But to-day seemed certainly Bert’s day. He had “speed to burn.” His curves were breaking sharply enough to suit even Ainslee’s critical eye, and while Winters also was in fine fettle, his control was none too good. Hinsdale was called into the conference.
“How about it, Hin?” asked Ainslee. “How do they feel when they come into the glove?”
“Simply great,” replied the catcher, “they almost knock me over, and his change of pace is perfect.”
“That settles it,” said Ainslee, and the others acquiesced.
So that when at last the starting gong rang and a breathless silence fell over the field, as Tom strode to the plate, Bert thrilled with the knowledge that he had been selected to carry the “pitching burden,” and that upon him, more than any other member of the team, rested that day’s defeat or victory.
The lanky, left-handed pitcher wound up deliberately and shot one over the plate. Tom didn’t move an eyelash.
“Strike one!” called the umpire, and the home crowd cheered.
The next one was a ball.
“Good eye, old man!” yelled Dick from the bench. “You’ve got him guessing.”
The next was a strike, and then two balls followed in rapid succession. The pitcher measured the distance carefully, and sent one right over the center of the rubber. Tom fouled it and grinned at the pitcher. A little off his balance, he sent the next one in high, and Tom trotted down to first, amid the wild yells of his college mates.