“Then you haven’t heard?” asked Paul, eagerly.
“About what? Goodness gracious! don’t go telling me that anything’s happened to Frank!” ejaculated Buster.
“He won’t be able to pitch this afternoon, and Ralph has to go in. That’s why we are tossing a few here, so as to get in touch,” replied the catcher.
“What happened? Has Frank fallen sick? Did he get waylaid last night on the road home from the meeting. I’ve known pitchers to be pounded in order to keep them out of a game. Tell me, won’t you, fellows? I’m quivering like a bowl of jelly with eagerness. This is a nasty mess.”
“Oh! I don’t know,” returned Paul, with a smile at Buster’s anxiety, and the look of grief on his red face, “it might be worse. Frank’s a dandy pitcher, but I guess he has little on Ralph here. If he gets that spit ball of his working right it’s going to be one, two, three for Bellport.”
“But is Frank hurt; I must know?” insisted the other.
“He got a bruise on his arm this morning while we were out walking. Nothing serious, but it interferes with his muscles when he grips a ball. He is going to be on the field, and if they knock me out of the box, why, Frank will have to go in, no matter how he feels. But I hope it won’t be so bad as that,” smiled Ralph.
“Well, suppose you let my friend, Coach Willoughby, give you a few pointers that may be useful. He’s seen a lot of pitchers in his time, and used to throw them in for the Tiger once himself,” suggested Buster.
“Oh! if he only would, I’d be ever so much obliged. You see, Mr. Willoughby, I’m only a tenderfoot at this thing, and I’ve got heaps to learn!” cried Ralph.
“No doubt of that, my lad, but if yesterday’s performance is a fair sample of your ability to puzzle the batter, I rather think you’ll have some of these heavy Bellport hitters knocking holes out of the atmosphere this afternoon. What you need fear most of all is lack of confidence. Get it in your head that you can do a thing, and that you’re just going to do it, and nine times out of ten you will do it.”