# The Spirit of the Leader/Chapter 5

HIS name, written with neat exactness on the paper cover of each of his schoolbooks, had a certain sound of solid dignity—Oliver Morse. Yet there was nothing impressive about his appearance in his junior year at Northfield. He was tall and sallow, with thin, straight, straw-colored hair, and half-squinted, watery, inquiring eyes behind very thick eyeglasses. His shoulders had the stoop that comes from too much study and not enough vigorous exercise. Trudging to school, with his books in a worn brief case that swung at his side and that now and then got caught in between his dangling legs, he looked for all the world like the pictures mischievous boys used to draw of absent-minded professors. Some one once said that, when he stood up to recite, he looked like a scarecrow that had deserted its cornfield and had started out to secure an education. He talked through his nose with his ​head thrust to one side as though the ceiling of the classroom was too low for his height. By all the time-honored standards of boyhood he should have been the joke of the school.
Instead few students were held in higher esteem at Northfield. He was an inconspicuous member of Room 13. He did not often take part in debates, but when he did he was sure of his facts. His knowledge of parliamentary law had floored many an uncertain opponent. He supported school athletics to the point of attending all the at-home games, appearing at the field with a book under his arm and reading it during the major part of the contest. There was a widespread rumor that he never knew which side won a game, and was uncertain about the number of players on the nine. The school, taking note of his appearance and his attainments, called him "The Northfield Owl." It was a name of affection.
That March Prof. Banning led a pilgrimage to the County Court House where old Judge Seifert was holding Naturalization Court. Oliver sat in the first row of spectators' seats, and cocked his head to one side, and stared with rapt interest at what went on around him. From the silk flag, draped on the wall behind the bench, his eyes came down to the white-haired judge sitting there in the ​fullness of his years and honors to bestow the dignity of American citizenship upon those that had come from other lands. The judge himself, in his youth, had taken out his papers of citizenship and had sworn allegiance to a flag of red, and white, and blue. He had come to the United States in '48 when so many high-spirited young men were leaving Germany to seek a liberty that was denied them in the Fatherland. During the Civil War he had fought for the Union cause under General Franz Siegel, and carried a musket ball in his right hip thereafter. He had sealed his allegiance with his blood. Oliver did not know this; but sitting there, staring at that straight and spare figure on the bench, the boy felt an unaccountable thrill run along his spine.
"One Union," he said to himself, "indivisible, with liberty and justice for all." It seemed a queer thing to be running through his mind.
A brisk little man represented the United States Government at the hearing and questioned the applicants. Italian and French, Turk and Greek, German and Slav—one by one they came forward in answer to their names and were admitted to citizenship or else heard citizenship refused them. Presently the clerk of the court called:
"Antonio Miretto."
A man of swarthy skin arose from one of the ​benches and stepped forward. The Government representative had grown a little tired. His voice had become a monotonous fire of questions. How long have you lived in the United States? Who is the President, the Governor of this State, the United States Senators from this State? How does the State make its laws? What is the lawmaking branch of the United States Government? How is the President elected? Antonio answered the questions with but slight hesitation. The lawyer faced the bench.
"If your Honor please," he said, "I think citizenship should be granted in this case."
The judge did not move. His voice came like the dry rasp of autumn leaves.
"Mr. Miretto?" he asked, "how long have you lived in this country?"
"Twelve years," said the man.
"And this is your first attempt to become a citizen?"
The man shrugged his shoulders. "I did not want to become citizen before."
"Why do you want to become a citizen now?"
"So I can vote for Angelo Introcello. Angelo big boss. Angello got plenty jobs."
"I understand then that this Angello is to be a candidate at the next election?" the judge asked.
"Candidate, yes. Big job City Hall."
​"Who told you to come here and apply for citizenship papers?"
"Angelo. Angelo send man; man give lessons. Man say 'Antonio, now you know enough to be citizen. You become citizen and vote for Angelo.'" The man smiled with the triumphant air of one who has made something exceedingly clear.
But there was no answering smile on old Judge Seifert's face. "American citizenship," he said in his dry voice, "is not something at the disposal of any man who desires to run for public office. The privilege of American citizenship is a sacred privilege, open only to those who seek it out of love for the American ideal of liberty and justice. This applicant," he said, turning to the Government representative, "does not come into this court with the proper spirit, and his application for citizenship must be denied. Call the next case."
Antonio Moretto went in bewilderment back to his seat trying to comprehend this calamity that had befallen him. Friends explained the situation in hurried whispers; and once he broke forth in an excited protest that was instantly hushed. Oliver Morse, staring at the judge, felt dimly in his soul the solemnity of human drama. Citizenship, he had thought, was always given if one had the necessary knowledge and had lived ​in the United States for at least five years. But here was a man whose application was refused—not because he was ignorant of the things a citizen should know but because he came with none of the sacred fire burning in his veins.
For more than an hour, while other applications were heard, Oliver sat there absorbed, and in that hour he did not move. When Court adjourned for the day, and Judge Seifert left the bench, he sighed, and shook himself, and arose and followed the class from the room. "Speed" Martin, the nine's star shortstop, fell into step with him.
"Frosty old bird wasn't he?" the shortstop asked.
Oliver looked at him blankly. "Old bird?"
"The judge. He certainly hands it out with an ax. Zippo, and off goes somebody's head. Then they bring on the next victim, and he sharpens the ax again."
"Is that your idea of the hearings to-day?" a voice asked behind them. Prof. Banning had spoken. Martin's face reddened.
"You know what I mean, sir."
"I'm afraid I do not," the teacher said. "And I'm afraid you missed the proper spirit of what went on in the court room."
Oliver said nothing, but his eyes blinked ​rapidly behind his glasses. At the corner he stopped short for one last look at the Court House. His glance rested a moment on the flag flying above the granite building.
