"Didn't want to suggest it," Kingdon said seriously, coming forward to meet the black-haired fellow, "but I do think, old chap, that you rather overdo it. No wing will stand such a steady strain. You've got a lot of speed in that left arm, and you ought to take care of it. Where's your sweater?"
"This hot day?" laughed Pence, uncertain that Kingdon was not chaffing.
The backstop picked up his own discarded jacket and held it out so that Pence could easily slip his arms into it.
"No josh," he said as Horace slowly got into the coat. "I'm going to make my cripples work a little—if you fellows don't want your diamond for a while."
"Your cripples?" repeated Horace, interested in spite of himself.
"Cloudman and Midkiff, our two star pitchers. Both have done some good work this last term. And both of 'em have the spring halt in their elbows." Kingdon laughed.
"Help yourself," said Horace carelessly. "I want a rest, and Harry and the others won't play if I don't."
Kingdon's voice dropped a point or two as he said:
"I'd like to show you a few, Pence, if you'll stand without hitching. You don't play regularly with any team, do you?"
"No."