“He was a wiz. I’d almost believe he was a ringer,—a semi-pro. or something like that,” said Buck Hart disconsolately, as he pulled off one cleated shoe and threw it into his locker.
“Oh, he’s no ringer,” said Coach Rice, who came up in time to hear Buck’s remark. “He’s an honest-to-goodness student at Washington-Childs and he sure had you fellows looking like a lot of posts.”
“I’ll tell the world,” said big George Dixon; “I’ll tell ’em, too, that he’s no ringer, either. I know who he is. He’s Badger Clark, a fellow from Iowa; rich ranchman’s son; and I’ve heard that Yale and Harvard and Princeton are all trying to make him believe that he’ll make the mistake of his life if he doesn’t register at their particular institution next year.”
“Well, whoever gets him will be mighty fortunate,” said Coach Rice.
But that defeat, coming as it did in the tightest and hardest part of the Pennington schedule, really helped the fellows, for whatever conceit and overconfidence had been accumulating as a result of their succession of victories disappeared over night. They suddenly realized that they were just a baseball team and not a lot of champions, and they settled down to afternoon practice with more of a feeling that practice was necessary than they had had heretofore.
The team had not undergone any radical changes during the season. Rabbit Warren, Cas Gorham and Brownie Davis, the three first string substitutes, were given a number of chances to fill in for regulars who were taken out for some reason or another, and Gould, who still reported for each game in uniform, was given an occasional opportunity to fill in for Thatcher, Buck Hart or Mickey Daily; but he was listed as being among the substitutes and Thatcher became the permanent third baseman of the team, clinching his hold on the position by playing a steady and dependable game as he well knew how to play, giving his best to the team and occasionally flashing bits of brilliant baseball that pleased the coach and his assistant and made the rest of the players proud of him. He was Third Base Thatcher and living up to his name.
But Gould hung on despite the discouragement of losing his job as a regular. He hung on for much the same reason that Jeff had been eager to become a fixture on the team. Gould was a Sophomore, and as a Freshman the preceding year he had been a substitute third baseman, but he had not been given the privilege of playing in the Lawrencetown game and thereby winning his letters,—winning the privilege of wearing a buff “P” on cap and blue jersey. He wanted that honor. He wanted to win his letters and that was the one reason why he stuck to the squad as a substitute, hoping, of course, that chance, or luck, or something would make it possible for him to play in the Lawrencetown game long enough to be entitled to that privilege.
The school ruling was that to win a letter for baseball a player had to play in seven scheduled games during one season, but one of those seven games had to be the game with Lawrencetown. Gould had taken part in more than seven games and so had Jeff, but it was necessary for both of them to play in the Lawrencetown game before they could be awarded the honor they strove for. So Gould clung on, although it was evident that Thatcher had made the regular position at third, hoping no doubt that something would happen, or that Coach Rice would relent at the last moment, as coaches frequently do, and shove him into the game just so that he could earn his letter.
But as the schedule was played it began to look as if there was small opportunity for Gould to get the chance he was looking for. Coach Rice did not seem to consider him with any more favor than he had immediately after the Fayville High School game. He made Gould earn every opportunity to play at all, and he demanded every bit as much energy and loyalty and attention to practice as he did from the regular players.