Bert Wilson's Fadeaway Ball. Duffield J. W.

somewhere birds are singing and somewhere children shout,

      But there’s no joy in Mudville – mighty Casey has struck out.’”

      A few days later when the point had been decided in favor of the Cubs and the game played over, only to result in a conclusive victory for the men from the shore of Lake Michigan, the chums met in Bert’s rooms.

      “Well,” said Dick, “I see that they put it over, all right. They’ve copped the pennant and we are only an ‘also ran.’”

      “Yes,” replied Tom, “that hit by Tinker over Seymour’s head did the business. But there’s no use crying over spilt milk. We’ll stand them on their heads next year and get even.”

      “By the way, Bert,” asked Dick, changing the subject, “have you heard from your examinations yet? How did you make out?”

      “Fine,” answered Bert. “I heard from the Dean this morning and he says that I passed with something to spare. The chemical and electrical marks were especially good. He says that the questions along those lines were unusually severe, but they didn’t strike me that way. I suppose it’s because I’m so interested in them that they come easy.”

      “Good for you, old scout,” cried Dick, delightedly. “I’m tickled to death that the thing is settled. You’ll find that we have one of the finest scientific schools in the country. I’ve been there a year now, and it’s come to seem like home. I’ll show you the ropes and we’ll room together. I only wish Tom here were coming along with us next week.”

      “So do I,” said Tom ruefully, “but Father seems to think I’d better stick to my engineering course right here in New York. It isn’t that he thinks the course is any better than at your college, if as good. I suppose the real reason is that he wants me to be where I can live at home. I’m going to get Mr. Hollis to have a talk with him. Perhaps he can show him that it would be a good thing for me to get away from home and be thrown on my own responsibility. Dad’s pretty stubborn when he gets an idea in his head, but he thinks a lot of Mr. Hollis, and what he says will go a long way with him.”

      It was a wholesome group of young fellows that thus discussed their future plans. They were the best type of manly, red-blooded American youth, full of energy and ambition and alive to their finger tips. Tom was of medium height, while Bert and Dick were fully six feet tall. All were strongly built and looked as though they could give a good account of themselves in any contest, whether of mind or body. A similarity of tastes and habits had drawn them closely together, and among their friends they were jokingly referred to as the “Three Guardsmen.” They were rarely apart, and now their plans for the coming school year were destined to cement their friendship still more firmly. In reality with them it was “one for all and all for one.”

      All of them had chosen their life work along practical and scientific lines. The literary professions did not tempt them strongly. Dick, who was the elder, was preparing to become a mining engineer, and had already spent a year at college with that end in view. Tom aimed at civil engineering while Bert was strongly drawn toward electrical science and research. This marvelous field had a fascination for him that he could not resist. His insight was so clear, he leaped so intuitively from cause to conclusion, that it was felt that it would be almost a crime if he were not permitted to have every advantage that the best scientific schools could give him. For a long time past he had been studying nights, preparing for his entrance examinations, and now that he had passed them triumphantly, nothing intervened between him and his cherished ambition.

      Absorbed as he was in his studies, however, he spent enough time in athletic sports to keep himself in superb physical condition. His was the old Greek ideal of a “sound mind in a sound body.” His favorite sport was baseball, and, like most healthy young Americans, he was intensely fond of the great game. In public school and high school he had always “made the team.” Although at times he had played every position in the infield and outfield and behind the bat, he soon gravitated towards the pitcher’s box, and for the last three years had played that position steadily. He was easily the best “flinger” in the Inter-Scholastic League, and had received more than one invitation to join some of the semi-professional teams that abound in the great city. He elected, however, to remain purely and simply an amateur. Even when a “big league” scout, who had watched him play, gave him a quiet tip that his club would take him on the Spring training trip to Texas and pay all his expenses, with a view to finding out whether he was really “major league timber,” the offer did not tempt him. He had no idea of making a business of his chosen sport, but simply a pleasant though strenuous recreation. With him, it was “sport for sport’s sake”; the healthy zest of struggle, the sheer physical delight in winning.

      And now, as they talked over the coming year, the athletic feature also came to the fore.

      “I wonder if I’ll have the slightest show to make the baseball team,” said Bert. “I suppose, as a newcomer I’ll be a rank outsider.”

      “Don’t you believe that for a minute,” replied Dick warmly. “Of course there’ll be lots of competition and a raft of material to pick from. I suppose when the coach sends out the call for candidates in the Spring, there’ll be dozens of would-be players and a bunch too of have-beens that will trot out on the diamond to be put through their paces. One thing is certain, though, and that is that you’ll get your chance. There may be a whole lot of snobbery in college life – though there isn’t half as much as people think – but, out on the ball field, it’s a pure democracy. The only question there is whether you can deliver the goods. If you can, they don’t care whether you’re a new man or an old-timer. All they want is a winner.”

      “Well,” chimed in Tom, “they’ll find that they have one in Bert. Just show them a little of the ‘big medicine’ you had in that last game with Newark High when you put out the side on three pitched balls. Gee, I never saw a more disgusted bunch of ball tossers. Just when they thought they had the game all sewed up and put away in their bat bag, too.”

      “That’s all right,” said Bert, “but you must remember that those high school fellows were a different proposition from a bunch of seasoned old college sluggers. When I come up against them, if I ever do, they’ll probably smash the back fences with the balls I feed to them.”

      “Some of them certainly can slaughter a pitcher’s curves,” laughed Dick. “Old Pendleton, for instance, would have the nerve to start a batting rally against three-fingered Brown, and Harry Lord wouldn’t be hypnotized even if Matty glared at him.”

      “I understand you did some fence breaking yourself last Spring on the scrubs,” said Tom. “Steve Thomas told me you were the heaviest batter in college.”

      “O, I don’t know,” returned Dick modestly, “I led them in three-base hits and my batting average was .319, but Pendleton was ahead of me in the matter of home runs. I hope to do better next Spring, though, as Ainslee, the coach, gave me some valuable tips on hitting them out. At first I swung too much and tried to knock the cover off the ball. The result was that when I did hit the ball it certainly traveled some. But many a time I missed them because I took too long a swing. Ainslee showed me how to chop at the ball with a sharp, quick stroke that caught it just before the curve began to break. Then all the power of my arms and shoulders leaned up against the ball at just the right second. Ainslee says that Home-Run Baker uses that method altogether, and you know what kind of a hitter he is. I got it down pretty fine before the season ended, and if I make the team next Spring – ”

      “If you make it,” said Bert incredulously. “As though it wasn’t a dead certainty.”

      “Not a bit of it,” protested Dick, seriously. “You never can tell from year to year. You can’t live on your reputation at college. There may be a regular Hal Chase among the new recruits, and he may win the first base position over me without half trying. It’s a good thing it is so, too, because we have to keep hustling all the time or see somebody else step into our shoes. The result is that when the team is finally licked into shape by the coaches, it represents the very best the college can turn out. It’s a fighting machine that never knows when it is whipped and never quits trying