Laurie did watch it. And it did drop. A faint, new-born respect for Kewpie as a pitcher was reflected in his voice as he said: “That’s not so poor, old thing. Where’d you learn it?”
But Kewpie was throwing his chest out now, a purely unnecessary thing for Kewpie to do, and strutting a bit. “Never you mind,” he answered. “I told you I had something, and you wouldn’t believe me.”
“That’s all right,” remarked Ned, “but you’ve got to know more than just how to pitch a drop if you’re going to put Nate Beedle out of business.”
“That’s not half so worse,” commented Laurie after the next ball had performed a very creditable drop, “but let’s see something else, old son. How about a curve just for variety?”
“We-ell,” said Kewpie, “I haven’t got curves down so well, but—” He spent a long moment fingering the ball and finally sent it off with a decidedly round-arm delivery. Laurie caught it by leaping far to the left.
“What was that supposed to be?” he asked politely.
“In-shoot,” said Kewpie, but his tone lacked conviction.
“Huh,” returned Laurie, “you ain’t so well in your in-shoot. Better see a doctor about it. Try an out, old son.”
But Kewpie’s out wasn’t any better, and, at the end of about twenty minutes, by which time Ned was the only member of the trio not bathed in perspiration, it had been shown conclusively that Kewpie’s one and only claim to pitching fame rested on a not very remarkable drop-ball. Laurie picked up Kewpie’s sweater and returned it to him gravely. “Better put that on,” he said with vast concern. “It would be awful if you got cold in that arm of yours.”
Kewpie struggled with the garment, breathing heavily, and when he had conquered it he turned expectantly to Laurie. “Well, what do you say?” he asked.