Ralph sighed and shook his head.
“I see what you mean, and I’ll try not to be too sanguine. But I do hope something will come up soon to relieve this awful suspense. And now I want to forget all about that, and remember only the game—and Columbia High!”
“Good boy, Ralph! You’re made of the right stuff. And never let it occur to you once that we’re going to lose this game, no matter if the score is five to one at the end of the seventh inning. Depend on the boys to do their part in slamming out the ball, while you pitch steadily away like a machine.”
Ralph soon took his departure.
The news would soon creep around Columbia, and many of the enthusiastic supporters of the school team must feel a quiver of apprehension when they learned that reliable Frank Allen could not pitch that afternoon.
His enemies would crow over the fact. Doubtless some of them, inspired by the malicious tongues of Lef and his cronies, might even whisper that Frank had been overtaken with a case of “cold feet,” and shirked his duty.
Ralph went straight to the home of Paul Bird.
The morning was still young and there would be plenty of time for the new battery to practice together, and arrange all needed signals. Ralph had not as yet played a regular game with Paul behind the plate, so that it was necessary they should come together, since so much depended on their acting in concert.
As it happened, Buster was out walking with the visitor at his house, and seeing a couple of boys hard at work in a lot, they drew near. To his surprise he discovered that it was Ralph and Paul.
“Here, what does this secret work mean? Going to spring a surprise on the enemy when they show up this p. m.?” he demanded.