“What’s the matter, son?” asked the captain.
“That rotten Latin.”
“Be careful,” warned Kindlings. “Don’t slump too often or you may put us in a hole. You aren’t the only first baseman that ever lived, but you’re pretty good, and I don’t want to go to work training you in and have you fired off the team by the faculty for not keeping up your studies.”
“Oh, I’ll be careful,” promised Sid confidently, and then the game started.
The ’varsity played snappy ball and the scrub seemed a bit ragged, naturally perhaps as there was less incentive for them to play hard.
“Brace up, fellows,” implored Tom toward the close of the game. “They’re only four runs ahead of us, and if we can knock out a couple of three-baggers we’ll throw a scare into them. They’re weak in right and left field. Soak the horsehide toward either of the twins, but don’t get it near Phil Clinton. If he gets it within a foot of his mitt, it’s a goner.”
“It’s a wonder you wouldn’t strike out more men,” said Fenton. “My uncle says that when he was a coach——”
“Play ball!” yelled the umpire, and the reminiscence was cut short.
The scrubs did “take a brace” and began finding the curves of Langridge, much to that pitcher’s annoyance. Tom made a neat two-bagger, but died on third, though the score was bettered in favor of the scrub by two more runs.