“I’m going to get Thorny Brooks to show me how to do it,” he said finally. “He’s got a dandy in-shoot. You ought to see him pitch, Tom.”
“I’d like to,” Tom answered. “Maybe some day when you’re playing a game I’ll get out and see it. I wish I could play, Sid.”
“I know. It’s too bad you can’t. You’d make a good player, I’ll bet. You can field and bat better than two or three fellows on the team right now. I don’t suppose Cummings and Wright would let you off in the afternoon, would they?”
“Then I wouldn’t be there at all,” laughed Tom. “When do you fellows play your first game?”
“About two weeks from now. First games don’t amount to much, though; they’re only practices. You wait till we tackle Lynton High or Petersburg. Then you’ll see real games!”
They went back through the twilight, passing the ball between them as they walked, Sidney progressing backward and having several narrow escapes from colliding with poles, hydrants, and pedestrians. Afterward they sat on the front steps until the chill of evening drove them upstairs to Sidney’s room. Then they “wirelessed,” taking turns at examining each other on the Continental code with tablet and pencil and then ticking off on the practice key:
“Dash, dot, dash, dot, pause, dot, dash, pause, dash, dot, pause, dash, dot, dash, dash, pause, dash, dash, dash, pause, dot, dot, dash, pause, dot, dash, dash, dot, pause, dot, dot, pause, dash, pause, dash, dot, dash, dot, pause, dot, dot, dot, dot, pause, dot, dash, pause, dash, dot, pause, dash, dash, dash, pause, dot, dot, dash, pause, dash, pause, dot, dot, dot, pause, dot, dot, dot, dot, pause, dash, dash, dash, pause, dash, dash, dash, pause, dash, pause, dot, dot, dash, dash, dot, dot.”
But Tom, who was listening to the clicking key, was unusually stupid this evening. I think his mind was more on pitching a baseball than on telegraphy. He frowned uncertainly.
“‘Can you pinch’ something,” he said. “I didn’t get it.”
“‘Pitch,’ you chump! ‘Can you pitch an out-shoot?’”