“You’re up next, Slim,” said Captain Fosdick, leaning forward to speak to Maple Park’s third baseman. “Get out there and let ’em think you’re alive.” Whittier hoisted himself from the bench and leisurely viewed the row of bats. Selecting two, he ambled out toward the plate. Guy Fosdick, or “Fos” as he was generally called, turned again to Joe Tait, frowning. Joe, a heavily-built, broad-shouldered boy of sixteen, chuckled.
“It’s no use, Fos,” he said. “You can’t put pep into Slim.”
Fos’s frown melted into a smile. He was a good-looking chap at all times, but when he smiled he “had it all over Apollo and Adonis and all the rest of those Greek guys.” I am quoting Joe. Doubtless Fos’s smile had a good deal to do with his immense popularity at Maple Park School, a popularity that had aided him to various honors during his four years there.
“Sometimes I think he does it to rile me,” said Fos. “The day they had the explosion in the chemical laboratory Slim was out in front of Main Hall, and still going, before any of the rest of us were through the door! Good boy, Archie!” Browne had slammed a grounder between Linton’s shortstop and second baseman and filled the bags. “Two gone,” he said regretfully. “If Slim doesn’t do more than he’s been doing——” His voice trailed off into silence as he gave his attention to the Linton High School pitcher.
“Did you see Wendell get down to third?” asked Joe admiringly. “That kid can certainly run!”
“Terry Wendell? Yes, he can,” agreed the captain thoughtfully. “Put Terry on base and he will get to third every time. He’s a fast one, all right. But you’ve got to stop right there, Joe.”
“How do you mean, stop?”
“Terry never comes through. He gets just so far and stops. I don’t know why. He got to first on an error, stole second nicely, reached third on Archie’s hit and I’ll bet you a red apple he will die there.”
“Oh, come, Fos, you’re too hard on the kid. He’s a pretty fair fielder and his hitting isn’t so rotten, and you say yourself that he’s fast on the bases.”