“Not at all—nothing of the sort!” cried Weston, and his voice showed how much he was nervously wrought up. “I don’t admit for a minute that Matson can pitch better than I can.”
“Well, I do, in my own case, and the coaches seem to in yours.”
“I’m a little out of form to-day,” admitted Weston, quickly. “I’ll be all right to-morrow, and I’ll pitch against Amherst.”
“It’ll be a great game,” spoke Avondale.
“Maybe. But say, what do you think of a fellow like him—a regular country clod-hopper—coming here, anyhow?”
“Who do you mean?”
“Matson. What right has he got to butt in at a college like Yale, and displace the fellows who have worked hard for the nine?”
“The right of ability, I suppose.”
“Ability nothing! He doesn’t belong here, and he ought to be made to quit.”
“Well, I confess I don’t like to lose the place I worked so hard for, and I don’t see much chance of making the ’varsity now,” admitted Avondale; “but at the same time I must give Matson credit for his work.”