“Of course not. But as long as he does know you he might at least prevail on the other coaches to give you a better chance than you’ve had so far.”
“Well, maybe,” laughed Joe. “But I’m not expecting anything like that.”
“Well, just remember me when your chance does come,” begged Spike. “And remember that I told you.”
“I will,” declared Joe, with a laugh, and then he added more earnestly: “If ever I do get on the mound, Spike, I’ll try to have you catch for me.”
“I wish you would!”
As they went off the field they saw the knot of players still gathered about the head, and other coaches, receiving instructions, and how Joe Matson wished he was there none but himself knew.
In their rooms that afternoon and evening the ball players talked of little save the result of the first real clash between ’varsity and scrub, and the effect of the return of the head coach. It was agreed that the ’varsity, after all, had made a very creditable showing, while the upholders of the class team players gave them much praise.
“But things will begin to hum now!” exclaimed Jimmie Lee, as he sat in Joe’s room, while the beds, sofa and table, to say nothing of the floor, were encumbered with many lads of the Red Shack, and some visitors from other places. “Yes, sir! Horsehide won’t stand for any nonsense. They’ll all have to toe the line now.”
“Jove, weren’t the other coaches stiff enough?” asked Clerkinwell De Vere, who aspired to right field. “They certainly laced into me for further orders when I muffed a ball.”