“All right. Here you are, old sour face,” said Thatcher, in no way awed by his glowering looks, and he threw the ball smoothly and evenly down to Gould.
It was returned with a snap, for Gould must needs find some vent for the spleen that was in him. But this did not bother Thatcher. The ball thumped pleasantly into his glove and the mere feeling of the sphere and the sound of it as it smacked against the leather sent a thrill of joy tingling up and down his spine. It was great once more to have on a glove and feel the weight of the thumping ball. He enjoyed the game of catch immensely, despite the fact that he did not like his partner, and he returned throw for throw with enthusiasm.
The gymnasium presented an interesting spectacle then to the fellows watching from the running track. The air seemed full of baseballs. Eight snowy white spheres were weaving back and forth and plunking into gloves with a rhythm that was blood stirring to the dyed-in-the-wool baseball enthusiasts who were looking on and they waxed enthusiastic despite the fact that they were not working with the candidates.
Despite the admonitions of Coach Rice the fusillade of baseballs became hotter as muscles were limbered up and the candidates began to feel their blood mounting. Again and again he had to shout at the top of his voice:
“Ease up there. None of that speed stuff. Cut it down. Cut it down. You, Hart, cut down on the steam. Daily, ease up there—EASE UP—don’t you understand English? Gould, that’s enough. Any more of that burning them in and off the floor you go. Don’t be so enthusiastic. You’ve got the whole spring and summer to burn up the air.”
Thatcher smiled as the coach called Gould down. He knew that it was not through enthusiasm alone that he was “burning up the air.” There was the sting of malice about each snappy throw that Gould put over and Thatcher realized that his partner would be perfectly glad if he should by chance let one of the throws slip through his glove. Indeed, Gould made catching the throws as difficult as possible, and Jeff had to be on the alert all the time to get them as they came speeding in. But he found a certain degree of pleasure in that, too, for despite some of the awkward positions that he was forced to get into to receive the ball, he got them all and he was glad of the opportunity to show Gould that he did know how to handle a glove, even on the first day of practice.
For twenty minutes that game of catch kept up. Then suddenly Coach Rice blew a whistle and stopped it.
“All right. That’s enough, fellows. No more baseball to-day. Form two circles now. That’s it. Spread out. Mr. Clarkson, you take one group and I’ll take the other. Get the medicine balls.”
Those big cumbersome pieces of gym. paraphernalia were rolled out onto the floor, one for each group, and presently the fellows were engaged in a lively game of passing the ball from one to another. There was no restraint in this game and the passing became fast and furious, the heavy ball going around the circles with lightning swiftness and the fellows grunting each time they caught or passed the ball. So it kept up, the pace of passing growing faster and faster and faster, until all of the baseball candidates were perspiring freely. Indeed, the sweat was running down Jeff Thatcher’s face in trickles and he was panting with the exertion of the work-out.