“Any fellow is likely to be swatted once in a while. Look at some of the professionals.”
“I’m not saying they’re not,” admitted the captain. “What I do say is that we’ve all got to perk up. We’ve got to take a brace, and I’m not sparing myself. We’re not doing well.”
“No, that’s right,” admitted several other players. In fact there was a general feeling of discontent manifested, and it was very noticeable. Darrell Blackney was aware of it, and he hoped it would not spread, for nothing is so sure to make a team slump as discontent or dissatisfaction.
“Oh, Joe!” exclaimed a girl’s voice, and he turned to see his sister walking toward him over the field. “That was a fine run you made.” She had two other girls with her and Joe, who was a bit bashful, turned to execute a retreat.
“I believe you never met my brother,” went on Clara, and there was a trace of pride in her tone. “Miss Mabel Davis,” said Clara, presenting her to Joe, “and Miss Helen Rutherford.”
“I’ve heard my sister speak of you,” murmured the young centre fielder.
“And I’ve heard my brother speak of you,” said Mabel, and Joe was conscious that he was blushing.
“I’ve got to wash up now,” he said, not knowing what to talk about when two pretty girls, to say nothing of his own sister, were staring at him.
“Does your hand hurt you much?” asked Mabel.
“No—it’s only a scratch,” said Joe, not with a strict regard for the truth.