But Ned shook his head, smiling gently. “Just now, old son, you’re not quite yourself. When your better nature asserts itself you’ll—”
“Oh, dry up,” growled Laurie. “Throw me my Latin. There goes the bell!”
Kewpie took his ball back to No. 15, pulled a small paper-bound book entitled “How to Pitch” from a table drawer, and curled himself on the window-seat. Presently, as he turned the pages slowly, his usually placid countenance became troubled. Reaching for the ball, he wound his fingers about it, his eyes ever and anon traveling to the book. Finally he arose, gathered the pillows from the two beds, and set them upright against the closet door, side by side. Then he moved an arm-chair out of the way and, having fitted his fingers around the scuffed baseball as indicated in Diagram 6, let fly. Naturally, the distance was much too short to show whether or not he had held the ball correctly, but Kewpie was an optimist by nature. Several times he followed the instructions accompanying Diagram 6, not always landing the ball against the pillows, however, and then gave his attention to Diagram 7. He was very busy striving to diagnose its requirements when “Hop” entered.
Hop’s real name was Thurman Kendrick, and he had the honor of being Kewpie’s room-mate. They were both football players and of an age, but there the likeness ceased. Hop was rather small and slim, with dark hair and an earnest countenance, a description that didn’t fit Kewpie at all. Hop was Hillman’s most likely candidate for next year’s quarter-back. Fortunately, the two boys worked together quite as smoothly on the gridiron as center and quarter as they did on the campus as room-mates. Or you may put it the other way around if you like, the idea being that they were the very best of chums off the field and on. But even a chum may have to assert authority once in a while, and Hop asserted it now.
“What do you think you’re doing, Kewpie?” he demanded in puzzlement. “Practising? Well, you pick those pillows up and put that ball down or I’ll paddle you! Look here, did you get a cut in English?”
Kewpie looked blank. “Gee, no! What time of day is it? Well, what do you know about that? I just naturally—”
“You’ll just naturally get the dickens from Johnny, you silly chump,” responded Hop dryly as he dumped his books on the table. “What did you do? forget the time?”
“N-no, I—I guess I got sort of interested in this pitching business, Hop. Say, you ought to have seen me pitching drops to Nod a while back! Boy, I’ll say I made ’em eat out of my hand!”
“And you’ll be eating off the mantel if I catch you missing any more recitations! Honest, Kewpie, you haven’t got the sense of a duck. Besides, what the dickens do you want to get into baseball for? Isn’t football good enough?”
“Sure, but I can’t play football now, can I? How do you suppose I’m going to keep myself in condition for it if I don’t have some exercise?”