“Oh, shut up,” he said, grinning. “Well, anyway, he’s got to give me a chance with the team this year. If he doesn’t he won’t get me next.”
“I’ll mention that to him to-morrow,” replied the other soberly. “I dare say if we take a firm attitude with him he will come around. Well, eleven twenty, then. I’ll wait for you in front.”
“In front” at Hillman’s meant the steps of School Hall or their immediate vicinity, and on the steps the two met the next forenoon. Laurie had brought his mitten, and Kewpie had his glove and a ball in his pockets. On the way along Summit Street to the athletic field, which was a quarter of a mile to the south, Kewpie was plainly nervous. He didn’t have much to say, but at intervals he took the ball from his pocket, curved his heavy fingers about it, frowned, sighed and put it away again.
Mr. Mulford was awaiting them, and Kewpie, for one, was glad to see that he was alone. After greetings the boys laid aside their coats, and Kewpie rolled his shirt-sleeves up. Mr. Mulford seated himself on a bench near the batting-net, crossed his knees and waited. His attitude and general demeanor told Laurie that he was there to fulfill a promise rather than in the expectation of being thrilled.
“Start easy,” counseled Laurie. “Don’t try to pitch until you’ve tossed a few, Kewpie.”
Kewpie nodded, plainly very conscious of the silent figure on the bench. He wound up slowly, caught sight of Laurie’s mitten held palm outward in protest, and dropped his arms, frowning.
“Yes,” said Mr. Mulford, “better start slow, Proudtree.”
Kewpie tossed five or six balls into Laurie’s mitt without a wind-up and between tosses stretched and flexed the muscles of his stout arm.
“All right,” said Laurie finally. He crouched and signaled under the mitten. Kewpie shook his head.