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CHAPTER XX
THE SUGAR CAMP

An untimely snow storm that was wholly unlooked for by the boys dismayed them by putting a stop to their practice for the time being. But the snow, though heavy, did not last long, and began to melt rapidly under the rays of the sun.

“See how the water is running down those trees,” remarked Shiner, looking out of the window one Friday morning.

“That isn’t water, boy,” said Sparrow. “That’s sap. The trees are bursting with it just now.”

“By the way, fellows,” put in Skeets, “have you ever been to a maple sugar camp when the sap was running?”

Most of them had not and Skeets went on to explain.

“It’s the best fun ever,” he said; “and now’s just the time to see it running full blast when the snow is melting and the air is warm. On a day like this the sap comes down in bucketfuls. And you can see just how they collect it, and how they boil it down until it’s a thick syrup, and the way that hot maple sugar does taste – yum yum!” and here he closed his eyes in blissful recollection.

“Sounds mighty good to me,” said Pee Wee, with whom the memory of Meena and her breakfast of buckwheat cakes and maple syrup still lingered.

“You can take out the hot sugar in big spoons and let it cool on a pan of snow,” continued Skeets, drawing out the details as he saw that his friends’ mouths were watering in anticipation, “and when you get the first taste of it you never want to stop eating.”

“I wonder if there’s a sugar camp anywhere around here,” said Pee Wee with great animation.

“I know of one that’s about three miles away,” said Sparrow. “What do you say to our making up a party and going out there to-morrow if Doc Raymond will let us go out of bounds?”

There was a general chorus of gleeful assent.

“What we ought to do,” said Skeets, “is to have a couple of fellows go out there to-day and make arrangements. We want to take up a collection and fix it up with the farmer’s wife to have hot biscuits and other things ready for us. I tell you what, fellows, hot biscuits and fresh butter and hot thick maple sugar just out of the boiler – ”

“Don’t say another word,” cried Pee Wee frantically, “or I’ll never, never be able to wait till to-morrow.”

They took stock of their resources and collected several dollars between them, enough they thought to cover the expense. Bobby and Fred were appointed as a committee of two to go out to the camp that afternoon so that everything would be in readiness on the morrow.

Dr. Raymond’s permission was readily obtained, and the chums set out on their three mile walk. They had no trouble in finding the camp and the farmer’s wife, a bright, cheery person, was very ready to entertain the party and promised to have an abundant lunch provided for them.

The boys would have dearly liked to inspect the camp, but they had promised their chums that they would not do so until all could see it together, and they kept loyally to their word.

No finer day could have been selected for that particular outing than the one that dawned the next morning. The air was mild and the sun shining brightly. The only drawback was the walking, as the roads were full of mud in some places and melting slush in others, but as they were all warmly shod that made little difference.

Pee Wee groaned occasionally as he lagged along in the rear, but they had no fear of his dropping out. It would have taken a good deal more than a three-mile walk to keep Pee Wee away from that sugar camp after Skeets’s description.

“There it is,” cried Fred at last, pointing to a big grove of trees in the rear of a farmhouse.

Pee Wee sniffed the air.

“Seems to me I can smell the sugar cooking from here,” he said joyously.

They left the road now, took a short cut across the fields and soon entered the grove of maples.

It was an extensive grove, containing several hundred of the stately trees. Into each one of these that had reached their full growth a hole had been made, a spigot driven in, and a bright tin pail suspended from each spigot. Into these pails the sap was falling with a musical drip so that a tinkling murmur ran through the grove as though some one were gently touching the strings of a zither.

An old horse attached to a low sled was shambling slowly along through the woodland paths, stopping at each tree. The driver would empty the pail into one of several large cans that the sled contained, replace the pail and go on to the next.

“Seems almost a shame to tap those splendid trees,” murmured Mouser. “It’s almost like bleeding them to death.”

“Doesn’t do them a bit of harm,” explained Skeets cheerfully. “The farmers take good care not to drain out more sap than the tree can spare.”

When the sled had made its round, the boys followed it to the shed where the sap was boiled down into sugar. Here they saw an enormous caldron with a roaring fire underneath. Into this caldron the sap was poured, and here its transformation began. A delicious odor arose that made the nostrils of the boys dilate hungrily.

Every little while, the man who was supervising the boiling drew out a huge ladleful to see how thick it was getting. At a certain stage he turned to the boys with a grin.

“Each one of you take one of those pans,” he directed, pointing to a bright row of dairy tins which the housewife had made ready. “Fill them up with snow and pack the snow down hard.”

