The home team got two runs the next inning, and with goose eggs in their opponents’ frame it began to look more like a one-sided contest.
“Boys, we’ve got to wallop ’em!” exclaimed the visiting captain earnestly, as they once more came to bat.
Joe’s arm was beginning to feel the unaccustomed strain a trifle, and to limber up the muscles he “wound-up” with more motions and elaborateness than usual as he again took the mound. As he did so he heard from the grandstand a loud laugh—a laugh that fairly bubbled over with sneering, caustic mirth, and a voice remarked, loud enough for our hero to hear:
“I wonder where he learned that wild and weird style of pitching? He’ll fall all apart if he doesn’t look out!”
He cast a quick glance in the direction of the voice and saw Ford Weston, who sat beside Mabel Davis, fairly doubled up with mirth. Mabel seemed to be remonstrating with him.
“Don’t break your arm!” called Ford, laughing harder than before.
“Hush!” exclaimed Mabel.
Joe felt the dull red of shame and anger mounting to his cheeks.
“So that’s a Yale man,” he thought. “And I’m going to Yale. I wonder if they’re all like that there? I—I hope not.”