The class would probably have been filled with amazement had some prophet told them that what Oliver Morse had seen in the court room that day was to write its result in the history of the school.
Somebody at Northfield had once said—it may have been Mr. Banning—that Martin did not take school work seriously enough. But this indictment could not be charged against him once he stepped out on the baseball field. Here his body grew intensely alive, his interest quickened, and his eyes flamed with an eager light.
Jennings, physical instructor and coach, stood at the plate to-day, a bat poised in one hand, a ball held in the other.
"Man on first," he called, and then the bat swung out and the ball streaked along the ground to the left of the shortstop.
Martin seemed to move even as the bat was hit. His gloved hand reached out, found the horsehide, held it. His spikes bit into the ground and began to halt him even as he tossed the ball to Chandler, the second baseman with almost the the same motion with which he had fielded it. ​The second baseman whipped the ball down to first for what would have been, in a real game, a sparkling double play.
"That's stepping on it," Martin shrilled. "Everybody on his toes."
"Man on first and third," cried the coach, and batted the ball down the third-base line.
Littlefield, the third baseman ran in, took the ball on a bound, and drove it home. Hammond lined the leather down to second base. The throw was high; but a red-stockinged figure seemed to soar miraculously into the air and pluck the ball as it was flying past.
"Pretty work," muttered the coach. Aloud he called: "Martin! What was the matter with you? Why didn't you swing your arm down at the runner?"
"What was the use, Coach? With all the time he had he'd have been curled around the base."
"Didn't you ever hear of a runner oversliding the bag?"
The boy, without another word, went back to his place hitting his right hand viciously into his glove. When the ball came his way again, he was on it like a terrier, and whizzed it across the diamond into the first baseman's mitt.
"If he'd only fight that way on other things," the coach mumbled—and sighed. Later, when ​the practice was over, he fell into step with the boy and walked with him toward the school gym.
"Martin," he said without preamble, "do you know you're walking mighty close to the line?"
The boy looked at him with an unworried grin. "Classes?"
"What else? You know what will happen if you drop below a 70 average? No baseball."
The boy's grin widened. "I've been close to the line before. You haven't seen me falling over."
"You can't skate on thin ice forever without breaking through," the coach said sharply.
He was worried. He had a pretty clear conception of Martin's weaknesses and failings. The first time a specific danger presented itself the boy would be moved by a sense of caution to safeguard himself. Then, by degrees, as threat after threat would be sidestepped, he would become presumptuous and contemptuous. "This," he would tell himself, "can never happen to me" And then, in an unguarded moment, while lulled by a false feeling of security, disaster might strike him down. The coach had seen it happen to other boys in the past.
From the locker room came the echoof "Speed" Martin's voice, singing:
"Oliver!" he called. "Morse!"
The student trudged on.
"Oliver! O you Owl!"
The boy looked up, with a finger marking his line in the book. His head, thrust birdlike to one side, surveyed the oncoming man.
"Were you calling me, Mr. Jennings?"
"Calling you? I was doing everything except throwing bricks at you." He slipped his hand through the crook of the boy's elbow. "Oliver, you're with the school, aren't you, heart and soul?"
"You tell 'em I am, Mr. Jennings."
Coming from the studious Oliver Morse, the sentence was edged with subtle shafts of humor—but the coach did not smile.
"You were at the practice to-day, weren't you?"
"Yes, sir."
"I might have known. You miss none of the games and but few of the practice periods. Oliver, to a fellow who knows baseball as well, and follows it as closely, as you do, there is no use ​in telling you that 'Speed' Martin is just about thirty-five per cent. of the team. If we lost Martin we'd be pretty well shot. But, of course, you know that."
Strictly speaking, the Middlesex Owl didn't know anything of the kind. But it was rather pleasant to be made the recipient of confidences from the celebrated Mr. Jennings, and the Owl blinked his eyes solemnly and nodded.
"The truth is," the coach went on, "I think Martin's getting into trouble in classes."
This time the Owl's eyes did not have to pretend interest and knowledge. He was thoroughly aware of the shortstop's educational shortcomings. More that once he had wondered, back in the hidden recesses of his own brain, how any person in his right senses could translate French as weirdly as Martin translated it.
"If he gets less than a 70 average," Mr. Jennings said, "he'll be barred from baseball. Then what will happen to the nine? Where will the school be in the Monroe game? It's a question of standing by Northfield, Owl, and I've come to you."
The Owl had a moment of panic. "You're not thinking of asking me to play in Martin's place?"
The coach suppressed a smile. "No; not that. I want to know, if the time comes when Martin ​needs it, if you'll tutor him a bit for the good of Northfield."
The Owl promised to lend his aid, but added with brutal candor that it wouldn't be easy to teach Martin from a book. Nevertheless, he was puffed up a bit because he had been singled out as the only man who could save the star shortstop to the nine.
"This is all confidential," Jennings reminded him.
"Confidential," the Owl said seriously, "and a sacred trust. Yes, sir. When Martin is ready, let him come to me." He went on his way, and before walking half a block had his nose into the book again.
Next morning Jennings told Martin of his conversation with the Owl. The shortstop was a bit resentful.
"Isn't this crowding things?" he demanded. "I haven't flunked yet."
"The time to get in some work is before you do flunk," Jennings retorted sharply. "If you take my advice you'll hunt up the Owl and make up some lost ground."
"Well—I'll try to," Martin said after a moment. That afternoon he played against Barringer High. When the game was over his line in the scorebook read: ​
Martin :
| R | H | O | A | E |
| 2 | 3 | 3 | 7 | 0 |
"Ten fielding chances without an error," Jennings murmured, "and three hits out of four times at bat." The game had been played out of town, and when the trolley reached the Bank corner in Northfield the coach swung down to the ground and waited for his star player.
