Laurie performed an exaggerated parody of a pitcher winding up and delivering a ball. Then, assuming the rôle of catcher, he leaped high off his feet and pulled down a wild one that would undoubtedly have smashed the upper pane of the further window had it got by him.
“Honest?” cried Kewpie. “Me and you?”
“No, you and me.”
“But—how did you know what I was going to ask?”
Laurie viewed him sadly. “Kewpie,” he replied, “it’s a mighty good thing you decided to be a pitcher. That’s the only position that doesn’t call for any brain!”
CHAPTER IV
PRACTICE MAKES PERFECT
Laurie folded Kewpie’s sweater and placed it on the ground a few yards from the gymnasium wall. “There’s your plate,” he announced. “See if you can put ’em over the middle button, Kewpie.”
Kewpie tightened his belt, thumped a worn baseball into a blackened glove, and rather ostentatiously dug a hole in the moist turf with his heel. Laurie grinned. Here on the south side of the building the sun shone warmly and the ground was fairly dry. Behind Laurie about four yards away, was a wire fence which, if Kewpie retained ordinary control of the ball, would make life easier for Ned, who sat in the embrasure of a basement window. Laurie pulled his mitten on and waited. Kewpie was at last satisfied with the hole he had dug and fitted his toe into it. Then he looked speculatively at the folded sweater and wrapped his fingers about the ball.