“That’s all I can say now,” rejoined Weston, somewhat mysteriously. “But something may happen.”
“And you’ll pitch?”
“I hope so. I may get in this game, for I did beat Harvard one year.” But Weston forgot to add that he pitched so wretchedly the remainder of the season that Yale finished a poor third, losing the championship.
“Play ball!” called the umpire. Those who had been practicing straggled to the bench, or walked out to take their fielding positions.
“I guess you’ll do,” declared Kendall to Joe, with a nod of encouragement. “Don’t let ’em get your Angora.”
“I’ll try not to,” came the smiling answer. “Are they hard hitters?”
“They are if they get the ball right, but it’s up to you not to let ’em. Give ’em twisters and teasers.”
“Play ball,” called the umpire again, and the first of the Yale batsmen took his place. Once more came the yells and cheers, and when the lad struck out, which he did with an ease that chagrined his mates, there was derisive yelling from the Harvard stands.
“Two more and we’ve got ’em going!” was shouted.