"You won't forget about the Owl, will you?" he asked.
"I may look him up to-night," said Martin.
However, he didn't. His three-base hit in the sixth inning had won the game, and it was pleasant to idle along Main Street after supper and enjoy the adulation of those students he chanced to meet. Trouble at the moment seemed obscure and remote. The taste of triumph dwarfed every other issue.
Jennings came to him four days later. "Did you see the Owl?"
"No." Martin felt the need of justification. "The practice has been running late, and at night I've had to study——"
The coach's smile was disconcerting. "Prof. Matier tells me you're a total loss in French. You haven't been studying French, have you?"
Martin flushed. "I've never been any good at languages."
​"Prof. Banning tells me you're down to about so this month in history and civics."
"What are you doing?" the shortstop demanded hotly; "checking up on me?"
"Checking up on your classroom average," the coach answered. "Why shouldn't I? Just now it's as important as your fielding or batting averages. When you stand up to recite you're pinch hitting for the nine. You've been doing some rotten pinch hitting—I'll say that for you. You're in a slump. You've got to pull yourself together and come out of it."
Jennings had put the case in the language of baseball. The argument touched Martin where he was weakest. The anger died out of his eyes, slowly, slowly—but it died.
"I never thought of it as pinch-hitting," he said gruffly. "I don't like study: a page of this to-day, a page of that to-morrow, over and over and over again. It's stupid stuff. My father insists that I go through high school and I'm going to go through just as easily as I can. He knows I don't like to pore over lessons."
"Suppose you didn't like balls batted to your left," said the coach. "What would you do in that case?"
"I'd have somebody bat to my left side until I could take anything that came to my left."
​"How about applying some of that same spirit to classes?"
"But I don't give a darn about classes and I do like baseball."
The coach shrugged his shoulders. "You're pinch-hitting, remember. You don't particularly like left-handed pitchers; but if I sent you in to pinch-hit against a left-hander you'd go up there with your teeth set."
"You mean I ought to go at lessons with my teeth set."
The coach made no comment.
"All right; I'll take up with the Owl next week. I can't do it this week. There's a couple of pictures coming to the Franklin theatre that I want to see."
But next week was too late. Friday afternoon Martin was called to Dr. Rue's office and told that as his general average had fallen below 70 it would be necessary to bar him from school athletics. There was a game scheduled for that afternoon. He went to the field and sat on the bench out of uniform, and glowered at Post who had been sent out to take his place.
Northfield won, but that did not bring any ease to Martin's soul. A hundred stings of self-reproach arose to taunt him. An hour here and there with his books, an hour here and there with ​the Owl, and he could have avoided this. He had expected cutting sarcasm from the coach and bitter speech from Capt. Littlefield. After the first expression of dismay Littlefield had frozen into silence. Jennings had made no comment at all. And Martin had walked out to the bench tortured all at once by the knowledge that neither was surprised. As a pinch-hitter he had failed. They had expected it.
He came back to the gym. After other games he had held his place there by right, elbowing for his turn under the showers, taking part in the good-natured horseplay. To-day he felt as one apart. One by one the players dressed and departed, spoke to him as they went out in a manner forced and constrained. He read in their manner condemnation of his failure, and it rasped along the raw of his wound. I'll at ease he stood up and turned toward the door.
"Martin!" Jennings had spoken. He waited. The coach led him outside and closed the door.
"Where will you be at about nine o'clock to-night?"
"Home."
"Be sure you're there. I'll be along about that time."
Martin had no appetite for supper. Uncertainty as to what the visit might mean made him ​ill at ease, and he counted the minutes until the clock drew around toward nine. Going down to the gate he waited, and presently saw the coach swinging down the street. And a clutch of fear seemed to grasp at his throat.
"Martin," Jennings said abruptly; "there's just one chance for you."
The shortstop's heart leaped. "To play?"
"To play. I've been button-holing faculty members since to-day's game ended. If you can make a showing this month that will run you above 70 you can play the June games."
Martin's face fell.
"We play Monroe on June 12," the coach said significantly.
The big game! The game that brought out the crowds, and the glory, and the only real cheering of the year. Even in the soft darkness of the spring night the coach could see the wistful shadow that swiftly passed over the boy's countenance.
"I have spoken to the Owl again," Jennings went on. "Frankly, Martin you've thrown down the nine, but the nine hasn't thrown down you. We want you back for your own sake as much as for anything else. We want you back because it isn't the Northfield idea for a fellow to drop away from the thing he can do best. It means a month ​of hard study, but the Owl is willing to give up the time to put you through. Is it a go?"
"Yes," said Martin. "I'll see him in the morning." After the coach was gone he sat on the porch steps with his chin cupped in the palm of one hand. The month of May would not take long to pass. He would go to the field every day and keep in practice. A sudden, disturbing thought frowned his forehead. The Owl would want him in the afternoons. He sat up a bit straighter and tried to arrive at a conclusion dealing with the amount of time it would be absolutely necessary to give to shove up his general average to a point that would permit him to go back into the game.
In the morning he waited outside the school for Oliver Morse. And yet, though he had come seeking this interview, it was the Owl who began the conversation.
"We will have to work hard," he said, his head cocked to one side. "We can start to-day—one hour every day after classes, and perhaps two hours on Saturdays. Then, if you'll study about two hours every night——"
Martin broke out in protest. "What do you think I'm after, a Commencement medal?"
"You have a lot of ground to make up," the Owl said bluntly.
"What of it? That doesn't mean I'm out for ​a record. Just get me back over 70 and we'll stop all the study periods right there."
The Owl shook his head. "You can't get good passing marks that way."
"Who's asking for good passing marks? Just passing marks will suit me. If it wasn't that I have to get that 70 to play baseball I wouldn't bother with the stuff at all."
"But where would you stand in the June examination?"
