“He is, but he pitched for the Yale freshman nine last spring, and I’ll bet he’s a peach!”
“Good stuff! Will he play, do you think?”
“I don’t know, but he seems a decent chap. Get Joe to ask him.”
“I will. Oh, Joe! Joe Carter!”
The result of this conference was that two or three minutes later when the teams again changed sides Wells retired to the shade of the apple-trees and his place in the pitcher’s box was taken by a stocky, fair-haired, and sun-burned chap of eighteen who, having discarded his coat and cap, picked up the ball and began pitching to Bob in a way that suggested a good deal of experience. He was a fine-looking fellow with a chest that brought murmurs of admiration from the spectators. He had rowed on the winning Yale freshman eight and pitched on the Yale freshman nine, and so his chest development and the muscles that played so prettily along his arms were there of good reason. He had reached camp only that forenoon on a visit of two or three days to his brother, and there hadn’t been a moment’s hesitation on his part when Joe, earnestly seconded by Bob, had asked him to play. He had kept in training since the boat races and had not forgotten his cunning in the box.
And the opponents had occasion to note the fact. For in the next two innings not a man on their team reached first base. Carter’s delivery puzzled them effectually, and when the mighty Williams had three strikes called on him and tossed down his bat with a grim shake of his head the supporters of the blue and gray shouted their delight. But shutting out the Inn wasn’t winning the game, and when at last the ninth inning opened with the score still 8 to 8 Bob had visions of a tie game. But he had reckoned without the new pitcher. That youth didn’t have a chance at bat until with one out in the ninth things were looking their darkest for the Camp. Then he selected a bat and faced the Inn’s pitcher calmly. He allowed two balls to go by him, but the third one he liked. And the way in which he lit on to it was beautiful to behold; at least that’s the way it seemed to Bob and Dan and Nelson and all the other Chicorians. For that ball started off as though it had got tired of being knocked around so much and was going straight home to sit down and rest. That it didn’t get all the way home, but only as far as the woods behind center-fielder, didn’t affect the result of the contest. It went quite far enough. And Billy Carter romped home like a playful giant and subsided under the trees and fanned his face, while about him danced the delighted cohorts from the Camp. After that it was only necessary to keep the Inn from scoring, and with Carter still in the points that was an absurdly easy task. It wasn’t a very decided win, 9 to 8, but it sufficed, and Bob was comforted.
After the game was over the captain of the Inn’s forces sought out Bob.
“Who was the chap that pitched for you?” he asked curiously.