"You're the only man I know could bump his speed this way. Things aren't breaking good for him, but he keeps his head. And he's a southpaw. Red, I'd give all my old hats to have that chap at Walcott Hall!"
Phillips stared at him. "What's the matter with you?" he demanded. "Some of your gears are loose."
"Believe me," said Kingdon, softly, "if it can be did, your uncle is going to bring it about. Don't you think that you are the only real, blow-in-the-bottle scout for the old school. There are others. You lassoed me into the Hall, didn't you?"
"Aw—well—you——"
"I wasn't as good as this Pence," admitted Kingdon, honestly. "I tell you I yearn for Blacky on our pitching staff, and I hope to see him there."
"The foolish factory's where you belong," returned Red.
CHAPTER XI.
ENOS QUIBB AGAIN.
Pence got down to curving a few, and Red Phillips did not find it so easy to hammer the ball. The black-haired fellow's benders weren't remarkable; it was evident that he had gone in for speed almost entirely, and had not tried for control.
Without doubt Horace Pence felt that his showing was not of the first class. Used as he was to lording it over his fellows, being superior to them in almost every sport and pastime, it cut him to be criticized right where he felt himself to be strongest.