The Daring Twins. Baum Lyman Frank
and Jed Hopkins in Eric’s place.”
Phil gave a sudden start and drew his hand across his forehead, as the full import of the words was understood. Retired? Retired and discredited at this important juncture! Why, he never would be able to hold up his head in Riverdale again, and all the honors he had formerly won on the field would be wiped away by this disgrace.
“What’s wrong with me, Al?” he asked, anxiously.
“I don’t know, Phil; but something’s wrong. Look at that score – eight to two! – and only three more innings to play. You are usually our stand-by, old fellow; but, to-day you’re the only one of the nine who hasn’t been up to scratch, and fighting to win. I’ve been watching you, and you seem dazed, somehow. Have the Exeter fellows scared you?”
“No,” was the reply. The score, now noticed for the first time, positively startled him. Aroused from his dreams at last he begged Al to try him for another inning.
“Just one,” he pleaded. “Eric can’t pitch as well as I can, I’m sure, and if I don’t make good you can pull me out any time.”
Al hesitated, sighed, and then consented. He really despaired now of winning the game and was so fond of Phil that he hated to humiliate him.
But the conference had been noted by the discontented Riverdale audience and people began to shout: “Take him out!” “Put Daring on the shelf!” “Phil’s gone bad to-day!” and other similar remarks that made Phil straighten up and walk to his station with an air of resolve.
Groans and hoots greeted him, but he never wavered. The first batter to face him, one of the crack Exeter players, struck out, and the crowd ceased their jibes. The next man made a “pop-up” which Phil cleverly caught, and a gentle murmur of applause, mostly from the women, rewarded him. The third man also struck out, and then the crowd forgot its grievance against the young pitcher and gave a hearty cheer.
“Why didn’t he do that, before?” grumbled Judge Ferguson, who had been greatly annoyed at Phil’s poor showing.
“He hasn’t seemed himself, to-day,” replied Janet, with friendly generosity. “It occurred to me that he had heard bad news, or perhaps is not well. Really, papa, I’m not sure that Phil knew he was playing ball, till just now.”
The old lawyer nodded. He knew very well, now that Janet shrewdly called his attention to it, what had doubtless depressed his young friend, and occupied his mind.
“He seems all right now,” he remarked with a sympathetic sigh. “That last inning he played all by himself.”
Indeed, Phil’s record of three “put-outs” unassisted, inspired his fellows with renewed confidence in him. Al Hayden went to bat and made a two-bagger. Toby Clark, Mr. Ferguson’s office clerk, got first base on balls. The next batter struck out, but the one following stepped up to the plate and pounded out a clean hit that filled the bases. It was Phil’s turn now, and he realized the full importance of the crisis. Usually a pitcher is not a very good batter; yet, until to-day Phil had been considered an exception to this rule. So far in the game, however, his bat had never once touched a ball.
The spectators were thrilled by the excitement of the moment, but expected young Daring to strike out and let the next man, a reliable player, bring in some of the men on bases.
But Phil’s face was set and determined. He had not yet redeemed himself. Having well-nigh lost the game for his team by his poor showing, it now behooved him to save the day if he could. No thought now engaged his mind, but this; he was living in the present – not in the future. With watchful eye he followed the approaching ball on its course, and at the proper time struck shrewdly with might and main.
High in the air rose the sphere, describing a perfect arch. With one accord the spectators rose in their seats to watch the ball as it sailed over the back fence, giving the batter a home run and bringing in the three other men.
When the mighty cheer that rent the air had subsided the score was six to eight, instead of eight to two.
In the eighth and ninth innings Phil pitched so well that no runs were added by the Exeter team, while the Riverdales made one tally in each inning and tied the score.
The excitement was now intense. Each team formerly had five games to its credit, and in the present decisive game each side had scored eight runs. An extra inning must be played to determine the championship.
The boys on both sides settled down to do their level best. Phil was perfectly calm and confident. He struck out two and Al caught a long, high fly that retired Exeter with a “goose-egg.” Then the Riverdale team came to bat and the first two – poor Al one of them – went out in short order. But when Phil again came to bat the opposing pitcher lost his nerve, remembering that famous home run. The result was a long drive that landed Daring on third, and the next batter, Jed Hopkins, brought him home, winning the game and the series.
The Riverdale crowd was in an ecstasy of delight and cheered until it was hoarse. Phil’s wonderful playing during the final three innings had fully redeemed him in the eyes of his friends and a dozen young fellows leaped into the arena and hoisted him upon their shoulders, carrying him from the field in triumph. Even the defeated Exeters good-naturedly joined in the applause, while Becky and Sue sobbed with joy at the honors being showered upon their big brother.
“Wasn’t Phil splendid?” exclaimed Janet, as she followed her father from the grand stand.
The old lawyer nodded thoughtfully.
“Yes,” said he, “the lad has a wonderful amount of reserve force, which makes him a good uphill fighter. He reminded me of his father, during that last rally. If Phil Daring has only half the pluck and backbone that Wallace Daring possessed, I predict he’ll some day make his mark in the world.”
“Yet Mr. Daring died poor,” suggested Janet.
“True, my dear; and that was because he died. Had he lived, it would have been a different story.”
CHAPTER VI
HUNTING A JOB
When Phil managed to shake off his enthusiastic friends and return to his home, he found that Phœbe had gone out. Entering the kitchen to ask Aunt Hyacinth where his sister was, he found the black mammy preparing the supper.
“Don’ know whar she am, Marse Phil, I’se shuah,” she said. “But Miss Phœbe’s sartin to be back ’fo’ long.”
Phil turned to go; then he paused, and after a moment’s thought inquired:
“Auntie, who pays our grocery bills?”
“I do, chile,” she answered, giving him an odd look.
“And where do you get the money?” he continued.
Auntie was beating eggs for a custard. She pretended not to hear him. Phil repeated the question.
“Marse Ferg’son done gi’ me a lot,” said she, in a matter of course way.
“Forty dollars, I believe,” the boy rejoined, rather bitterly.
“Mo’ ’n dat, honey; lots mo’.”
“When?”
“’Fore we shifted oveh to dis yeah house. Den he done guv me fohty dollehs mo’, an’ said dat were all dere was left. But I guess it’ll do, all right.”
“Auntie,” said Phil, taking both her hands and looking her squarely in the eyes, “tell me truly; is any of that last forty dollars left?”
A look of genuine distress crossed her honest face.
“No, honey,” she admitted, in a low voice.
“Then, where does the money come from that we’re living on now?”
“H – m. Miss Phœbe done guv it to me.”
“Phœbe!”
“Miss Phœbe; shuah.”
“Where could Phœbe get any money?” he inquired, wonderingly.
“Yo’