In a twinkling the boys were ready. Then, as each held up his pan, the man poured a big ladle of the hot syrup on the snow. The rich golden brown against the whiteness of the snow would have delighted the soul of an artist. But these lads were not artists, only hungry boys, and their only concern was to get the sugar cool enough to eat.

Pee Wee in fact burned his lips and tongue by starting too soon, but he soon forgot a trifle like that, and in a moment more he and the others were eating as if they had never tasted anything so good in all their lives.

“Hot biscuits coming, boys,” smiled the farmer. “Better leave some room.”

“Let them come,” mumbled Mouser with his mouth full of sugar. “None of them will go away again.”

And they made good this prophecy when a little later they were called into the farmhouse, where a table was spread, heaped high with fluffy biscuits just from the oven. On these the boys spread butter and then piled them up with the delicious syrup. There were other things on the table too, pickles and pies and cakes, but to these the boys paid slight attention. They could have those any day, but to-day maple sugar was king.

When at length they were through, they all acknowledged to having eaten more than was good for them.

“We’ll have to use a derrick to get Pee Wee on his feet,” laughed Bobby.

“And borrow the horse and sled to take him back to school,” said Sparrow.

But it was not quite so bad as that, though after they started back the other boys had to moderate their gait in order not to leave Pee Wee too far behind.

“Hurry up, Pee Wee,” admonished Skeets. “You’re slow as molasses.”

“Slow as maple syrup when it’s cooling,” amended Sparrow.

“Well, fellows, this has sure been a bully trip,” remarked Shiner, summing up the sentiments of all.

“This is the end of a perfect day,” Fred chanted gayly, lifting up his voice in song.

CHAPTER XXI
THE FIRST GAME

Notwithstanding Fred’s jubilant song, the day was not yet ended.

As the boys approached the school, they saw a figure in the road a little way ahead that seemed familiar to them. They quickened their pace, quickly overtaking Dago Joe.

“Hello, Joe,” came from many voices at once.

Joe flashed them a smile, showing his fine, white teeth.

“Hello,” he answered genially.

“Wonder if he’s as fond of hash as ever,” Fred remarked in a low voice to Mouser.

“What are you doing up this way, Joe?” asked Bobby.

“Looking for any one?” inquired Sparrow.

But Joe was wary and refused to be drawn out.

“Can’t get that old fox to give himself away,” muttered Skeets.

Just then Tom Hicksley approached, accompanied by Bronson and Jinks. They caught sight of Joe at the same time that he saw them, and tried to retreat. Bronson and Jinks succeeded, but Joe was too quick for Hicksley, and hurrying forward laid his hand on his arm, while he jabbered away excitedly.

“Ha ha!” exclaimed Fred in a tragic way. “I see it all now.”

“He’s boning Hicksley for something,” guessed Sparrow.

“Money, I’ll bet,” ventured Shiner.

“I shouldn’t wonder if it’s on account of that job he did for those fellows, hauling those ashes,” said Bobby.

“Wasn’t it luck that we happened along just at this minute?” chuckled Mouser delightedly.

As Joe and Hicksley were right in the path that led up to the school, the boys sauntered along carelessly until they were nearly abreast of them.

For a man who understood so little English, Joe was talking at a great rate.

“I wanta ze mon,” the boys heard him say.

“I tell you I haven’t got it with me just now,” Hicksley responded in an undertone, trying to quiet the man and keep the boys from hearing.

“I wanta ze mon now,” repeated Joe doggedly.

“Oh, give the man his money, Hicksley,” broke in Sparrow suddenly.

“He needs it to buy hash with,” said the irrepressible Fred.

“Let’s take up a collection to help out,” suggested Skeets sarcastically.

“You fellows shut up,” cried Hicksley, turning on them fiercely.

“We know how he earned it,” returned Bobby undauntedly.

“You don’t know anything of the kind,” snarled the bully, but his eyes wavered as they met Bobby’s fixed upon them.

“It was pretty hard work carting ashes all that way to spoil our coast,” went on Bobby. “You’d better pony up, Hicksley.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” growled Hicksley.

But as he did not like the way the boys were gathering around him, he put his hand in his pocket, drew out the dollar and a half that he had promised to pay when the work should be finished and which he had ever since been trying to cheat Joe out of, and slunk away, glad to escape the contempt that he felt in the eyes and manner of the boys.

“Caught with the goods!” cried Fred jubilantly, throwing his cap into the air.

“Couldn’t have been nicer if we’d planned it ourselves,” exulted Sparrow.

“Well, now that we’re sure that he did it, what are we going to do about it?” asked Skeets.

