“I shouldn’t like to bank on it,” Gardiner retorted, with some heat. “I could mention a few games in which you were decidedly not all right. The trouble with you is that half the time your mind isn’t on what you’re doing. A fellow can’t pitch and think about something else at the same time.”
Morrison flushed hotly.
“You don’t say so!” he sneered. “Perhaps you’d like your Yale friend to show me how it’s done. That’s what you brought him here for, isn’t it?”
Gardiner’s chin squared.
“I asked him here to coach us all,” he said quietly. “So far, you seem to be the one to need it the most.”
Morrison’s eyes flashed and he wheeled suddenly and faced Dick, who was standing behind him.
“Perhaps you’ll be so kind as to give us an exhibition of your skill,” he said ironically, in a voice which trembled with suppressed anger. “You pitch, I believe?”
“Occasionally,” Merriwell returned carelessly; “but I doubt whether I can be of any assistance to you. Your curves and speed seem to be all right. A man can only acquire good control by constant practice and unremitting attention to the game.”
The ball came bounding across the diamond from the field, and leaning over, Morrison scooped it up and tossed it to the Yale man.
“Sounds good,” he sneered. “Just show us a few.”