“Oh, you get out!” cried Spike. “I’m not going to stand for this. You’ve got to keep in form. There’s no telling when this thing will all come out right, and you want to be in condition to pitch. You and I will keep up practice. The Dean can’t stop you from that.”
Nor did he try, and, though Joe was hard to move at first, he soon consented to indulge in pitching practice with his chum. And then life at Yale went on much as before, though Joe’s heart was bitter. He seldom saw Weston, who was again first choice for ’varsity pitcher.
Weston did fairly well, too, though some games Yale should have won she lost. But it was to Princeton that all eyes turned, looking for the college championship. Could Yale win the next contest?
The answer was not long delayed. Two weeks later the bulldog invaded the tiger’s lair and was eaten up—to the end of his stubby tail. Yale received the worst beating in her history.
“And it’s up to Weston!” declared Spike savagely, when he came back from Princeton. “He was absolutely rotten. Went up in the air first shot, and they got seven runs the first inning. Then it was all over but the shouting, for Avondale and McAnish couldn’t fill in the gap. Oh, Joe, if you could only pitch!”
“But I can’t.”
“You’ve just got to! Yale has a chance yet. It’s a tie now for the championship. The deciding game will be played on the New York Polo Grounds in two weeks. You’ve got to pitch!”
“I don’t see how I can.”
“Well, I’m going to!” and Spike strode from the room, his face ablaze with anger and firm with determination.
It seems that one of the janitors about the college had a son who was an epileptic. The lad was not badly afflicted and was able, most of the time, to help his father, sometimes doing the cleaning at one of the student clubs.