“Get in front of ’em, Dashleigh! Stop ’em with your body if you can’t hold ’em with your hands!”
“You throw like an old woman, Mason! You’ll break your back some day.”
“Here, here, Ready! that will do with those flourishes! When you get hold of a ball throw it. Don’t juggle it.”
“Say, you chap with the curly hair, don’t get so excited. Take a little time in throwing to first, after picking up a ball.”
“Who is that long-legged chap?” Gamp questioned.
“Here, Gamp, it’s your turn to bat.”
“Oh, murder! Who let that grounder go through him? Carker? Is that his name? Say, Carker, you’re a sieve! Keep your feet together and you’ll do better.”
It was a lively scene in the great baseball cage at Yale, for the squad of candidates for the ball-team were hard at work and the coaches were putting them “through the paces.”
The men were working hard, and the coaches were yelling and shouting at them, giving orders, criticizing, commenting—but seldom expressing approval.
It would not do to let any man think he was doing too well at this early stage of the work, for it might spoil him by giving him a good opinion of his ability.