“Well, maybe not. Do your best!”
And Weston did. Never had he pitched a better game—even his enemies, and he had not a few, admitted that. It was a “walkover” soon after the first few innings had demonstrated the superiority of Yale. Amherst was game, and fought to the last ditch, but neither in batting, fielding nor pitching was she the equal of the wearers of the blue.
Joe, sitting on the bench, with the other substitutes, fretted his heart out, hoping for a chance to play, but he was not called on until the eighth inning. Then, after a conference of the coaches, during which the head one could be seen to gesticulate vigorously, Joe was called on to bat in place of another, which gave him the call to pitch the next inning.
“What’s the matter?” was asked on all sides. “Is Weston going stale?”
“Glass arm,” suggested some of his enemies.
“No, they’re saving him for the Harvard game,” was the opinion of many. “They don’t want to work him too hard.”
“And we have this game anyhow.”
“But what’s the matter with McAnish?”
“Oh, he’s out of form.”
And so Joe had gone in at the eleventh hour, before that sitting on the bench, eating his heart out.