Chapter 3 TWO OF A KIND.

Sitting alone on the bleachers, Roy Hooker sourly watched the continuation of practice. He saw Springer take a turn at pitching, to be followed finally by Rodney Grant, who laughingly warned the boys that he intended to strike them all out.

Rodney Grant was a somewhat peculiar character, who, coming unannounced to Oakdale, had at first been greatly misunderstood by the boys there, not a few of whom had fancied him an impostor and a fake Texan, mainly because of his quiet manners and conventional appearance; for these unsophisticated New England lads had been led, through the reading of a certain brand of Western literature, to believe that all Texans, and especially those who dwelt upon ranches, must be of the "wild and woolly" variety. Perceiving this at last, Rod had proceeded to amuse himself not a little by assuming a false air of bravado, and spinning some highly preposterous yarns of his hair-lifting adventures upon the plains; a course which, however, adopted too late to be effective, simply confirmed the doubters-who could not realize that they were being joshed-in their belief that the fellow was an out-and-out fraud.

Adding to Grant's unpopularity, and the growing disdain in which he was held, although plainly a strong, healthy, athletic chap, he not only refused to come out for football, but displayed an aversion for violent physical contention of any sort, especially fighting; which caused him to be branded as a coward. But the time came when, unable longer to endure the insults heaped upon him, the restraint of the young Texan snapped like a bowstring, and the boys of Oakdale found that a sleeping lion had suddenly awakened. Then it came to be known that Grant had inherited a most unfortunate family failing, a terrible temper, which, when uncontrolled, was liable to lead him into extreme acts of violence; and it was this temper he feared, instead of the fellows he had shunned whenever they sought to provoke him. Even now, although baseball was a gentle game in comparison with football, he was not absolutely sure he could always deport himself as a gentleman and a sportsman while playing it.

When the boys of the academy and the citizens of the town had joined in praise of Grant's courageous efforts in the work of rescuing Lela Barker from drowning, Hooker, who never had words of eulogy for anyone save himself, remained silent. Not that he had not come, like others, suddenly to regard the young Texan with respect; but for one of his envious nature respect does not always mean liking, no throb of which was awakened in his bosom. Indeed, he secretly disliked Rodney Grant more than ever, and, now that Springer had taken Grant in hand to make a pitcher of him, Roy's spleen was embittering his very soul.

Elbows on his knees, projecting chin on his clenched fists, he sullenly watched Rod pitch for the first time to batters. Several times he made in his throat a faint sound like a muttered growl of satisfaction, as he saw those batters hitting the ball to all parts of the field, and finally he triumphantly whispered:

"Well, I don't see that he's doing anything. They're pounding him all over the lot."

But, at the suggestion of Eliot, Rodney Grant was simply putting the ball over, now and then using speed, of which he apparently had enough, and occasionally mixing in a curve. Behind the pan Eliot would hold up his big mitt first on one corner then the other, now high, now low, and almost invariably the ball came whistling straight into the pocket of that mitt, which caused Roger to nod his head and brought to his face a faint touch of that rare smile seldom seen there.

"Good control, Rod, old man," he praised. "That's one of the most essential qualities a pitcher can have."

"Bah!" muttered the envious lad on the bleachers. "What's that amount to, if a fellow hasn't the curves at his command?"

Presently, with Barker stepping out to hit, Eliot called Grant, met him ten feet in front of the plate, and they exchanged a few words in low tones, after which Roger returned to his position and gave the regular finger signals that he would use in a game.

Barker slashed at a high one close across his shoulders and missed. He let two wide ones pass, and fouled when a bender cut a corner.

"Two strikes!" cried Sage, who was still umpiring. "Look out or he'll strike you out, Berlin."

With a faint smile, the batter shrugged his shoulders, and then he did his best to meet the next pitched ball, which seemed to be the kind he especially relished. To his surprise, he missed it widely, for the ball took a sharp drop at the proper moment to deceive him.

"You're out," laughed Sage. "He did get you."

"He did for a fact," agreed Berlin. "That was a dandy drop, Grant. I wasn't looking for it."

Rodney put the next one straight over, and Berlin hit to Cooper at short.

Jack Nelson followed, and he was likewise surprised to be struck out, Grant using his drop twice in the performance.

"Hi there, you!" shouted Nelson. "What did you put on the old ball, anyhow? Pitch? Well, I wouldn't be surprised if you could, some."

"You bet he will," called Phil Springer delightedly. "I'll have him delivering the goods before the season is half over."

"Bah!" again muttered Hooker. "You're a fool, Springer."

Later he saw Eliot and Barker talking together not far from the bench, and near them stood Herbert Rackliff, a city boy who had entered Oakdale Academy at the opening of the spring term.

Rackliff was a chap whose clothes were the envy of almost every lad in town, being tailor-made, of the latest cut and the finest fabric. His ties and his socks, a generous portion of the latter displayed by the up-rolled bottoms of his trousers, were always of a vivid hue and usually of silk. His highly-polished russet shoes were scarcely browner than the tips of two fingers of his right hand, which outside of school hours were constantly dallying with a cigarette. He had rings and scarf pins, and a gold watch with a handsome seal fob. His face was pale and a trifle hollow-cheeked, his chest flat, and his muscles, lacking exercise, sadly undeveloped. For Rackliff took no part in outdoor sports of any sort, protesting that too much exertion gave him palpitation of the heart.

Hooker was still sitting hunched on the bleachers, when Rackliff, having lighted a fresh cigarette, came sauntering languidly toward him.

