“He doesn’t want me to pitch, that’s a fact, and if he could find something against me he’d use it. But he can’t. I’m glad I’m not a candidate for any of their queer secret societies here, or I’d be worrying about them not asking me to join. I’m going to keep out of it. But that red spot is sure queer.”
All Yale was on edge on the day before the Harvard game, which was to take place on the Cambridge diamond. The team and the substitutes were trained to the minute, and all ready to make the trip, together with nearly a thousand “rooters” who were going along to lend moral support. Particular pains had been taken with the pitching staff, and Joe, Weston, McAnish and Avondale had been worked to the limit. They had been coached as they never had been before, for Yale wanted to win this game.
As yet it was not known who would pitch. At least the ’varsity candidates did not know, and Joe was hoping for at least half a game. He was modest, for Weston arrogantly declared that he would last the nine innings. His friends said little, but he had a certain power in college not to be overlooked.
The stadium was thronged with spectators as the teams trotted out for a little warming-up practice. In the cheering stands for the wearers of the blue the locomotive cry, the Boola song, a new one—“Bulldog Grit!”—and Ricky’s effusion were gone over again. “Hit the Line!” came as a retort, and the cheerers tried to outdo each other.
“Do you think you’ll pitch, Joe?” asked Spike, in a low tone, as he and his chum practised off to one side.
“I don’t know. There are all sorts of rumors going about. I’d like to—I guess you know how much—just as you would like to catch—but we can’t always have what we want. The coaches are having a talk now. Weston seems pretty confident.”
“Yes, the cad! I wish he’d play fair.”
“Oh, well,” said Joe, with an air of resignation, “I suppose he can’t help it. I guess I shouldn’t like it if I’d pitched for a year, and then found a new man trying for my place.”
“But if the new man was better than you, and it meant the winning of the game?” asked Spike, as he took a vicious ball that Joe slugged to him.
“Oh, well, of course in theory the best man ought to play—that’s not saying I’m the best man by a long shot!” Joe hastened to add; “but even in theory it’s hard to see another man take your place.”