"He did for a fact," agreed Berlin. "That was a dandy drop, Grant. I wasn't looking for it."
Rodney put the next one straight over, and Berlin hit to Cooper at short.
Jack Nelson followed, and he was likewise surprised to be struck out, Grant using his drop twice in the performance.
"Hi there, you!" shouted Nelson. "What did you put on the old ball, anyhow? Pitch? Well, I wouldn't be surprised if you could, some."
"You bet he will," called Phil Springer delightedly. "I'll have him delivering the goods before the season is half over."
"Bah!" again muttered Hooker. "You're a fool, Springer."
Later he saw Eliot and Barker talking together not far from the bench, and near them stood Herbert Rackliff, a city boy who had entered Oakdale Academy at the opening of the spring term.
Rackliff was a chap whose clothes were the envy of almost every lad in town, being tailor-made, of the latest cut and the finest fabric. His ties and his socks, a generous portion of the latter displayed by the up-rolled bottoms of his trousers, were always of a vivid hue and usually of silk. His highly-polished russet shoes were scarcely browner than the tips of two fingers of his right hand, which outside of school hours were constantly dallying with a cigarette. He had rings and scarf pins, and a gold watch with a handsome seal fob. His face was pale and a trifle hollow-cheeked, his chest flat, and his muscles, lacking exercise, sadly undeveloped. For Rackliff took no part in outdoor sports of any sort, protesting that too much exertion gave him palpitation of the heart.
Hooker was still sitting hunched on the bleachers, when Rackliff, having lighted a fresh cigarette, came sauntering languidly toward him.
"Hello, Roy, old sport," saluted the city youth. "You look lonesome."