"I may not come back. I've been after my father for two years to let me quit. June examinations aren't worrying me. I want baseball."
The Owl stared at him incredulously. Himself a student, taking the best of all the school had to offer, he could not quite understand this other boy. "But Mr. Jennings said——" he began.
"O, Jennings." The shortstop's manner was flippant. "He's talking through his hat. Just get me a 70, that's all."
Behind their thick lenses the Owl eyes grew a trifle stern. "There has been a mistake. I thought you wanted to make up on school work. I didn't think you just wanted to use my time to skin you through. What good will it do to get you a 70 now if you are going to drop right back again? That's cheating the school."
"Doesn't the nine figure in this?" Martin demanded, nettled.
​"You wouldn't be going to the nine with the proper spirit," the Owl said. "The 70 per cent. rule for athletics means that a fellow must honestly be entitled to play on the nine. You don't care anything for the marks; you're just thinking about your fun. I can't help you."
"You can't—— Say, what are you trying to do, be funny? What's the matter with me."
"You're not going into this with the proper spirit." The Owl shifted his books under the other arm and abruptly began to walk toward the school entrance. His stooped shoulders straightened a bit as though to throw off an indignity that had been thrust upon him.
Martin sprang forward and caught his arm. "You refuse to go through with this?" he cried. "You mean you'll throw down the nine?"
"You're not interested in marks. Why should I waste time on you?"
In the Owl's sallow face the shortstop read a determination that would not be shaken. Anger flamed through his veins and echoed in his voice.
"All right, you fool; but you'll be sorry. You can't try anything like that and get away with it. I'll tell this all over the school. Before night the whole gang will be on your back. You'll be coming to me to-morrow and begging me to let you help me."
​But in that Martin was wrong. Neither the next day nor in the days that immediately followed, did the Owl come forward with overtures. He seemed to have dropped the matter from his mind. He could not have been unaware that his status in the school had changed. Whereas, in his own peculiar way, he had found a peculiarly warm place in the life of Northfield, he now met coldness. Groups broke up and scattered at his approach. But he merely went his way, his absorption in his books apparently more pronounced than before.
More than one baseball nine has gone to pieces under the staggering loss of a star. Chandler, at second base, accustomed to playing alongside Martin, felt a doubt of Post, the new shortstop. Instead of throwing the ball with the superb confidence that Martin would get it, he now took time to look before letting the ball go. Play about the middle bag became slower, and indecision communicated itself to the other infielders. Even Hammond, when he knew that Post was to take the throw, developed streaks of wildness. And Jennings, watching it all with understanding eyes and refusing to deceive himself, muttered under his breath and ran harassed hands through his hair.
Rahway came to Northfield for the first May ​game. Northfield had been counted on to win without much trouble, but Rahway was the victor by a score of 8 to 6. Infield errors had accounted for four of her runs. Post had dropped two thrown balls and had been the cause of spoiling what should have been a sure double play.
The school blamed the Owl for the defeat. Campus gossip said that if the nine had had any assurance that Martin would come back, it would have held itself together until June. Post was rated as hopeless. Only Jennings knew that Post, awakening to the fact that the infield doubted him, had begun to doubt himself.
Three days later the nine went to Rawlings and was defeated 5 to 3. This time three wild throws by Post tossed the game away. And the Owl came to school the following Monday morning to find himself publicly ostrasized and condemned. Some one left a card on his desk in his home room. It bore three words:
The Northfield Jackass
The Owl read the card, holding it close to his near-sighted eyes, and then calmly replaced it on the desk where he had found it, leaving it where all who passed in the aisle might see it.
​That same morning Jennings faced hard and bitter facts. His nine was demoralized. Panic had seized it and had marked it for slaughter. It was not a crass, selfish itch for material victory that tortured him; the agony that writhed his soul was the pain of a designer, a planner, a general, who sees a smooth, beautiful piece of baseball machinery going to waste and falling into utter decay. Two things were imperative. He had to steady Post and to make an effort to induce the Owl to help. Why the boy had refused to come to Martin's aid he did not know. Martin had told him nothing but the mere fact of refusal. Yet the coach was positive that some vital reason lay behind the course the Owl had taken. Thus far, he had purposely kept his hands off. He did not like to mix in on a question of scholarship. But the time had come when he felt that he was forced to make at least one effort to save the situation.
His first duty—his immediate concern—lay with Post. Post was with the nine. At the best, Martin could not hope to join the lineup until next month. At noon he went to the cafeteria, found Post eating there, and called to him from the doorway.
Two hundred students saw Post thus summoned. An unspoken whisper ran the rounds of ​the table: "Jennings is going to throw the hooks into Post." Post thought so himself. He stumbled a bit as he stood up; then he squared himself doggedly and walked out to meet the coach.
"Post," Jennings said, "you're not playing your game. Why?"
The shortstop shook his head. "I don't know." But he did know. Yet he would not say the word that would shift any of the blame to other shoulders.
The coach liked him the better for it. "I do know, Post. The nine's been playing with Martin so long that it cannot see anybody else in his place; and you're letting that throw you out of gear. When I picked you to fill Martin's shoes I knew that you could fill them. I still know it. I believe in you and I know you're going to come through. You've got it in you."
The boy drew a deep breath. There was an interval of silence. Then:
"Whatever comes, Post, you're going to play that position. If you've been thinking of being benched, forget it. You're going to stay right where you are. That's the strength of my faith in you. Now—what are you going to do for me?"
There was another period of silence.
"I'm going to play ball," Post said quietly. ​"You can depend on that." He went back to his interrupted meal in the cafeteria with determination written into every line of his bearing.
"That's one thing less to worry about," the coach told himself, and went off in search of Praska.
"Do you know," he demanded, "why the Owl refused to tutor Martin?"
Praska shook his head.
