“I do,” said Laurie emphatically. “You can pitch now just about as well as a toad can fly. What we want to know is whether, if you practise hard and keep at it, you can learn.”
Kewpie looked hurt. “Say, what’s the matter with my drop-ball?” he asked indignantly. “I suppose you think you could hit that, eh? Well, I’d like to see you try it.”
“Cut out the bunk, Kewpie,” said Ned sternly. “We’re talking business now. You know plaguey well you wouldn’t last ten seconds against a batter, the way you’re pitching now. Laurie says you’ve got a fair drop, when you get it right, and that’s all you have got. You haven’t—haven’t— What is it he hasn’t got, Laurie?”
“He hasn’t got anything except that drop. He can’t pitch a straight ball with any speed—”
“I don’t want to. Any one can hit the fast ones.”
“And he hasn’t a curve to his name. About all he has got is a colossal nerve.”
“Nerve yourself,” replied Kewpie. “I don’t pretend to be a Joe Bush, or—or—”
“Can you learn?” demanded Ned. “If Laurie and I help every way we know how, if you study that book of yours, if you practise hard every day for—for two months, say, will you be able to pitch decently at the end of that time?”
Kewpie was plainly puzzled by this sudden and intense interest in him; puzzled and a trifle suspicious. “What do you want to know for?” he asked slowly.
“Never mind. Answer the question.” Ned was very stern.