“Of course it is; I know that,” answered Tracy soothingly. “But you’re not going to lose. You’re going to win. So buck up, old chap!”
“And there’s poor old Tom Higgins,” Joe continued dispiritedly. “What will he say? I promised him I’d win this year. He’s coming up next week, if he can, to coach for a few days; I told you, didn’t I? What’ll he think when he sees how things are going?”
“Oh, Tom Higgins be blowed!” cried Tracy. “He couldn’t win himself, and I’d like to know what business he has finding fault with you if you don’t win, either?”
“But I promised him——”
“Well, supposing you did? If you can’t win, you can’t, and that’s all there is to it. Every fellow on the team is going to work as hard as he knows how; every fellow is going to stand by you until the last man’s out. If we lose, it’ll be simply because Robinson’s got a better baseball nine. Cheer up, now, Joe, or I’ll run this machine into the ditch there and send you out on your silly old nut.”
The two were speeding comfortably along River Street in Tracy’s automobile. It was ten o’clock of a fresh morning in the first week of June. They had left the village a half mile behind and were chugging along over a somewhat dusty country road with green hillsides to the right and the gleaming river to the left. Occasionally the fragrant air was sullied with the smell of gasoline, and Joe sniffed disapprovingly and made uncomplimentary remarks about motor vehicles in general, and Tracy’s in particular. But Tracy, who had had his orders from Simson to cheer Joe up and bring him home in good spirits, refused to take umbrage, and declared that gasoline had a rather pleasant odor.
Joe was certainly suffering from nerves, and had been ever since the disastrous game with Artmouth, two days before, when Erskine had gone down ingloriously to the tune of 17 to 1, the 1 being the result of good fortune rather than good playing. Perhaps, as Tracy put it, the team had merely had an off day; at all events its performance had been anything but encouraging to the supporters of the Purple, and had thrown Joe into the depths of despair. With the final game of the season, the contest with Robinson, but two weeks distant, he saw only defeat ahead.
They were in sight of the Cove now, and Tracy suddenly pointed ahead. “What in thunder’s that, Joe?” he asked. Joe roused himself from unprofitable thoughts and looked toward the point indicated by his friend’s finger.
“Must be a duck,” he said finally.
“Duck be blowed! There aren’t any ducks around here at this time of year. Perhaps— I tell you what it is, Joe, it’s a man’s head! See? Some one’s in swimming.”