Up to this point all went smoothly.
“Now, as to catcher,” said Randolph. “I know it’s a show place, and I don’t want to put myself forward. But it’s an important game, and I think I understand Dick’s delivery better than the rest of you. Bert Farnum is a tip-top hand behind the bat, I know; but—”
Randolph hesitated as he saw Bert look down and dig his heel into the ground, half sullenly.
Bert was a graceful player, a strong hitter and swift thrower. His chief trouble was uncertainty. You couldn’t depend either on his temper or his nerve in a closely-contested game. Randolph knew this, and now endeavored to smooth over matters by suggesting that Bert should play centre-field at first, and come in for a change during the close of the game, if necessary.
Right and left-fielders were easily appointed, and the boys seized their bats and balls for a couple of hours’ practice.
Bert excused himself gruffly, and wandered down by the river alone. He wanted catcher’s position for that game, and felt defrauded by his captain.
All the girls from the institute would be sure to come and cluster around the in-field, while the centre-fielder would be stationed away off by himself, with, perhaps, not a single chance to win applause.
Bert’s father was one of the wealthiest men in town, and the boy was used to having his own way.
Only yesterday, a fine new catcher’s mask had come up from the city. Of course, he had meant to lend it freely to the nine in all their games; but now he resolved he would say nothing about it. The old mask was nearly worn out, and, if struck at certain points, was sure to hurt the wearer.
If Randolph Percival was so particular about catching, he could wear the old thing, for all Bert cared.