“Oh, I guess there’s nothing to be done,” said Bobby slowly. “If it wasn’t that he’s likely to be on the baseball team we might make it hot for him. Not with the teachers of course, but among ourselves. But we want Rockledge to win the championship, and it won’t help any to have trouble with any boy on the nine. Besides, he’s had a good deal of punishment just in the last few minutes. I never saw a fellow look as cheap as he did when he faded away just now.”

“I guess you’re right, Bobby,” assented Sparrow. “But all the same he wouldn’t let up on you if he had you in a fix.”

The next day they all felt rather logy after their feast of the day before, and Pee Wee, who had a severe stomach ache, did not get up at all. Fortunately it was Sunday, and the day of rest helped to get them in shape again before their school duties began on Monday morning.

From that time on the weather was all that the boys could ask, and every hour the ball players could spare was spent in practice on the diamond.

Gradually, under the coaching of Mr. Carrier, their athletic instructor, ably assisted by Frank Durrock, the nine was getting into good form.

Fred, at short stop, was thought to be a shade better than Willis, and he was slated to play in the first game.

As to the pitchers, while there was no doubt that they would be Bobby and Hicksley, it was by no means certain which of them would twirl in the opening game, which was to be with the Somerset nine on the Rockledge grounds.

Each was doing well, and each had some points that the other did not possess. Hicksley, the older of the two, had more muscular strength, and could whip the ball over with more speed than Bobby. But Bobby was a better general, a quicker thinker, and he had a control of his curves that was far better than his rival’s.

“One thing is certain,” said Mr. Carrier, in one of his conferences with Frank. “We’re better fixed in the box than we ever were before. It’s hard to choose between them, though, take all things together, I think Blake is the better pitcher of the two.”

“Yes,” agreed Frank. “I feel a little safer myself with Bobby in there than I do with Hicksley. Hicksley has lots of speed but he’s liable to go up with a bang. But I’ve never yet seen Bobby get rattled.”

The long expected day arrived at last, and all Rockledge turned out to see the game. The stand was full, and Dr. Raymond himself, with most of the teachers, sat in a little space that had been railed off and decorated with the Rockledge colors.

The Somerset nine, made up of strong, sturdy looking boys, had come over with a large number of rooters from their town. They were full of confidence, and they went through their preliminary practice with a snap and a vim that showed they were good players.

Frank had watched them as they batted out flies, and noted that several of them were left-handed batters. He held an anxious conference with Mr. Carrier, and then came over to Bobby who was warming up.

“I had expected to have you pitch to-day, Bobby,” he said; “but I’ve just been noticing that those fellows have two or three left-handed batters. Now you know as well as I do that for that kind it’s best to have left-handed pitching. They can’t hit it so easily.”

“Sure,” replied Bobby.

“And so I think I’ll have to put in Hicksley,” continued Frank.

“That’s all right,” said Bobby heartily, “and I’ll be rooting my head off for him to win.”

“You’re a brick, Bobby!” exclaimed Frank. “I was sure you’d understand.”

When the umpire cried: “Play ball!” there was a buzz of surprise among the spectators, when, instead of Bobby, it was Tom Hicksley who picked up the ball and faced the batter.

CHAPTER XXII
TO THE RESCUE

Hicksley started off in good shape. The first man up went out on a foul that Sparrow caught after a long run. The second batter, who was left-handed, could do nothing with the ball at all and went out on strikes. The third man connected and shot a sharp grounder which Fred picked up neatly and threw in plenty of time to Durrock at first.

The side was out, and hearty applause greeted Hicksley as he came in to the bench, Bobby joining in as heartily as any of the others.

“That was a dandy start!” cried Bronson.

“Keep it up, Tom!” exclaimed Jinks, encouragingly. “They can’t touch you.”

Rockledge was more fortunate in its half of the inning. Frank, who led off in the batting order, had two halls and one strike called on him, but on his second attempt he sent the ball on a line between center and right for three bases. He was tempted to try to stretch it to a home run, but Bobby, who was coaching, saw that the ball would get there before him and held him at third.

The next batter fouled out, but Mouser, who followed him, sent a neat single to left on which Frank scored easily. Barry went out on strikes, and Mouser was left on the bag when Spentz died on a weak dribbler to the box.

But Rockledge was one run to the good and had shown that they were in a batting humor, so that their rooters in the stand were jubilant at the promising beginning.

The next two innings went by without a score for either side. Hicksley was still pitching well, and the opposing pitcher had tightened up considerably.