"He's from your home room. I had an idea that a home room that gave Northfield the president of its Congress would be interested in why one of its citizens didn't go through with a promise he made to take Martin in hand. Do you know—have you heard—some of the things the school has said about the Owl and Room 13?"
Praska winced. "One of our fellows labeled him a jackass," he said evenly. "But the room as a whole believes that whatever the Owl did he had a good reason for doing. Littlefield and Hammond are on the nine. Littlefield's captain. He's never asked the Owl for a reason. There are some fellows you can always bank on as acting square. A lot of us feel the Owl is one of them."
"Oh, I know he's square," Jennings said wearily. "I shouldn't have lit into you—but the nine is going to smash. Isn't it just possible that this ​rupture between Martin and the Owl may be one of those cases of honest misunderstanding on each side? If it is, we can probably patch it up. You can get at the bottom of this. The Owl will talk to you. Will you ask him?"
"Yes," Praska said slowly, "I'll ask him. It may be a misunderstanding."
That afternoon, after classes, he followed the Owl to the outdoors and walked with him in silence until they were a block from the school.
"Owl," he said suddenly, "Northfield has always said that a good, stiff game, keenly fought, is a fine thing regardless of who wins it. But we want to see our teams give a good account of themselves. It's a matter of school pride that a Northfield team must show the Northfield spirit. Lately the nine's been losing miserably. No fighting spirit, no backbone, no standing up to the job. You've noticed that, haven't you?"
The Owl considered. "I—I noticed we've been losing."
"Have you noticed any change in the nine's play?"
"Why—" The Owl hesitated. "There—there seemed to be something lacking."
"The name of that something is Martin. He was dropped because his scholarship fell below the requirements. Were his averages to go back ​above 70 he'd be able to play next month. Jennings came to me to-day. I'm only bringing this up because you and Martin may have had a misunderstanding that can be straightened out."
"We had no misunderstanding," said the Owl. "I understood him and he understood me."
The reply was discouraging, yet Praska went on.
"Jennings says that Martin was anxious to make up those marks and that you refused to help him."
"Martin was not," the Owl said bluntly.
"Martin did not come to you for help?"
"He came to me, but he was not anxious about marks—not in the right way. He didn't want to study for class standing; he wanted to study for baseball. He told me that as soon as he got above 70 he wouldn't bother me any more. I refused to help him through on those conditions. He didn't have the proper spirit. You're not asking me to help him that way, are you?"
"No," Praska said promptly. Yet he was puzzled. "This matter of proper spirit—just what do you mean?"
"Remember the day Mr. Banning took us to the Naturalization Court? Judge Seifert refused a man citizenship. He had answered all the questions; but he wanted naturalization just so that ​he could get a job. The judge refused him because he did not come into court with the proper spirit. Where my father works a young man lost his job because he would do only the things he had to do—just enough to get through with his job. That was not the proper spirit, either, so he was discharged. A school is built for study—other things come after that. If Martin had been worried about his studies and had also wanted to play baseball, I would have helped him. That would have been different. But he wasn't interested in anything except baseball, and I told him I wouldn't help him. And—" the Owl's thin body straightened—"and I won't help him and you needn't ask me to!"
"I wouldn't ask you to," Praska said softly. Later he reported the interview to Jennings. The coach bit his lips.
"So that's it," he said, and his eyes met Praska's. "Sometimes," he confessed, "you meet a spirit that makes you a little ashamed of your own. Well, I'll fight it out with the team I have. Perhaps I can give them some of this proper spirit."
Coming away, Jennings met Martin.
"Couldn't you talk the Owl into helping me?" the shortstop asked. "You ought to have some influence over him."
​"Have you asked any of the other top-grade students to give you a hand?"
"No."
"Been studying any harder in the hope that you and the Owl would get together later?"
"N—No. What was the use? I didn't know if it would do me any good."
"In other words," the coach said icily, "you figured you didn't have much chance and refused to run out your hit. You're not worth helping. Turn in your uniform and stop coming to the practice."
The boy flushed angrily. "Is that how you stand by me after I've given you my best?"
"That," said the coach, "is how I stand by the player who has given the school his worst."
Next day Martin did not come to the practice. His locker, open and empty, served mute notice that he was through. In the gym, before going out to the field, Jennings faced the squad.
"There was a time," he said, "when my heart warmed to see you in action. I thought I had a ball team; I felt that the school could be proud of you. Now I have my doubts. What's the color of your blood, red or yellow? Are you a bunch of fighters or a collection of quitters? Show me."
They were stung by his words. He had never ​talked to them that way before. Aroused by his attack they played the game—for a day or two, anyway. Then Commodore Farragut High School came to Northfield with a team that was notoriously weak, and was barely beaten by a score of 10 to 8. Only one ray of hope stood out at the end of the afternoon. Post had played a game of desperate strength. He had shut off what looked like a winning Farragut rally and had batted in four of Northfield's ten runs.
The coach tried to take heart. "Victory may spur them," he told himself; but in the next game Northfield was beaten by a score of 4 to 1 and sank into a profound slough of despondency.
Post came to Jennings after the game. "If—if you'd rather try some body else at short—" he began with an effort.
The coach silenced him. "You're playing the game."
What followed was a nightmare. Four games in a row what should have been won were lost. Days when the batting was strong, the fielding was wretched; and when the fielding tightened the batting fell off. Jennings himself came to the verge of despair. But because there was that in him that would never bow its head meekly to defeat, he strove desperately to breathe life into his team and to compel it to play the game of ​which it was capable. Even the attendance grew slim. The small covered grand stand that once had groaned under the weight of spectators, now showed tier after tier of empty seats.
And thus came the contest with Hastings, the biggest and most important game of the year, aside from the contest with Monroe.
