On second, Bert Meyers was taking all sorts of leads and yelling like a Comanche Indian in an effort to disturb the pitcher. If he had only known it, he could have stolen third base with impunity, for Tom had determined to take no risks of hurriedly pegging the ball into the outfield. But Tom’s cool scrutiny fooled Bert. Every time Tom wound up Bert dashed up the base-line, but he always stopped short of a steal and scuttled back to safety as the ball went to the catcher. Bert was big and rangy, but not a fast man on bases.
Tom’s first offering to Frank Warner almost brought about disaster. It was an in-shoot and it broke badly, passing over the plate “in the groove.” Frank swung at it and struck it and dashed for first, but the ball was a foul by a bare two inches when it struck back of third. After that Tom was more cautious. A wide one was wasted and then Tom worked a drop that fooled Frank so badly that the players on the bench chuckled audibly as he recovered himself after a vicious swipe at empty air. A rather ugly expression came into the captain’s face then. He didn’t like being made a fool of. A fast ball that went over too high counted against the pitcher. Then Frank landed on a low one and popped a foul into the stand. Tom had only one more to waste, and when Arthur Brown asked for a curve Tom shook his head. What he did send in was a slow ball, Frank, angry and anxious to hit, did just what Tom thought he would do. He struck too soon, the ball passed under his bat, and, although Brown dropped the strike, Frank was too disgruntled to try for his base.
Tommy Hughes was easy for Tom, four pitched balls disposing of him, and the game was over, the scrubs winning by a score of seven to six. Arthur Brown, tossing aside his mask, intercepted Tom on his way to the bench. “That’s some pitching, Pollock,” he declared admiringly. “I’d like to catch you all the time!”
“Well, I guess you did as much as I did,” answered Tom. “Glad I helped you win, though.”
Frank Warner lounged over to where Tom, assisted by the proud and delighted Mr. Cummings, was donning his coat. “That’s quite a drop you have, Pollock,” he said patronisingly. “You want to practise up on your curves, though. It won’t do to break ’em over the plate, you know. Mr. Talbot says you’re coming out for the team.”
“I don’t know yet. If I can, I will.”
“Glad to have you. We need more pitchers.” The captain nodded carelessly and turned away. Mr. Cummings chuckled.
“He’s sore because you struck him out, son,” he said. “I was glad you did, too. Sort of a stuck-up fellow, isn’t he?”
Tom, Sidney, Mr. Cummings, and Coach Talbot walked over to the trolley line together and boarded the same car. Sidney, before he dropped off at Alameda Avenue, made Tom promise to come around to see him that evening. As they neared the store, Mr. Cummings, who had been talking with Mr. Talbot most of the way, turned to Tom.