“Oh, Matson. Hum, yes. He does fairly well,” admitted Mr. Benson. “He has a nice, clean delivery. He isn’t much on batting, though.”
“Few pitchers are,” remarked the head coach. “I wonder if it would do to give him a trial?”
“I should say so—yes,” put in Mr. Whitfield. He was quick to see that his co-worker had a little prejudice in Joe’s favor, and, to do the assistant coaches justice, they both agreed that Joe had done very well. But there were so many ahead of him—men who had been at Yale longer—that in justice they must be tried out first.
“Then we’ll try him on the scrub,” decided Mr. Hasbrook; and so it had come about that Joe’s name was called.
In order to give the scrubs every opportunity to beat the ’varsity, and so that those players would work all the harder to clinch the victory, the scrubs were allowed to go to bat last, thus enhancing their chances.
“Play ball!” yelled the umpire again. “It’s getting late. Play ball!”
Joe, a little nervous, walked to the box, and caught the new white ball which was tossed to him. As he was rubbing some dirt on it, to take off the smoothness of the horsehide, Mr. Hasbrook advanced toward him and motioned him to wait.
“Matson,” said the head coach, smiling genially. “You wouldn’t let me reward you for the great favor you did me a while ago, though I wanted to. I hoped sometime to be able to reciprocate, but I never thought it would come in this way. I have decided to give you a chance to make good.”
“And I can’t thank you enough!” burst out the young pitcher. “I feel that——”
“Tut! Tut!” exclaimed Mr. Hasbrook, holding up his hand, “I wouldn’t have done this if I didn’t think you had pitching stuff in you. In a way this isn’t a favor at all, but you’re right though, it might not have come so quickly. I appreciate your feelings, but there are a few things I want to say.