"Isn't that good sense?" demanded Owen.
Patterson drew a long breath. "It's good sense all right, but I don't know whether I can do it."
Owen snorted. "You can if you've a mind to. Just settle it that you'll do your best and be satisfied with whatever turns up. Why can't you let Poole and Lyford do the worrying?"
"I suppose I can," said Patterson, humbly.
"I should hope you could! I tell you, man, you've got the goods! You have speed and good control and all the curves you need. If you give yourself half a chance they'll recognize it. If they don't, what do you care? There are other teams in the country, and this isn't the only year you're going to play. Just stop thinking, and play your game, and be satisfied if you make the second!"
"That's all I expect to do," answered Patterson, nettled. He felt for the moment angry with himself and vexed with Owen, but the talk did him good. He faced the first practice with an outward show of composure that did very good duty for confidence.
The coach made no significant comment on the batteries. He had kept in touch with the work of the winter through Poole's letters, and doubtless shared the captain's view that with Carle eliminated from the list, O'Connell must be the chief reliance of the season. At all events, on the first rally of forces in the open, he spent most of his time on Borland and his mate. O'Connell did better than usual, having got at least this measure of good from Borland's browbeating, that he was more cautious in his delivery, and made better aim for the plate.
Owen exerted himself on the occasion to put his pitcher through his paces, and give the coach some inkling of what he fondly believed to be Patterson's great promise. But unfortunately, either from the novelty of the new conditions or from nervousness, the pitcher was slow in steadying down; and by the time he was delivering the balls as the catcher expected, Poole called Owen away to join the outfielders, who were catching flies, and put Foxcroft in his place. And Foxcroft blighted the pitcher's inspiration as a hoar-frost blights a hothouse plant.
"How did it go?" asked Owen, coming in some time later for a brief batting practice before the net.
Patterson gave a doleful shake of the head. "To pieces," he answered laconically. "I never could pitch to that fellow!"