If they thought he had worn himself out, they were greatly mistaken. He turned to Iredell.
“Come outside, Iredell,” he said, “I want to have a word with you.”
Once outside the clubhouse, he turned a grim face on the captain.
“I didn’t want to call you down before your men, Iredell,” he snapped, “because I didn’t care to weaken the discipline of the team—that is, if there’s any discipline left in the club. But I want to tell you that if your work to-day is a sample of the way you captain the team, why, the sooner there’s a change in captains the better.”
“I don’t know just what you mean,” muttered Iredell, an angry red suffusing his face.
“You know perfectly well what I mean,” declared McRae. “How about that ball that fell to the ground between Larry and Burkett? Either one of them could have got it. Why didn’t they?”
Iredell remained silent, fingering his cap.
“Because you didn’t call out which was to take it,” McRae himself supplied the answer. “Their eyes were on the ball, and when each said he could get it each left it to the other. All you had to do was to call out the name of one of them, and he’d have got it. That’s what you’re captain for—to use your judgment in a pinch.
“Then there was that rotten coaching at third base,” McRae went on with his indictment. “Why didn’t you hold Larry there? You know what a terror Burton is on long throws to the plate and that he’d probably get him. With nobody out, it was a cinch that one of the next three batsmen would have brought Larry in. And with him dancing around third, he might have got Axander’s goat. Then, too, the infield would have been drawn in for a play at the plate, and that would have given a better chance for a hit to the outfield. Am I right or am I wrong?”