“Can’t help it—we want to win.”
And, as the days went on the Smith boys further demonstrated their abilities. Practice was now held regularly and there were games between the Varsity and scrub nines, Bill pitching on the latter team. His curves were a source of wonder and delight to his team mates, and chagrin to his opponents, and on one occasion, when they did not get a hit off him in five innings, the coach shook his head in doubt.
“I don’t know about it,” he murmured. “If he keeps on improving as he has he’ll displace Mersfeld.”
“Nonsense!” said the captain easily.
It was one afternoon toward the close of a practice game, when the scrub was one run ahead, and the coach was exhorting the Varsity lads to “perk up,” and put some ginger into the contest. Bill was in the box, and had been doing some excellent work for the scrub when Graydon, of the Varsity, came up to the bat.
“Now’s a chance to strike me out!” he called good-naturedly. “If you don’t I’m going to make a home run.”
“Then you’d better go sit down now,” replied Bill, as he wound up for a swift out. It went from his hand with a speedy whizz, and the batter caught it squarely on his stick. There was a resounding whack, and the ball came straight for Bill, at about the level of his head.
He put up his hands for it, instinctively, but so swift was the horsehide sphere traveling that it broke through and hit him on the head, just over the left eye. He dropped like a stone, and Graydon, tossing aside his bat, raced for the fallen lad.
“By Jove old man!” he cried contritely, all thoughts of the game forgotten. “I’m sorry for that. Wow! But that’s a nasty bump!”
Poor Bill was lying in Graydon’s arms, unconscious, while a big lump was swelling up on the pitcher’s head.