"If there's one team that's made to order for us, if there's one team we can always beat," Jennings said with forced cheer, "it's Hastings."
The nine took the news gloomily.
"We'll beat Hastings and beat her with ease," Capt. Littlefield said fiercely.
None of the players made any comment. The practice was lifeless.
Jennings took to walking the streets of Northfield at night. "Must find a way to arouse them," ran continually in his tortured mind; "must find a way." And then as he shaved, the morning of the game, a plan—a desperate plan—came to him.
The school knew what the Owl had done, but had never been told the reason. Praska had not revealed what he had learned, not even to Littlefield and Hammond. He felt that defense of the Owl, coming from any of the citizens of Room 13, would have lost force. In some quarters there might be a tendency to question it, a sus​picion that Room 13 was simply trying to wash itself clean. Better, Praska had reasoned, that the Owl's side someday come before the school from some other spokesman.
For that reasoning Jennings now blessed him. If the story, with all its surprise, were now told to the nine—— The lather dried on the coach's face as he debated the plan. In the end his mind was made up. As conditions stood, Northfield was ruined. Nothing that might be said could injure her chances. On the other hand, the shock of a new conception, a new vision, may bring a rush of spirit and an awakening of fighting instinct.
No one, watching Jennings in the locker room as the nine dressed for the game, would have guessed that he was soon to throw dice with Fate. Standing at an open window, he seemed to be watching the crowds filling the stands and straggling out along the first and third base foul lines. Hastings always drew a crowd. He had sent a boy to the stand on an errand, and presently saw him coming across the outfield toward the gym. As the boy drew near, the coach leaned out the window—carelessly.
"Is he there?" he asked.
The boy nodded. "Center aisle. First seat on the left. Seventh row."
​Jennings thanked him. Three of the Hastings players appeared and began to throw a ball around. Capt. Littlefield called a "Ready, Coach," and Jennings swung around and faced the squad, and searched their faces for something that was not there.
"You're going out to play Hastings," he said. "Usually the coach talks about how sure victory will be if every man will only play the game. I'm not going to give you any of that; I wouldn't fool you with it if I did. You're going to take a licking to-day, and you know it."
A strangled cry of protest came from the captain to be instantly hushed. The realization came to Littlefield that whatever Jennings was saying was being said for a purpose. Players shuffled their feet and looked away. Only Post's eyes met the coach's, level and clear.
"This nine has been shot for more than a month. Why? Because Martin was dropped. And who was Martin? A good ball player, but never at heart a Northfield fellow. Oh, I know he went to the school; so did Benedict Arnold wear the uniform of the Colonial army. I warned Martin he was heading for trouble. I asked him to see the Owl weeks before he was dropped after the Owl had agreed to tutor him. Did he take my advice? He did not. He sacrificed this nine, ​he sacrificed the school, he sacrificed every one of you because he was too lazy to do the job in the classroom that every one of you have had to do. And that's the fellow you've let ruin you and ruin this nine. He left the squad. It was a crisis; I grant you that. The moment he passed out of athletics, it became a question whether you would hold your spirit for the school or let him drag it away with him. And you surrendered it to this whiner who wasn't man enough to stand by the ship and play his part. Aren't you proud of yourself?"
No one answered him.
"There's another student who figures in this—the Owl. He's been held up to the ridicule of the school. Do you know why he refused to tutor Martin? Didn't it ever strike you that he must have had a reason? Martin said to him: 'Get me back to 70; that's as far as I want to go.' The Owl refused. That wasn't his idea of Northfield honor, or of Northfield spirit. He looked upon that as a form of cheating. He thought it was the same as a man seeking to become a citizen just so that he could get a job for his vote. That man wouldn't be interested in citizenship or in the United States—and the Owl felt that a fellow who just wanted a 70 wasn't interested in Northfield. He has been condemned; he has been ​jeered; he has been called the Northfield Jackass—and yet there has been more real Northfield spirit in his little finger than there has been in this whole nine. You don't represent the school; you represent Martin. You're his kind."
One of the outfielders, red-faced and angry-eyed, took a step forward. "That's not so, Coach."
"Yes it is, Vance. When Martin was dropped, you fellows quit. The only fellow who held on was the Owl—he shouldn't have coached Martin. He did the right thing. Where's Martin to-day? Is he in the stands? Has he been to our last two games? I doubt it. But you'll find the Owl out there in the first center aisle in the seventh row. Post!"
"Yes, sir." The shortstop elbowed his way forward.
"Go out there and get the Owl. Bring him back with you. He's going to walk out of this place with the squad; he's going to sit on the bench. By Heavens, I want somebody there on whom I can put a hand and say 'This is the Northfield spirit'."
Resentment, beginning as a murmur, grew into a volume of sound. Vance's voice rose above the tumult. "Why didn't you tell us this before?"
"Why?" The agony of unexpected hope was ​in the coach's heart, but his voice was cool. "What difference would it have made to you fellows?"
"A lot of difference. We didn't see this thing right. We've got the spirit."
"Have you? What kind of spirit?"
"School spirit."
"Anybody can claim that. Prove it?"
"We've got fighting spirit, too." Vance was shaking his fist above his head.
"Prove that," cried Jennings. His voice rang with the vibrant note that sounds in a bugle call that blows the charge. "Fighting spirit, eh? Then get out there and beat Hastings."
The door of the locker room opened. The Owl, stooped a bit, his mild eyes blinking behind his glasses, peered at the group.
"You want me, Mr. Jennings?"
"Want you?" It was Vance's hand that fell upon his hand. "We've wanted you right along and didn't know it. You're sitting on the bench to-day. Do you know what that means? You're our mascot. We're going to show you what a real Northfield team looks like."
The Northfield students who had come to the game that day had come as a sort of solemn duty. They looked more like mourners assembled to bury a corpse. Even the school band seemed to find something melancholy in the atmosphere, and ​by and by its music took on the sound of funeral dirges.
