It was late when Joe and his chum got back to their room. They had met congenial spirits at the popular resort, and a sort of post-mortem had been held over the game. But, though the faults of many players were pointed out, and though Joe received due praise for his work, little had been said of Weston’s poor pitching.
“It’s just as I told you,” declared Ricky. “There are too many members of the Anvil Club, and affiliated societies, and they hate to hurt Weston’s feelings, I guess.”
The ’varsity pitcher was not present.
“Well, it sure is a queer state of affairs,” commented Spike, as he and Joe reached their apartment. “I wish we could do something. It’s a shame, with a pitcher who has your natural abilities, Joe, that——”
“Oh, forget it, old man, and go to sleep,” advised Joe. “I’m much obliged for your interest in me, but maybe it will come out right after all.”
“Humph! It won’t unless we make it,” murmured Spike.
The coaches tried some shifting about of players when the next practice came on, though Weston was still retained on the mound. Joe was told to go in at shortstop, and he made good there, more by hard work than natural ability, for he wanted to show that he would do his duty wherever he was placed. Weston seemed to be doing better, and he got into more plays, not being content to merely pitch.
“We’ll trim Harvard!” was the general opinion, and Yale stock, that had gone down, took an upward move.
The Harvard game was soon to come—one of the contests in the championship series, though Yale generally regarded the fight with Princeton as the deciding test.
It was one afternoon following some sharp practice, when the ’varsity seemed on edge, that Joe said to Spike: