Tom hesitated, a trifle startled. “Why, I don’t know,” he answered doubtfully. “I suppose I can, a little.”
“Well, for goodness’ sake, go in and get us through the inning if you can. These fellows are weak batters. If you’ve got anything at all, you can fool them. Know any signals?”
Tom shook his head. Walter turned his back to the enemy and walked Tom aside. “What can you pitch?” he asked.
“Nothing but an out-curve and a straight ball,” answered Tom apologetically.
“That’s good enough. Now, here,” Walter laid a finger of his right hand over his glove. “One finger; see? A straight, low ball. Two fingers, a straight high one. Four fingers, a wide ball. Five fingers, an out-shoot. Get that? You watch my fingers before you pitch; see? And if you can’t make ’em out shake your head. Now, then, what are the signals?”
Tom repeated them and Walter gave him an encouraging slap on the back. “You’ll do, Pollock. Don’t be afraid of them. Watch the signals and try to give me what I ask for.” And Walter walked back to the plate, tossed the ball to Tom, and donned his mask again.
Tom wished for a minute that he were many miles away. The few hundred persons in the stand suddenly looked like a thousand and their derisive laughter and shouted comments made his ears tingle. Behind him, as he drew his cap down firmly and hitched up his trousers—not because there was any danger of their slipping down, but because he had seen Thorny do it—his team-mates spoke encouragingly and cheerfully.
“That’s the stuff, Pollock! Show ’em what you can do!” “Remember, Tom, we’re here right behind you! Take your time, old man!”
The batsman stepped out of the box and Tom sent half a dozen balls to Walter to limber his arm up. In spite of an attempt to put them over the plate, they went everywhere and Tom’s heart sank as Walter reached this way and that to pull them in. If he didn’t do better than that against the batsman, he’d make a frightful mess of it! At last, “Play ball!” said the umpire.