He drove the first ball out to Carker. It was an easy fly, and Greg gathered it in without trouble.
Then Frank gave Gamp one that made the long-legged New Hampshire youth cover ground to the best of his ability; but Gamp was in form, and he pulled the ball down after his long run.
It was Swiftwing’s turn. Merry put up an easy one, but he refrained from driving it directly at the Indian, knowing many fielders will miss a ball when nervous if they have to stand still and wait for it, although they will catch it when they have to make a brisk move to get under it.
Swiftwing got under the ball, but he did not hold it.
“You couldn’t drop another one if you tried to,” cried Frank, in a manner and tone that indicated his firm belief in his own words. Then he proceeded to drive another out to the young Indian.
Swiftwing got under it, but again the ball bounced out of his hands. This time, however, he made a leap for it, and caught it before it fell to the ground.
“That’s what I told you!” laughed Frank. “I knew you couldn’t drop the ball, old man. It’s no use for any old ball to try to get away from you.”
He made Swiftwing believe it, and from that time on the Indian steadily improved, so that, before long, he was catching everything any one could reasonably expect him to hold. Hodge was astonished.
“How the dickens do you do it?” he asked. “You have a way of making a man do his best.”
Frank smiled.