“I can stand it, sir, but it—it means that we get beaten.” And Ben gulped. The Doctor nodded.
“I’m sorry. Was there anything else?”
“No, sir, thank you.”
“Thank you, Holden, for coming and telling me.”
Ten minutes later it was known that the House Team would play to-morrow without its captain, and the gloom hung heavy. Some of the fellows censured Ben for confessing to the Doctor. There had been no call for such a silly course, they declared. Every one agreed that certain defeat stared them in the face. Ben said very little, but what he did say was to the point.
“I can’t play, but I’m still captain. Somebody else will have to catch and I guess it had better be Steve. Kid, you run up and get my mitt. We’re not beaten, yet, so don’t let’s talk like it. Steve, you and George and Sam come down to the net with me. You’ve got to learn the signals.”
The rest of the team, which was to have no work to-day, followed gloomily and stood around while Steve Lovell, with Ben’s big catcher’s mitt on his hand, stood up in front of the net and let Waters and Perkins take turns in slamming the ball in to him, while Ben stood by and explained and coached, sometimes swinging at a ball with the bat to accustom Steve to the work before him. It was almost dark when Ben called a halt and Steve, tired and nervous, pulled the mitt off with a sigh of relief.
“I’ll make a fearful mess of it to-morrow, Ben,” he groaned. “I know I shall!”
“You mustn’t,” answered Ben grimly. “You can’t afford to. If you do as well as you’ve done to-day we’ll get by.”
“Who’s going to play my bag?” asked Steve.