“Hum!” mused Tom. “It takes a pretty good one to pitch these days. It isn’t like it used to be. Pitching is a gift, like poetry I guess. You can’t go in and pitch right off the reel.”
“I know it,” answered Joe quietly. “But it’s my one ambition. I want to go to a good boarding school and get on the team as pitcher.”
“Well, I hope you do,” and Tom laughed frankly. “I wouldn’t mind that myself, though I don’t know as I care so much for pitching.”
“It’s the best part of the game!” cried Joe, and his eyes shone and he seemed to lose some of his usual quiet manner. “I’d like it above everything else!”
“Got any curves?” asked the practical Tom.
“Well, I don’t know as I have—yet. I’m practicing though.”
“Got any speed?”
“They used to say I had, back there in Bentville.”
“Hum! Well, I don’t believe there’s much chance for you here. Sam has the Silver Stars cinched. But he was rotten the last half of to-day’s game. That’s what made us lose it. Yes, it takes some pumpkins to pitch now-a-days.”
The boys walked on down the street after Tom had discarded his suit. Before them and behind them were other players and spectators, talking of nothing but the game and the fight that had followed. The Resolutes, cheering and singing triumphantly, had departed in their big stages, and in the hearts of the Silver Stars was gloom and despair.