and small boys who had heard from afar the news of the great event that was about to happen, and had trudged into town from distant homes, carrying their frugal luncheons with them—all bound to see the sport.
There was Judge Howell’s carriage, you may be sure, with the Judge, his pretty daughter, and his prim sister, eager for the sight, even Miss Anstress grimly admitting, as if under great mental pressure, that she did hope that the Catalpas would beat and so have done with what she thought a long and very unnecessary contest for the championship of the State. There, too, was old Rough
