The oracle of the grocery store was right in saying that Judge Howell spoke the sentiments of the community in regard to the necessity of taking hold in earnest and organizing a baseball club, if anything serious was to be accomplished. The project took definite shape at once.
“Why,” said Weeks, the bridge-tender, who, from his position, came into contact with half of the townspeople, nearly every day, as they crossed and recrossed the river. “Why, every town north of Bloomington, as far as I know, has got a champion baseball nine, and why should Catalpa be behind the rest? That’s what I want to know. And if we are to have champions, we have got to take hold and help the boys, like they do in other towns. And the very first thing I want to see done is the licking of them Jonesvilles. They are so everlastingly set up by their carrying off the pennant that they are ready to challenge all creation. So I’m told.”
Around many an evening fire and in many a lounging-place in the town, the question was animatedly discussed, as autumn waned into winter, and most outdoor sports became a little unseasonable. It was decided, in that informal and irregular way with which a western community settles its internal affairs, that there must be in Catalpa a first-rate baseball nine, and that it must be organized before the spring opened.
IV
Reorganization Begins
“Where now, Larry?” asked ’Squire Mead, meeting Larry Boyne, on Stone River bridge, one wintry day in November. Cold weather had set in early, and huge cakes of ice had already formed on the edge of the dam, and a light fall of snow gave promise of sleighing for Thanksgiving week, then not far off. Larry was mounted on a sorry-looking nag, borrowed from a Sugar Grove neighbor, and he carried behind him a big bundle of knitted mittens, the handiwork of his mother and sisters, to be exchanged for goods at one of the stores in town.
“Oh, I’m just going to town to trade a bit, and I have a message from Al Heaton that he and his father want to see me about joining a new baseball club to be gotten up here. Know anything about it, ’Squire?”
“Well, yes,” replied the ’Squire, “I’m told that there is something of a stir in town about the matter.” The crafty old lawyer did not say how much the stir was indebted to him for its existence. “Quite a stir, Larry, and they do say that they will get up a new nine; even if they have to hire players to go into it.”
Larry’s cheeks flushed even deeper red as he replied, “There is no disgrace in hiring players to help out, I suppose, ’Squire? I was paid a share of the gate money while I was with the Jonesville Nine, and they have offered me a regular salary if I go with them next season. But I wouldn’t touch a penny of it if I thought it was the least bit off-color for a fellow to take pay for his services.”
“No, no,” said the ’Squire, warmly, “there is nothing in that that an honorable and high-toned young fellow like you are could object to; and if I were you, I would make the very best terms I could for next year. You have been obliged to give up studying law, I hear, on account of the death of your father. If you do well in the ball-field, next summer, you might save up enough to set you right next year, so far as studying is concerned. And, between you and me and the gatepost, Al Heaton and his father are bound to have you in the new nine. So make as good a bargain for yourself as you can. Al can’t play next season.”
“Why, what is the matter with Al? Why can’t he play any more?”
“It’s mighty cold standing here talking on the bridge, Larry, and I don’t know that I have any right to give Al’s reasons, but I have a notion that his mother objects to his going around the country playing baseball. She’s got high and mighty airs since her Uncle George was elected to Congress from the Sangamon District, and I reckon that that is what is the matter with Al’s baseball business. Pity ’tis, too, for Al is a first-rate catcher. Nobody like him, unless it is Larry Boyne,” he added with a kindly smile.
Larry thanked the ’Squire, and, with a hearty “goodbye,” went thoughtfully on his way across the bridge. As his steed climbed Bridge Street, Larry was conscious that he had several new ideas in his head. And when, his little errands done, he found his way to Mr. Heaton’s counting-room in the mills near the dam, he had made up his mind that Jonesville had no claim on him and that he belonged no more to Jonesville than he did to Catalpa. In other words, he was in the market for employment. The mortgage on the farm must be paid off; his sisters and the little brother must be kept at school, and he had his own way to make in the world. To take one season’s compensation as a baseball player would help matters at home very much. It was a gleam of hope in an otherwise gloomy outlook for the young man.
“Glad to see you, Larry,” said Mr. Heaton, heartily. “Al’s been waiting for you this some time, and we may as well go right to business. The boys are talking of getting up a first-class nine, and as my son cannot very well go into it, next year, he has coaxed me to turn in and help the others. And so I will, for I want to see old Catalpa come out ahead at the end of the season.”
Young Heaton, with