In the fourth, Somerset broke the ice. The first man up laid down a bunt that Hicksley picked up, but threw wild to Durrock, and the batter reached second before the ball was recovered. A neat sacrifice put him on third, from which he scored on a long fly to right, which Spentz gobbled after a long run, but could not return to the plate in time to catch the man running in from third after the out. No further damage was done as Fred and Durrock disposed of the batter, but the score was tied, and it was Somerset’s turn to cheer.

But Rockledge got the run right back again in the fifth, and added one for good measure. Fred smashing out a rattling two-bagger to left. He stole third on the first ball pitched. Two infield flies followed, and it began to look as though Fred’s hit had gone for nothing. Then Mouser brought the stand yelling to its feet by a clean home run, following Fred over the plate and making the score three to one.

His comrades gathered around him, pawing and mauling him exultantly.

“That’s what you call hitting it a mile!” cried Bobby.

“A lallapaloozer!” shouted Fred, doing a war dance.

“A peach!”

“A pippin!”

“You’re all there, Mouser!” yelled Pee Wee.

Mouser grinned appreciatively at the medley of shouts that greeted him, and then retired to the bench, where he sat panting and happy.

Radford, the Somerset pitcher, pulled himself together and retired the next man on strikes, and Somerset came in for its turn at the bat.

“Go for ’em now, fellows!” shouted their supporters.

“Eat ’em up!”

“Get right after ’em!”

“The game’s young yet.”

But Hicksley, encouraged by the two-run lead his team had handed him, was still more than they could solve, and again they went out into the field runless.

The Rockledge boys also had a goose egg for their portion in their half, but this did not worry them much. The game was two thirds over, and at that stage a lead of two runs looked mighty good to them.

But in the seventh inning their confidence began to give way to anxiety. Hicksley began well by retiring the first man on strikes. But then he began to lose control. Two batters in succession were given their bases on balls. A fine pickup of Fred’s disposed of the next batter at first, each of the others advancing a base on the play. There was only one other to be put out and end the inning without a run being recorded.

But the next batter landed square on the ball, which whizzed like a bullet between first and second, and in a jiffy two runs came over the plate, tying the score. The batter reached second on the play and then imprudently tried to make third. A quick throw to Sparrow caught him ten feet from the bag and the side was out.

Hicksley came in shaking and with a strained look in his face. The Rockledge rooters yelled encouragement to him, but he paid no attention to them and sat moping sullenly on the bench.

Frank and Mr. Carrier had a hurried consultation, and then the former came over to Bobby.

“You’d better get out there at one side and warm up,” he directed him.

Bobby did as ordered.

“What are you going to do?” demanded Hicksley in a surly tone. “Take me out and put that fellow in?”

“Not yet,” answered Frank soothingly. “You’ve had a bad inning, but that can happen to any one. Perhaps you’ll be all right after a rest. We’ll see how you start out the next inning.”

The Somerset boys, with their chances brightened, had taken a mighty brace, and Rockledge went out in one, two, three order.

Hicksley took up his position in the box with an air of confidence that Frank felt was assumed.

Still, the first ball he pitched cut the plate for a strike. The next two were balls. Then followed another strike and a third ball, making the count three and two.

With both batter and pitcher “in the hole,” the next was a hall and the batter capered happily down to first.

Durrock walked over to Hicksley.

“How about it, Hicksley?” he asked.

“Let me alone,” growled Hicksley.

The next batter connected for a clean single, advancing his mate to second.

Hicksley now was plainly cracking, and when he issued another “pass,” filling the bases, Frank motioned him to retire and beckoned Bobby to the box.

Hicksley glared at Bobby as the latter came forward.

“Sorry, Hicksley,” said Bobby regretfully, as he reached out for the ball. “You pitched a dandy game for the first six innings.”

“Yes, you’re sorry a lot,” snarled Hicksley. “You’re tickled to death at the chance to show me up.”

Instead of handing the ball to Bobby, he threw it angrily on the ground and slouched away to the bench.

Bobby’s eyes flashed, but he controlled himself, quietly picked up the ball and took his position in the box. It was no time now to get angry when he needed above all things to keep cool.

It was a trying position for so young a player. The bases were full with no one out, and the Somerset rooters were yelling at the top of their lungs, trying to rattle him.

A clean hit would bring in at least one run, probably two. Even a long fly to the outfield would probably enable the man on third to score.

“Go to it, Bobby, old boy!” called Fred from short.

“You can hold them!” encouraged Mouser.

“We’re all behind you, Bobby!” sang out Sparrow.

Bobby sized up the batter and wound up for the first pitch.