He set off across the field toward the gridiron on a short cut to the village, and the two boys walked back to school. For the first dozen paces nothing was said. Then Kewpie laughed and turned to his companion. “Told you I’d do it!” he exclaimed triumphantly. “Told you I could pitch ball as well as the rest of them! Didn’t I, now?”
“You told me a lot of things, you poor cheese,” answered Laurie crushingly, “but where’d you be if Ned and I hadn’t managed you? I’ll tell you. You’d still be lying on your window-seat, like a fat seal, reading ‘How to Pitch’!”
“Huh, is that so? I guess if it comes to that, you fat-head, Brose Wilkins is the guy—”
“He sure is,” agreed Laurie, “he sure is! And, prithee, you half-baked portion of nothing at all, who discovered Brose? Who persuaded him to waste his time on a big, fut lummox like you?”
“Well, anyway,” replied Kewpie, quite unaffected by the insults, “neither you nor Ned nor Brose Wilkins could have made a pitcher out of me if I hadn’t had the—the ability!”
“You ain’t so well in your ability,” said Laurie scathingly. “All you’ve got is a start, old son, and so don’t get to thinking that you’re a Big Leaguer! Maybe with prayer and hard work I’ll make you amount to something by next year, but right now you’re nothing but a whispered promise!”
“Oh, is that so?” said Kewpie, and again, “Is that so?” He wasn’t quick at repartee, and just then that was the best he could do.
CHAPTER XXI
THE DEAD LETTER
Although Kewpie made no secret of his acceptance on the baseball team, in fact gave a certain amount of publicity to the fact, his appearance on the diamond the next afternoon created a distinct sensation. Aware of the sensation, Kewpie became suddenly taciturn, and when he did speak he clothed his words in mystery. Laurie, seeing an opportunity to render Kewpie’s advent more spectacular, seized it. During Craigskill’s practice on the diamond the Hillman’s pitchers warmed up in front of the first base stand. Beedle and Pemberton pitched to Cas Bennett and Elk Thurston. As Croft was not to be used, Laurie’s services were not required, and he sat on the bench. But when the opportunity was glimpsed he arose, picked a ball from the old water-bucket, drew on his mitten, and signaled to Kewpie. Then he took his place beyond Cas, and Kewpie ambled to a station beside Nate Beedle, and a ripple of incredulous delight ran the length of the bench. Kewpie tossed a ball into Laurie’s mitten, and the bench applauded with a note of hysteria. Not until then did Coach Mulford, who had been talking to the manager, become aware of the fact that something of interest was taking place. He looked, saw, stared. Then the ends of his mouth went up a little, tiny puckers appeared at the corners of his eyes, and he chuckled softly. Around him the players and substitutes were laughing uproariously. They had reason, it seemed. The sight of the short and rotund Kewpie in juxtaposition to the tall and slender Beedle might have brought a smile to the face of a wooden statue. But Kewpie seemed unaware of the amusement he was causing. He pitched his slow balls into Laurie’s mitt gravely enough, finishing his delivery with his hand close to his left side, as though, as one facetious observer put it, a mosquito demanded attention.