A group of boys was assembled in an open field to the west of the public schoolhouse in the town of Crawford. Most of them held hats in their hands, while two, stationed sixty feet distant from each other, were “having catch.”
Tom Pinkerton, son of Deacon Pinkerton, had just returned from Brooklyn, and while there had witnessed a match game between two professional clubs. On his return he proposed that the boys of Crawford should establish a club, to be known as the Excelsior Club of Crawford, to play among themselves, and on suitable occasions to challenge clubs belonging to other villages. This proposal was received with instant approval.
“I move that Tom Pinkerton address the meeting,” said one boy.
“Second the motion,” said another.
As there was no chairman, James Briggs was appointed to that position, and put the motion, which was unanimously carried.
Tom Pinkerton, in his own estimation a personage of considerable importance, came forward in a consequential manner, and commenced as follows:
“Mr. Chairman and boys. You all know what has brought us together. We want to start a club for playing baseball, like the big clubs they have in Brooklyn and New York.”
“How shall we do it?” asked Henry Scott.
“We must first appoint a captain of the club, who will have power to assign the members to their different positions. Of course you will want one that understands about these matters.”
“He means himself,” whispered Henry Scott, to his next neighbor; and here he was right.
“Is that all?” asked Sam Pomeroy.
“No; as there will be some expenses, there must be a treasurer to receive and take care of the funds, and we shall need a secretary to keep the records of the club, and write and answer challenges.”
“Boys,” said the chairman, “you have heard Tom Pinkerton’s remarks. Those who are in favor of organizing a club on this plan will please signify it in the usual way.”
All the boys raised their hands, and it was declared a vote.
“You will bring in your votes for captain,” said the chairman.
Tom Pinkerton drew a little apart with a conscious look, as he supposed, of course, that no one but himself would be thought of as leader.
Slips of paper were passed around, and the boys began to prepare their ballots. They were brought to the chairman in a hat, and he forthwith took them out and began to count them.
“Boys,” he announced, amid a universal stillness, “there is one vote for Sam Pomeroy, one for Eugene Morton, and the rest are for Frank Fowler, who is elected.”
There was a clapping of hands, in which Tom Pinkerton did not join.
Frank Fowler, who is to be our hero, came forward a little, and spoke modestly as follows:
“Boys, I thank you for electing me captain of the club. I am afraid I am not very well qualified for the place, but I will do as well as I can.”
The speaker was a boy of fourteen. He was of medium height for his age, strong and sturdy in build, and with a frank prepossessing countenance, and an open, cordial manner, which made him a general favorite. It was not, however, to his popularity that he owed his election, but to the fact that both at bat and in the field he excelled all the boys, and therefore was the best suited to take the lead.
The boys now proceeded to make choice of a treasurer and secretary. For the first position Tom Pinkerton received a majority of the votes. Though not popular, it was felt that some office was due him.
For secretary, Ike Stanton, who excelled in penmanship, was elected, and thus all the offices were filled.
The boys now crowded around Frank Fowler, with petitions for such places as they desired.
“I hope you will give me a little time before I decide about positions, boys,” Frank said; “I want to consider a little.”
“All right! Take till next week,” said one and another, “and let us have a scrub game this afternoon.”
The boys were in the middle of the sixth inning, when some one called out to Frank Fowler: “Frank, your sister is running across the field. I think she wants you.”
Frank dropped his bat and hastened to meet his sister.
“What’s the matter, Gracie?” he asked in alarm.
“Oh, Frank!” she exclaimed, bursting into tears. “Mother’s been bleeding at the lungs, and she looks so white. I’m afraid she’s very sick.”
“Boys,” said Frank, turning to his companions, “I must go home at once. You can get some one to take my place, my mother is very sick.”
When Frank reached the little brown cottage which he called home, he found his mother in an exhausted state reclining on the bed.
“How do you feel, mother?” asked our hero, anxiously.
“Quite weak, Frank,” she answered in a low voice. “I have had a severe attack.”
“Let me go for the doctor, mother.”
“I don’t think it will be necessary, Frank. The attack is over, and I need no medicines, only time to bring back my strength.”
But three days passed, and Mrs. Fowler’s nervous prostration continued. She had attacks previously from which she rallied sooner, and her present weakness induced serious misgivings as to whether she would ever recover. Frank thought that her eyes followed him with more than ordinary anxiety, and after convincing himself that this was the case, he drew near his mother’s bedside, and inquired:
“Mother, isn’t there something you want me to do?”
“Nothing, I believe, Frank.”
“I thought you looked at me as if you wanted to say something.” “There is something I must say to you before I die.”
“Before you die, mother!” echoed Frank, in a startled voice.
“Yes. Frank, I am beginning to think that this is my last sickness.”
“But, mother, you have been so before, and got up again.”
“There must always be a last time, Frank; and my strength is too far reduced to rally again, I fear.”
“I can’t bear the thought of losing you, mother,” said Frank, deeply moved.
“You will miss me, then, Frank?” said Mrs. Fowler.
“Shall I not? Grace and I will be alone in the world.”
“Alone in the world!” repeated the sick woman, sorrowfully, “with little help to hope for from man, for I shall leave you nothing. Poor children!”
“That isn’t what I think of,” said Frank, hastily.
“I can support myself.”
“But Grace? She is a delicate girl,” said the mother, anxiously. “She cannot make her way as you can.”
“She won’t need to,” said Frank, promptly; “I shall take care of her.”
“But you are very young even to support yourself. You are only fourteen.”
“I know it, mother, but I am strong, and I am not afraid. There are a hundred ways of making a living.”
“But do you realize that you will have to start with absolutely nothing? Deacon Pinkerton holds a mortgage on this house for all it will bring in the market, and I owe him arrears of interest besides.”
“I didn’t know that, mother, but it doesn’t frighten me.”
“And you will take care of Grace?”
“I promise it, mother.”
“Suppose Grace were not your sister?” said the sick woman, anxiously scanning the face of the boy.
“What makes you suppose such a thing as that, mother? Of course she is my sister.”
“But suppose she were not,” persisted Mrs. Fowler, “you would not recall your promise?”
“No, surely not, for I love her. But why do you talk so, mother?” and a suspicion crossed Frank’s mind that his mother’s intellect might be wandering.
“It is time to tell you all, Frank. Sit down by the bedside, and I will gather my strength to tell you what must be told.”
“Grace is not your sister, Frank!”
“Not my sister, mother?” he exclaimed. “You are not in earnest?”
“I am quite in earnest, Frank.”
“Then whose child is she?”
“She is my child.”
“Then she must be my sister—are you not my mother?”
“No, Frank, I am not your mother!”
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