But now the disagreement over Mason threatened trouble. Frank knew the feeling of distrust, and lost confidence was the very worst thing that could assail a ball-team, and he was doing his best to give the Southerner a chance to restore confidence to some extent.
Mason never worked harder in a game. Not even once did he drop a ball he could touch with his hands. He ran in for them and ran out for them. He dug them out of the dirt, pulled them down out of the sky, and took them over his shoulder. When it came to batting he seemed able to hit anything that might be called a strike. He ran and slid bases handsomely.
Hodge watched with sour looks the practise of the Southerner. Several of the players who had failed to make the regular nine were on the field now, giving the players a chance to come in to the bench and do batting and base-running.
“What thinkest thou?” murmured Jack Ready, as he saw Hodge gloomily watching Mason. “Perchance he may redeem himself—not?”
“I don’t think there is any hope that he will,” said Bart harshly. “He’s one of these fellows that can do almost anything in practise, but is no earthly good in real work.”
“Thinkest thou so?” chirped Jack. “Then it’s plain that you do not agree with our great and mighty chieftain. He must think otherwise, else he’d not retain him.”
“Oh, Merry’s got a fool notion that the fellow can play. Usually, I’m ready to stand by anything Merry says, but in this case I’m not, for I know he’s wrong.”
“Perchance you do not love this Mason, whose front name is Hock?”
“I never did, but I’ve had to tolerate him.”
“He has ways which much resemble some of yours,” ventured Jack.