“Avondale, take the mound!” he exclaimed.
“Avondale!” gasped the players. The scrub pitcher to go in and Joe, who was his master, kept on the bench? It was incredible.
“Well, what do you know about that?” demanded Spike. “I’ve a good notion to——”
“Be quiet!” begged Joe. “They know what they’re doing.”
But it seems they did not, for Avondale was worse by far than Weston had been. He was hit unmercifully, and three more runs came in. But he had to stick it out, and when the miserable inning for Yale ended he went dejectedly to the bench.
Weston, who had been having his arm rubbed again, and who had been practicing with a spare catcher, looked hopeful. But this time, following another conference of coaches, Mr. Hasbrook evidently had his way. Fairly running over to where Joe sat the head coach exclaimed:
“Quick—get out there and warm up. You’ll pitch the rest of the game. It’s a forlorn hope, but we’ll take it!”
Joe’s face shone as he ripped off his sweater, grabbed up a ball and his mitt, and started for the practice stretch. His heart was in a tumult, but he calmed himself and began his work.
But it was too much to expect to pull the contest out of the fire by such desperate and late-day methods. In the part of the game he pitched Joe allowed but one hit, and with howls of delight his friends watched him mow down the Cornell batters. Not another run came in, but the lead of the visitors was too big, and Yale could not overcome it, though her sons did nobly, rising to the support of Joe in great style.
“Well, it’s over,” remarked Spike gleefully as he caught Joe’s arm at the close of the contest.