“Until he gets to third,” responded Fos. “Maybe next year Terry will make good, Joe, but he doesn’t deliver the goods yet. I’m sorry, because he’s a friend of yours——”
“We room together.”
“But I’ve got to let him go. He’s had a fair trial all Spring, Joe, and the coach would have dropped him two weeks ago if I hadn’t put in my oar. He’s a nice kid, and he’s promising; but promises won’t win from Lacon two weeks from Saturday. If—— What did I tell you?”
There was a chorus of triumph from the knot of Linton adherents behind third as their right fielder pulled down Slim Whittier’s long fly, and Captain Fosdick jumped up.
“But that wasn’t Terry’s fault,” protested Joe. “A fellow can’t score on a third out!”
“I didn’t say it was ever his fault,” replied Fos, pulling on his glove. “But it’s what always happens, Joe. He doesn’t come through. Call it hard luck if you like, but that’s the way it is. All out on the run, fellows!”
When the Linton center fielder had swung thrice at Morton’s delivery without connecting Joe arose from the substitute’s bench and strode off toward the track. He had no doubts as to the outcome of the game, for with but three innings to play it was unlikely that the visitors would overtake the home team’s lead of six runs, and he was due for a half-hour’s work with the shot. But he felt sorry about Terry. Terry was a nice kid and he was fond of him, and ever since he had known him, which meant since last September, Terry had tried and failed at half a dozen things. Terry had just failed of making the second football eleven, had almost but not quite finished fourth in the four-forty yards in the Fall Handicap Meet, had been beaten out by Walt Gordon for cover-point position on the second hockey team, had been passed over in the Debating Society election and now, just when, as Joe very well knew, Terry was beginning to congratulate himself on having made the school baseball team, Fate was about to deal him another blow. It was really mighty tough luck, Joe growled to himself; and if Fos had been anyone but Fos he would have suspected him of prejudice. But Terry Wendell’s troubles were forgotten when Joe had thrown off his wrap and had the twelve-pound shot cupped in his broad palm, and weren’t remembered again until, just before six, he pushed open the door of 12 Munsing.
Terry was pretending to study, but Joe knew very well from the discouraged look on his face that Fos had spoken and that Terry’s thoughts were far from the book before him. He looked up at Joe’s entry, murmured “Hello!” in a rather forlorn voice that tried hard to be cheerful and bent his head again.
“How’d the game come out?” asked Joe, banging the door with unnecessary violence.
“We won; twelve to eight.”