“He can’t do it,” grinned Maxwell, taking a firm grip on his bat. “Bet you can’t fan me, Edgar, old boy.”
Morrison flushed a little as he toed the plate, his eyes fixed on Burgess.
The catcher signaled for an incurve, and the next moment Maxwell dodged back to avoid being hit by the ball.
“I don’t want a present of the base, thank you,” he laughed. “Try again, Morrie.”
Morrison scowled and whipped a swift shoot, which was entirely too high. The following two balls were equally wild, and the red-headed chap tossed his bat to the ground with a grin.
“Told you that you couldn’t,” he said triumphantly.
The lanky Garrick took his place, and, after giving him three balls, the pitcher sent one straight over the pan, which Garrick promptly swung at and laced out a hot two-bagger.
“What’s the matter with you, Morrison?” Gardiner said sharply. “What’s the good of curves if you can’t get them over? You’ve got to take a brace pretty soon, or we might as well make the Mispahs a present of the game.”
The pitcher’s face darkened and he controlled himself with an effort.
“There’s no use killing yourself at practice,” he said, with affected nonchalance. “I’ll be all right in the game.”