Ken pitched a dozen balls or more, some in-curves, some out-curves. Then he threw what he called his drop, which he executed by a straight overhand swing.
“Oh—a beauty!” yelled Worry. “Where, Peg, where did you learn that? Another, lower now.”
Worry fell over trying to stop the glancing drop.
“Try straight ones now, Peg, right over the middle. See how many you can pitch.”
One after another, with free, easy motion, Ken shot balls squarely over the plate. Worry counted them, and suddenly, after the fourteenth pitch, he stood up and glared at Ken.
“Are you goin' to keep puttin' 'em over this pan all day that way?”
“Mr. Arthurs, I couldn't miss that plate if I pitched a week,” replied Ken.
“Stop callin' me Mister!” yelled Worry. “Now, put 'em where I hold my hands—inside corner... outside corner... again... inside now, low... another... a fast one over, now... high, inside. Oh, Peg, this ain't right. I ain't seein' straight. I think I'm dreamin'. Come on with 'em!”
Fast and true Ken sped the balls into Worry's mitt. Seldom did the coach have to move his hands at all.
“Peg Ward, did you know that pitchin' was all control, puttin' the ball where you wanted to?” asked Worry, stopping once more.