Mr. George was very strict about one thing, and that was not allowing Tom to overwork his arm. “Stop just as soon as it begins to heat up,” he would say. Often Tom begged to be allowed to continue when that condition of affairs was reached, but the detective was firm on that point. “Nothing doing, Tom. That’ll be all for this time. You can’t afford to monkey with a good arm like that.”
By the first week in May, Tom knew how to pitch an out-shoot and in-shoot and a drop. I say he knew how, but I don’t affirm that he always succeeded, for he didn’t. This discouraged him at times, but Mr. George only laughed. “Why, Tom, if you could do what you wanted to with that ball every time, you’d be a—a sort of infant prodigy that you read about! How old are you, anyway?”
“Sixteen and a half.”
“Well, that half may help some,” laughed the detective. “But you’ve got several years ahead of you yet before you’ll reach top-form, son. Why, I couldn’t do as well as you’re doing when I was seventeen!”
At which Tom took comfort. Tom had read or heard of many more deliveries, such as the “fade-away,” the “knuckle-ball,” the “floater,” and the “spit-ball,” and was eager to have Mr. George show him about them. But his teacher put it off. “I can’t pitch a ‘spit-ball’ myself, Tom,” he said. “That came along after I quit the game. I know how it’s done and some day we’ll have a try at it. Same way with the ‘knuckle-ball’ and a lot of the other ‘freaks.’ What you want to do now is to learn control. You’ve got enough to start on; three good breaks and a straight ball is enough for any pitcher. After that it’s just a matter of putting the ball where you want it, fooling the batter, teasing him with the wide ones, sneaking in the good ones under his nose, changing your pace, and having him hit too soon. Oh, there’s a lot in the pitching game besides just curving the pellet, son! Why, I knew a fellow once, Purdy of the old Bristol team it was, who didn’t have a thing on the ball except an out-shoot, ‘two fingers only’ we used to say. Of course he knew others, but they wouldn’t work for him. Well, that old side-wheeler used to go into the box and have them eating out of his hand! Yes, sir, he just used his head, Gus did, and the way he’d serve ’em what they didn’t want and make ’em bite at ’em was a caution! Why, fellows used to say that they’d rather go up against almost any of the big-uns than Gus Purdy when Gus was really pitching! You want to remember that there’s all kinds of hitters in the world: hitters that want them high and hitters that like ’em low and hitters that will reach for ’em and hitters that won’t. And here’s another thing, Tom. Bear in mind that the plate is only a pretty narrow contrivance after all, but that the distance from a man’s knee to his shoulder is something like three feet. Get that?”
“You mean it’s better to pitch for up and down position than for—for——”
“Right-o! You get me! You’ve got more room up and down than you have across. Learn to put them just about where you want to from knee to shoulder. That worries a batter more than having ’em come to him near or wide. But you’ve got to study your man, son. It always seemed to me that the best of the pitchers in my time were sort of mind readers. Some of ’em just seemed to know what the batter was thinking and what he was looking for. Yes, sir, there’s a lot more to it than just pitching the ball!”
Frequently, Tom went down to Mr. George’s room on the second floor and listened breathlessly while the former minor leaguer told of exciting battles on the diamond or of queer experiences he had met with. There was always much practical advice mixed up with the stories, and this Tom imbibed thirstily. How or when his pitching ability was to prove of use to him he did not know, for there was certainly no present prospect; but his enthusiasm never waned. Day after day, save such times as the detective was away or Tom was detained late at the store, the two spent the half-hour before dinner in the side-yard. There, masked and mitted, Mr. George stood behind the plate—a slab of wood of the correct dimensions had long ago taken the place of the barrel lid—and caught the balls that Tom hurled to him. Sometimes, and this was when Sidney had gone to some party or entertainment to which all his persuasion failed to entice Tom along, there was an extra session after dinner. On such occasions there was invariably an interested audience of at least one, the one being Mr. Tully.
Mr. George was drilling Tom in control now and it was a good deal like hard work. They had made up a set of signals and Tom, ball in hand, would watch Mr. George’s fingers laid across the back of his big mitten and then do his best to put the ball over where it was wanted. High balls that cut the inner corner of the plate, high balls that passed over the middle of it, high balls that cut the outer corner, followed each other. Sometimes they were slow and sometimes fast. Mr. George was always calling for a change of pace. After the high balls came “waisters” and then low ones, and finally, as Tom’s control progressed, Mr. George would “mix them up.”
“Here’s a ‘chopper,’” he would announce, referring to the mythical batsman. “What you going to give him, Tom?”