A result of this was that in the games of this season Guilford, with a pitcher from among its fellows who had previously given his services to other teams as well, simply ran away with Marshallton Tech, winning one game by the score of fifteen to two and the other was a shut-out.
“Gus, I’ve bought a ball and I’ve got Sam Kerry, who says he used to catch for his home team somewhere in the west, to agree to keep his mouth shut and pass a few with you, off somewhere where nobody will see.”
“Righto, old Bill! Anything you say—but what’s the idea?”
“Well, Gus, I don’t like Guilford’s swamping this team in the way it has, and I propose to try to stop it.” Bill’s lips were compressed and he had that look in his eyes that meant determination.
“But Siebold—” began Gus.
“Doesn’t entirely run this school, nor its ball team, even if he is captain and general high muck-a-muck,” declared Bill.
It was with extreme satisfaction that Bill sat on a log at one side of a path in the woods and watched little Kerry, who proved to be no mean hand at stopping all kinds of balls, nearly knocked off his feet by the machine-gun-like pitches of “that other fellow from Freeport,” as Gus was sometimes called.
One early afternoon the gym instructor also sat by Bill and watched the performance. Mr. Gay had promised secrecy, but not to refrain from comment.
“I’ll say he has not only got command of his ball and three good styles, but he also knows some tricks that ought to worry any man at the bat. Throw that waiting ball again, Grier!” the instructor called. “I want to watch that—oh, fine! It looks like a hard one and a fellow will strike over it nine times out of ten. Well, I’ve got this to say: If we expect to win any games we’ve got to have a fellow like Grier in the box, but Siebold will stick to Maxwell who is about a fifth rater—at his best.”
“But has Siebold all the say?” Bill queried.