“And we did,” said Spike in a low voice to Joe. “Only——”
“Only I didn’t have much share in it,” interrupted the aspirant for pitching honors.
There had indeed been a “shake-up” on the nine the day of the game. Until the last moment it was not definitely settled who would pitch, and there were many rumors current. It lay between Joe, Weston, and McAnish, the left-handed one, and on the morning of the game—the first important one of the season for Yale—the newspapers had various guesses as to who would be the twirler.
Joe had hoped to go in at the start, but when the game was called, and Captain Hatfield submitted his list, it was seen that Weston had the coveted place.
“Well, old man, you’re back where you belong,” said Avondale to him, as the name was called. “I suppose now, that little matter, which you were speaking to me about, can drop?”
“It can—if I remain pitcher,” answered Weston. “But I’ve got it all cocked and primed to explode if I have to. I’m not going to sit tight and let some country whipper-snapper put it all over me.”
“I don’t know as I blame you—and yet he seems a pretty decent sort.”
“Oh, he’s not in our class!”