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Updated: May 14, 2025
When I was a boy I belonged to a baseball team in the village where I lived, and when we played games with a team from another village we had a scorer who not only kept tally of the runs, but also told us who was to be the next at the bat. He would say, "So-and-so is at the bat, So-and-so is on deck." And when he told a boy he was "on deck," that boy knew he was to be the next one at the bat.
Scorer, by the gentleman in whose practice the cases of puerperal fever occurred. His name renders it unnecessary to refer more particularly to these gentlemen, who on their part have manifested the most perfect freedom and courtesy in affording these accounts of their painful experience. "January 28, 1843. II.... "The time to which you allude was in 1830.
What is that?" inquired Mrs. Dodd. Why, a round O," said the other Oxonian, coming to his friend's aid. "And what is that, pray?" Alfred told her "the round O," which had yielded to "the duck's egg," and was becoming obsolete, meant the cypher set by the scorer against a player's name who is out without making a run. "I see," sighed Mrs. Dodd.
Each gave him two dollars and a half as an entrance fee. A referee and scorer were appointed from among the half-dozen non-shooting spectators. "Newmark to shoot; Heinzman on deck!" called the scorer in a business-like voice. The trapper ducked into his hole. Mr. Newmark thrust five loaded shells into his side pocket, picked his gun from the rack and stepped forward to the mark.
Even in music, for which he had a genuine passion and at which he worked hard, he never could acquire any facility at sight, and he was an inaccurate scorer, even when only copying the score of others.
The voice of the scorer, addressing from his little wooden hut the melancholy youth who was working the telegraph-board, broke it. "One for two. Last man duck." Ellerby echoed the remark. He got up, and took off his blazer. "This is all right," he said, "isn't it! I wonder if the man at the other end is a sort of young Rhodes too!" Fortunately he was not.
The scorer in the tent hurriedly sharpened his pencil. The big fellows, who had been standing up to watch the opening overs, sat down on the grass and made themselves comfortable. Something was going to happen, evidently. The captain was in, and meant business. Oliver gripped the ball hard in his hand, and walked back to the end of his run.
"We don't have to steal games," returned Merry, quick as a flash. "We can win them." Silence smiled scornfully as he breathed forth a whiff of smoke. "That may have been your experience in the past," he observed, "but you're up against a different proposition to-day, young man." "Will you give your batting order to our scorer?" asked Bearover. "You'll find our scorer sitting yonder," said Merry.
By this time the gallery was half filled with an audience largely composed of High School boys and girls. A few outsiders were present. Mrs. Harlowe had come to see her daughter's team win the game, she said; for she knew that Grace's heart was set on victory. The referee, time-keeper and scorer chosen from the senior class took their places. The whistle blew and the teams lined up.
"What did my hand do, Bill?" he inquired glumly, when at last the scorer picked up his pad and the dealer politely shoved the pack toward his neighbour for cutting. "You ruined me with your four silly hearts," replied the man who had taken his cards. "Did you think you were playing coon-can?" "Sorry, Bill. Sit in for me, there's a good chap. I'm not likely to be back to-night hang it!"
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