“Something’s doing,” said Spike suddenly. “The conference has broken up.”
Joe looked nervously to where the coaches and captain had been talking. Tom Hatfield was buttoning on his shortstop glove, and then taking it off again as though under a strain.
He walked over to the umpire, and Weston, seeing him, made a joking remark to a companion. He started for the players’ bench, for Harvard was to bat last, and Yale would come up first for the stick-work.
“It looks like him,” remarked Spike in a low voice.
“Well, I’ll be ready when they call me,” said Joe, with a good nature he did not feel.
The umpire raised his megaphone. There was a hush, and then came the hollow tones:
“Batteries for to-day. Harvard: Elkert and Snyder—Yale: Matson and Kendall.”
“By Halifax!” cried Spike, clapping Joe on the back with such force that he nearly knocked over his chum. “You pitch, old man!”