“Yes, Bat’s handled a few small cases for the railroad. That’s how I met him. He’s a nice fellow. Maybe I’ll look him up this evening and see what he says. Too tired to practice, are you?”
“No, I’m not tired at all. I only worked two innings and didn’t have to bat. I guess I’ll rest a little while, though, first. What were you doing when I came in?”
Mr. George smiled at the ball he held. “Say, I was trying to get the knack of the ‘knuckle-ball’ that fellow Summers, of the Detroits, pitches. Haven’t got it yet, though. Here’s the idea, though, as I figure it out. You double back your middle fingers like this and hold the ball with your thumb and little finger. It’s not easy, though. Try it.”
Tom took the ball and strove to get a grip on it in the manner shown. “That’s it, isn’t it?” he asked finally. “But I’d never be able to pitch it that way. Why, it would just fall out! I wouldn’t have any control over it!”
“That’s the way it seemed to me until I tried it, but I’m getting the hang of it. It’s a great ball when it’s done right; looks like a fast one and floats over as slow as an ice-wagon going up hill! When I learn it, I’ll show it to you, Tom. Say, I’m mighty glad you’re going to pitch for those fellows! Bet you anything we just mow ’em down this spring, Tom!”
“Well, it isn’t settled yet. Mr. Wright may not agree to it.”
“Pshaw! What’s the reason he won’t? You tell him if he doesn’t he’s got to look out for me, son! I’m liable to put a dent in him!”