All disagreements had been dropped, or at least hidden away. All were enthusiastic. When Gill announced to the team that Roy Henning had consented to play at all practice games, the percentage of enthusiasm, if it could be measured in that way, rose very high. Now all bickerings and animosities seemed to be forgotten, and they actually were for a time. As far as team work went, there was one heart and one soul. The prospects were indeed bright.
What a splendid player Roy was! He stood there in the pitcher's box, a picture of fine young manhood. His long brown hair blowing over his forehead appeared to get into his eyes at every move. With a graceful leonine backward movement of the head he would toss the hair out of his way. He was never excited. He always had his wits about him. In a critical moment he could be relied upon. He had the habit of keeping a piece of chewing gum in his mouth. To the uninitiated it appeared the most important part of the game for him to keep his jaws in steady, slow motion. Some said it kept him from becoming excited—that the attention required to keep up the regular, slow motion of his molars prevented any other kind of distraction. Be this as it may, he never showed excitement, but was always calm and cool, and not unfrequently at critical moments exasperatingly slow.
And then what an arm he had, and what movement! He seemed merely to put his hand forward and the ball went high, or low, or wherever he willed. He was a great acquisition to the team. The
baseball enthusiasts, which is equivalent to saying all the boys, certainly had some excuse for chagrin when, without explanation, he retired from the game the year before.
Who does not love the sight of ball players on the diamond, especially in the early summer! The bright uniforms, the brighter faces flushed with the joy of living and of anticipation! Then the merry shout and laugh! How it makes the blood tingle, and sends the spirit of youth once more through one's veins!
In the last practice game before the match with the Blandykes the boys in their uniforms, white shirts and blue pants, stockings, and caps, presented a picturesque scene. The kindly sun, as yet not too hot, flushed their cheeks, while the liquid blue above and the fresh tender grass beneath their feet lent additional zest to their enjoyment. It was the first important practice game the boys had played.
When at length it came to an end all the players clustered around Roy Henning at the home plate, congratulating him on his pitching. Jack Beecham and Ambrose stood a little apart, watching the group.
“Isn't it a pity, Brose, that Roy won't play against the Blandykes next Tuesday,” remarked Jack.
“Indeed it is—a thousand pities. But you may be sure he knows what he is doing.”
“Guess he does. But there's a particularly sable individual in the woodpile somewhere! I wonder what it all means?”