“He’s sharp, isn’t he?” said Joe.
“That’s what makes him the coach he is,” spoke Spike. “What’s the use of soft-soap? That never made a ball nine.”
“No, I suppose not.” Joe was wondering whether he ought to mention to his chum the chance meeting with Mr. Hasbrook, but he concluded that a wrong impression might get out and so he kept quiet, as he had done in the matter of the red paint on the porch. Nothing more had been heard about that act of vandalism, though the professor who had fallen and spoiled the valuable manuscripts was reported to be doing some quiet investigating.
“I believe Weston had a hand in it,” thought Joe, “but I’m not going to say anything. He had red paint on him, anyhow. I wonder what he has against me, and if he can do anything to keep me from getting a chance? If I thought so I’d—no, I can’t do anything. I’ve just got to take it as it comes. If I do get a chance, though, I think I can make good.”
The practice game went on, developing weak spots in both nines, and several shifts were made. But the ’varsity pitcher remained the same, and Joe watched Weston narrowly, trying to find out his good points.
For Weston had them. He was not a brilliant twirler, but he was a steady one, in the main, and he had considerable speed, but not much of a curve. Still he did manage to strike out a number of his opponents.
The game was almost over, and the ’varsity had it safely in hand. They had not obtained it without hard work, however, and they had made many glaring errors, but in this they were not alone.
“Though, for that matter,” declared Joe, “I think the scrub pitcher did better, and had better support, than the ’varsity. I don’t see why the scrubs didn’t win.”
“It’s just because they know they’re playing against the ’varsity,” declared Spike. “There’s a sort of nervousness that makes ’em forget to do the things they could do if it was some other nine. Sort of over-awed I guess.”
“Maybe,” assented Joe. “Well, here’s the end,” and the game came to a close.