“Never mind,” consoled Joe. “You’ll make good, I’m sure. I’ll have my troubles when the baseball season opens. I guess it won’t be easy to get on the nine.”
“Well, maybe not, if you insist on being pitcher,” said Ricky. “I hear that Weston, who twirled last season, is in line for it again.”
“Weston—does he pitch?” gasped Joe. It was the first time he had heard—or thought to ask—what position the lad held who had sneered at him.
“That’s his specialty,” declared Ricky. “They’re depending on him for the Yale-Princeton game. Princeton took the odd game last year, and we want it this.”
“I hope we get it,” murmured Joe. “And so Ford Weston pitches; eh? If it comes to a contest between us I’m afraid it will be a bitter one. He hates me already. I guess he thinks I’ve got a swelled head.”
“Say, look here, Joe!” exclaimed Ricky, with a curious look on his face, “you don’t seem to know the ropes here. You’re a Freshman, you know.”
“Sure I know that. What of it?”
“Lots. You know that you haven’t got the ghost of a show to be pitcher on the ’varsity; don’t you?”
“Know it? Do you mean that Weston can so work things as to keep me off?”