“At Yale every man stands on his own feet. There is no favoritism. Wealth doesn’t count, as I guess you’ve found out. Membership in the Senior Societies—Skull and Bones, Scroll and Keys—Wolf’s Head—doesn’t count—though, as you will find, those exclusive organizations take their members because of what they have done—not of what they are.
“And so I’m giving you a chance to see what is in you. I’d like to see you make good, and I believe you will. But—if you don’t—that ends it. Every tub must stand on its own bottom—you’ve got to stand on your feet. I’ve given you a chance. Maybe it would have come anyhow, but, out of friendship to you, and because of the service you did me, I was instrumental in having it come earlier. That is not favoritism. You can’t know how much you did for me that day when you enabled me to get the train that, otherwise, I would have missed.
“It was not exactly a matter of life and death, but it was of vital importance to me. I would be ungrateful, indeed, if I did not repay you in the only way I could—by giving you the chance to which you are entitled.
“But—this is important—you’ve got to show that you can pitch or you’ll lose your place. I’ve done what I can for you, and, if you prove worthy I’ll do more. I’ll give you the best coaching I can—but you’ve got to have backbone, a strong arm, a level head, and grit, and pluck, and a lot of other things to make the Yale nine. If you do I’ll feel justified in what I have done. Now, play ball!” and without giving him a chance to utter the thanks that were on his lips, Mr. Hasbrook left Joe and took a position where he could watch the playing.
It is no wonder that our hero felt nervous under the circumstances. Anyone would, I think, and when he pitched a wild ball, that the catcher had to leap for, there were some jeers.
“Oh, you’ve got a great find!” sneered Weston. “He’s a pitcher from Pitchville!”
Joe flushed at the words, but he knew he would have to stand more than that in a match game, and he did not reply.
Other derogatory remarks were hurled at him, and the coaches permitted it, for a pitcher who wilts under a cross-fire is of little service in a big game, where everything is done to “get his goat,” as the saying goes.
“Ball two!” yelled the umpire, at Joe’s second delivery, and the lad was aware of a cold feeling down his spine.
“I’ve got to make good! I’ve got to make good!” fiercely he told himself over again. There seemed to be a mist before his eyes, but by an effort he cleared it away. He stooped over pretending to tie his shoe lace—an old trick to gain time—and when he rose he was master of himself again.