When the Owl, summoned by a player who had apparently been sent by Jennings, began to walk across the field toward the distant gym, a note of interest ran through the crowd. When he disappeared into the building, interest became a buzz of excited comment. But when the gym door opened and the Owl came forth with the players, arm in arm with Capt. Littlefield, the stand sat stunned. Here was something that no stretch of the imagination could explain. The Owl did not come back to his place in the seventh row. On he went to the bench, and dropped down beside Jennings, and stuck out his long legs so that they were a hazard to any catcher who might come running back after a foul.
Hastings had the field, and was practicing with snap and dash. Confidence was reflected in every movement of the players. Jennings smiled a crooked smile. Why shouldn't Hastings be confident, facing a team that had won but two games out of seven? His own nine had come forth from the locker rejuvenated. Would it last? He had started them on the road; would they hold it? Would the old apathy lay hold of them and throttle their zest?
He watched with burning eyes when Northfield ​took the field. Post began to snap out a running fire of comment. Littlefield, on third, answered him; Stafford, on first, joined them in a deep, bass voice. The whole infield became talkative, alive, gingery and optimistic. It was a healthy sign—but still Jennings waited.
"They're making more noise than usual," said the Owl.
Jennings smiled. So this queer, serious boy had noticed the miracle, without altogether understanding what it meant. The coach pulled his cap down low over his forehead. Personally, he'd wait until the nine found itself in a tight corner. Then he'd know.
The tight corner came in the very first inning. Morelli, short and dark and serious, was pitching for Northfield, and the first three batters hit him safely for two singles and a double. One tally came over the plate, and runners were left on second and third with none out.
"Everybody walk up and get a hit," shrilled the rooters who had come with the Hastings team.
Jennings crossed and uncrossed his legs. The next batter hit a hot grounder down the third-base line. Littlefield got the ball, held the runner on third, and made a perfect throw to first. One out!
The next boy scratched a hit just over Post's ​frantic fingers, and two more runs came in. On the throw to the plate, the batter went down to second. A moment later the next boy bunted. It was a play calculated to demoralize a panicky team; but Stafford raced in, scooped the ball with one hand, and threw to Morelli who had covered first base.
"Out!" ruled the umpire.
Jenning's eyes gave a flicker of admiration. This was more like his old fighting, hustling team.
The next batter hit into left field for a single, and the runner on third crossed the plate with the fourth run. Vance, fielding the ball sharply, threw. The batter, expecting that the throw would go to the plate, overran first base and took a few steps toward second, ready to dash for the middle bag should the catcher fumble. A cry of apprehension from the startled Hastings coachers sent him diving back for first base, but before his feet reached the bag Stafford had the ball on his ribs. Vance had thrown to first instead of to the plate, and the batter and the coachers had been caught asleep.
And then the doubt, the worry, left Jennings' mind. This was to be a ball game. His hand dropped on the Owl's knee.
"Son," he said, "you're just about worth your weight in gold to-day."
​The Owl cocked his head to one side, but made no comment. All during Hastings' turn at bat he had sat silent. He had been trying to puzzle out the mystery of why he had been brought to the bench. The same intelligence that he devoted to his books had been bent upon the problems. He could not fathom why he had been singled out for attention, but he did arrive at one conclusion. In some fashion he, for some reason, was to be an inspiration for the nine.
The team came in to the bench in no sense depressed. Vance was rattling the bats, looking for the one he wanted. Morelli made no excuses, but buttoned up a sweater and sat down quietly.
A high-pitched, nasal voice suddenly made itself heard. "You fellows said——"
Vance, who had found his bat, looked up. "What's the matter, Owl? Going to coach this team?"
The Owl did not smile. "No; but you fellows said you were going to show me a real Northfield team. Where is it?"
"Will you listen to what's giving us the raspberry?" cried Stafford; and Littlefield broke in with a: "That's the stuff, Owl; make them stand up to their job." "We'll show you something, you slave-driver," Vance vowed, and walked out toward the plate.
​Yelps of encouragement broke out from the players he left behind him on the bench. And again the coach's hand rested on the Owl's knee.
"Son," he said in an undertone, "you just keep them fighting for me." Even as he said it a strain of wonder ran through him. Had any other high school team, he speculated, ever been so influenced by a student who probably did not know the difference between an out and a sacrifice hit.
"Yes, sir," the Owl said seriously; "I will."
Vance crashed a long double into right field.
"Here's where we get our four runs," cried Littlefield.
But Northfield scored only once. Vance came home, after taking third on a passed ball, on a long fly to the left fielder.
Morelli shed his sweater and went out to pitch the second. "I'll hold them," he said to Jennings. He did. Not a Hastings runner reached first base.
The game ran on to the fourth inning with neither side scoring again. Then Littlefield tripled, and crossed the plate on Stafford's safe shot to center. The score was now 4 to 2.
"We'll get the runs for you if you'll hold them," Jennings said to Morelli.
"I'll hold them," the pitcher answered grimly. He went out to the rubber—and a Hastings boy ​hammered his first pitch to deep right for three bases.
Something like a sigh came from the coach's lips. The Owl, who was interested in this game as he had never before been interested in a game, squirmed along the bench. The stand, used to defeat, now sat in tragic silence.
Morelli's face seemed to have set into stony lines. Twice he pitched, and twice the umpire said "Strike." Once more the pitcher hurled the ball, and the batter swung. The sphere arched up into the air in a high foul, and Hammond was under it when it came down.
"One gone," shrilled Littlefield. "We'll get 'em, Morri; watch your step."
From the stand naught but a feeble cheer.
At the plate a Hastings batter crouched and made short, nervous movements with his bat. Morelli's first offering was wide.
"Ball one!"
