“Why, they say the best is to get something like a home plate—a flat stone say—and pitch over it with some one to catch for you.”
“I suppose that would be a good way,” began Joe doubtfully, “but who’s going to catch for me?”
“I am!” exclaimed Tom quickly. “I said just now that I’d coach you. I’ll do more than that, I’ll catch for you. And the book I spoke of has other tricks of practice, so a fellow can get good control of a ball. That’s the thing pitchers need it says—control. Say, we’ll have some fun, you and I, down in a vacant lot practicing. When can you come?”
“How about Monday afternoon?”
“Suits me first rate.”
“All right, we’ll make it then, and we’ll get in some scientific practice for you. Maybe after all, you’ll pitch in Sam’s place before the season is over.”
“I wouldn’t want to do it, if it’s going to make a row in the team.”
“Oh, don’t let that worry you. Lots of the fellows don’t like Sam any too well. They’d as soon have some one else in the box if he could deliver the goods. Well, so long; see you Monday, if not before.”
“I guess I’m glad dad moved to Riverside after all,” mused Joe as he walked toward home. “I was afraid I wouldn’t like it at first, but now I’m on the team it’s all right. I hope dad doesn’t have any business troubles though. I wonder what is wrong for I’m sure something is. I hope it doesn’t prevent me from going to boarding school next year,” and with this reflection Joe went in the house.