"Hello, Roy, old sport," saluted the city youth. "You look lonesome."

"I'm not," retorted Hooker shortly.

"Well, you're not practicing, and you must be tired of watching the animals perform. I came over to kill a little time, but it's grown monotonous for me, and I'm going to beat it."

"I think I'll get out myself," said Hooker, descending from the bleachers.

Rackliff accompanied him to the gymnasium, where Roy hastened to strip off his baseball togs and get into his regular clothes.

"What made you quit pitching so soon?" questioned the city lad, lingering near. "You don't mind being hit a little in batting practice, do you?"

"That wasn't it," fibbed Hooker. "Didn't you hear those chumps cackle with glee? That's what made me sore. Then what's the use for me to try to pitch if Eliot isn't going to give me any sort of a show?"

"No use at all," said Rackliff cheerfully. "I've noticed that on all these athletic teams there's more or less partiality shown."

"That's it," cried Roy savagely. "It's partiality. Eliot doesn't like me, and he isn't going to let me do any pitching. Wants to bury me out in right garden, the rottenest position on the team. A fellow never has much of any chance out there."

"Oh, probably he knew you wouldn't accept the position, anyhow," said Herbert. "He had to make a bluff at giving you something."

"I'll show him he can't impose on me."

"They're going to boost this individual from the alfalfa regions, it seems. He's surely become the real warm baby around here. I heard Barker confidentially admitting to your captain--"

"Not my captain," objected Roy.

"I heard Barker confidentially admitting to Eliot," pursued Rackliff serenely, "that he was greatly surprised in the showing Grant had made and was not at all sure but the fellow would eventually become a better pitcher than Springer."

"Say, that would make Springer feel good, the blooming chump!" cried Roy, rising to his feet. "He's coaching Grant, so the cowboy can act as second pitcher and help him out; but, if he realized he might be training a fellow to push him out of his place as the star twirler of the team, I guess he'd quit in a hurry."

"Very likely he might," nodded Herbert. "No chap with real sense is going to be dunce enough to teach some one to rise above him."

"That will make trouble between them yet, see if it doesn't," prophesied Hooker in sudden satisfaction. "They're mighty thick now, but there'll be an end to that if Phil Springer ever realizes what may happen."

"Somebody might carelessly drop a hint to him," smiled Rackliff.

Suddenly Roy's small, keen eyes were fixed inquiringly on his companion.

"I don't see why you take so much interest," he wondered. "You must have a reason."

Herbert shrugged his shoulders. "Perhaps so," he admitted. "Are you ready? Let's get a move on before the bunch comes over."

They left the gymnasium, and walked down the street together. Hooker had conceived a sudden, singular interest in Rackliff.

"I always wondered how you happened to come to school here at Oakdale," he confessed.

"Have a cigarette," invited Herbert, extending an open, gold-mounted morocco case.

"Don't like 'em, thank you," declined Roy.

The other boy lighted a fresh one from the stub of the last.

"So you've been speculating as to the cause of my choosing this serene, rural seat of knowledge, have you? Well, I'll own up that it wasn't my choice. I'm not very eager about burying myself alive, and if ever there was a cemetery, it's the town of Oakdale. My pater was the guilty party."

"Oh, your father sent you here?"

"Correct. I would have chosen Wyndham, but Newbert's old man sent him down there, and my governor thought we should be kept apart in future."

"Newbert? Who's Newbert?"

"You'll hear from him later, I fancy. He's a chap who can really pitch baseball. He's my partner in crime."

"Your what?"

"My chum. We hit it off together pretty well for the last year or so; for Dade-that's his name-is a corker. Never mind the details, and the facts concerning the precise nature of our little difficulty wouldn't interest you; but we got into a high old scrape, and were both expelled from school. When I found Dade's old man was going to send him to Wyndham, I put it up to my sire to let me go there also, but he got wise and chose this corner of the map for mine. You know, he came from here originally."

"I didn't know it."

"Yes, moved out of this tomb nearly thirty years ago. But he knew what it was like, and I presume he fancied I'd be good and safe down here, where there's absolutely nothing doing. Hence, here I am. Pity my woes."

"Oh, well, perhaps you might stir up something around here, if you tried hard enough," said Hooker. "If you took an interest in baseball--"

"What good would that do me, with your dearly-beloved friend, Roger Eliot, choosing his favorites for the team? Besides, I don't think I'd care to play if I could with a bunch that had a cow-puncher for a slab artist."

"You've got a grudge against Grant. You don't like him."

"Great discernment," laughed Rackliff, with a hollow cough that sent little puffs of smoke belching from his lips. "Confidentially, I'll own up that I'm not stuck on him."

"I'm with you. I don't go around blowing about it, but I haven't any use for that specimen from the cow country."

"He seems to be very popular, especially with the girls," murmured Rackliff. "Now there's only one girl in this town that strikes me as something outside the milkmaid class. Lela Barker is it-in italics. Still, I'm going to admit that I don't think her taste and discernment is all it should be. Of course, she's naturally grateful to Grant for that bath he took on her account, but that's no reason why she should hand me the frosty."

"Oh, I begin to see," muttered Hooker, grinning a bit for the first time. "Jealous."

"Don't make me laugh; I might crack my face. Jealous of a cattle puncher! Excuse me! All the same, it's a bit provoking to see people slobbering over him, especially the girls, the same as if he's made of the stuff found in heroes of fiction."

"I think," said Hooker, "there's a bond of sympathy between us."