The next was better. The batter swung, and the ball rose in the air.
Post turned his back on the diamond and began to run. The hit was one of those tantalizing things known as a Texas Leaguer—too far in for the outfielders, too far out for the infielders. Twice Post looked back over his shoulders. Now the ball was directly overhead; now it was be​ginning to fall in front of him. He seemed to quicken his speed, seemed to stretch himself, seemed to do the impossible as he reached out and clutch the sphere as it was settling to the ground.
The runner on third bent his head and raced for the plate. Desperately Post dug his spikes into the turf to check his speed. He slowed up, stopped, and in the same instant had swung around and thrown. Straight and true the ball came on a line and settled into the catcher's glove as the Hastings runner began his slide. Through the cloud of dust the umpire's hand was seen to jerk up sharply.
"Out!"
Then, and not until then, did the stand really awaken to the fact that to-day a new Northfield team was in the field. The cheering that, from the start, had been spasmodic, broke out into a roar of acclaim. Post came running into the bench, and the Owl, his long legs prancing, his hat recklessly awry, came forth to meet him and to throw whirlwind arms about his shoulders.
The roar from the stands became bedlam. Through the crowd ran a whisper that the Owl must had had some part in the transformation. Good old Owl! Must have been something about that Martin business that had never been told! Wasn't he the funny geezer, bobbing around out ​there with his head cocked to one side like a bird? They began to cheer him then; and the Owl, unused to such demonstrations, fled back to the shelter of the bench.
"I've been thinking——" he began.
"Sure," scoffed Stafford; "that's the best thing you do. What's on your mind? Going to take the coaching job away from Jennings?"
"Oh, no," the Owl said hurriedly; "nothing like that. But in one of Napoleon's battles, when the enemy was on a frozen river, he turned his heavy guns on the river and smashed the ice. That's the time to do something—when the other fellow is at a disadvantage. Couldn't we—couldn't we——" The Owl was searching for a word.
"Couldn't we punt?"
Vance let out a roar. "You dill pickle, what do you think this is, football? In baseball you bunt."
"I wonder—" said Jennings, and paused. "Hastings is pretty well shaken. They've lost their swagger, and they're beginning to worry. They're afraid of us. If we couldn't bunt them dizzy and break their ice—"
"That's it," the Owl cried. "Break their ice. Get an icepick—I mean a bat—and—"
Again he had caught their imagination. And again Jennings took advantage of the situation.
​"Bunt it is," he ordered; "and the first fellow who fails to run it out goes out of the game. Who's up? You, Peters. See how fast you can get down to first."
Peters bunted the second ball. The Hastings pitcher came in on a wild run and fumbled. Twice he clutched at the sphere and twice it eluded him. When he got it at last the catcher was praying to him to "Hold it" and Peters was panting and gasping safely on first.
The next boy bunted the first pitch. This time the catcher and the third baseman started for the ball, and the third baseman stumbled and fell. The catcher became badly rattled, and though he got his hands on the leather he did not know what to do with it. The shortstop, who had been guarding third, lost his head and came running in to advise the catcher. And Peters, seeing third unguarded, made a wild dash for the deserted bag and made it.
The Hastings infielders began to quarrel among themselves. The Northfield runner on first edged off, found himself unnoticed, and began to walk toward second. He was half-way to his goal when the Hastings first baseman woke up.
"Second, second!" he screamed.
The catcher, startled, threw. There was nobody there to take the throw, and the ball rolled ​out to center field. Peters ambled home with Northfield's third run, and the other runner went to third.
The stand was in delirium. The Owl's hat was someplace under the bench, and he did not notice that somebody had stepped on it and had smashed in its crown.
"Another punt," he squealed; "one more and——"
"No," said Jennings; "now is the time to hit it out. They'll be playing in to cut off a run at the plate. Morelli, see if you can hit through them."
Morelli shot a grounder past the third baseman and the score was tied. A minute later Vance hammered a triple into left field, and Northfield went into the lead.
Oh, the roar that came from the stand and echoed up and down the foul lines! The jubilation that broke out on the bench! This, Jennings told himself, was like old times, and his eyes rested affectionately on the boy whose unswerving vision of what was right had brought all this about.
"Well," he said, "we punted them dizzy, didn't we?"
"Yes, sir." The Owl's face grew serious. "I never knew baseball was such fun. I think I made a mistake in not trying to be a player."
​The picture of the near-sighted Owl in a baseball uniform was ludicrous—but Jennings did not smile.
For Hastings the game was over. The contest ran on, inning after inning, but the result had already been written. One team had tasted victory and would not be denied; the other had seen the spectre of defeat and had lost heart. When the ninth inning began the scoreboard read Northfield, 9; Opponents, 5. And so it read when the last Hastings batter had been thrown out.
On the bench there was a frenzied scramble for sweaters* bats and gloves. The Owl stood up, rescued his hat, and took a step after the crowd.
"Hey," cried Vance, "where are you going?"
"Home."
"Home? You're coming to the locker room. You were just about the biggest man on this team to-day; and you're going to stay with us to the finish."
"Proper spirit," said Littlefield. "Gosh, what a difference it makes." He was thinking at the moment that this strange boy wrote himself, on the school records, as of Room 13.
To the Owl it was still incomprehensible. But they were plainly sincere, and it had been a long time since Northfield students had singled him out for company. He went along.
​Jennings brought up the rear. He saw Praska leave the stand and went on with a new thought in his mind. Praska had approved of what the Owl had done. Praska had not said so in that many words, but it had been apparent during their second interview. Praska had not rushed in to defend the Owl, but had patiently and silently waited for the justification that he knew would have to come. Praska had made it possible for him to stiffen the nine as it had been stiffened that afternoon.
"Proper spirit," the coach said half aloud—and smiled. More than one Northfield boy had brought it to the game that day.