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He left Reddy's room all in a quiver of warm pleasure and friendliness at the great sprinter's quiet praise and advice. To make such a friend was worth losing a hundred friends like Graves. He dismissed the third-baseman and his scheming from mind, and believed Reddy as he had believed Arthurs.
"Yes, I was," replied Ken, impulsively. "I can play better than I did to-day but Mr. Arthurs, I'm not in Graves's class as a third-baseman. I know it." Ken said it bravely, though there was a catch in his voice. The coach looked closely at him. "So you're sayin' a good word for Graves, pluggin' his game." "I'd love to make the team, but old Wayne must have the best players you can get."
Well, I won't run for the place, so it'll be Homans. He's the man to captain us, that's certain. Graves thinks, though, that he can pull the wires and be elected captain. He's way off. Besides, Peg, he's making a big mistake. Worry doesn't like him, and when he finds out about this break in training we'll have a new third-baseman. No doubt Blake will play the bag.
The Camden team, bunched close together, were talking earnestly, meanwhile casting anxious glances toward the street that led to the water. The Vinalhaven scorer passed before the stand with his book. "What's the trouble?" asked Stevens. "Camden catcher and third-baseman haven't shown up. They started out with a party in a power-boat before the steamer. Engine must have broken down.
Weir and McCord occupied the room next to Ken's, and Graves and Trace, rooming together, were also on that floor. Ken had tried with all his might to feel friendly toward the third-baseman. He had caught Graves carrying cake and pie to his room and smoking cigarettes with the window open.
The pitcher interfered with the third-baseman, and the first-baseman ran up the line, and the pitcher failed to cover the bag, and the catcher fell all over the ball. Every varsity man bunted, but in just the place where it was not expected. They raced around the bases. They made long runs from first to third. They were like flashes of light, slippery as eels.
But he rapped the next like a bullet at Griffith, the third-baseman. Griffith blocked the ball, and, quickly reaching it, he used a snap underhand throw to first, catching Homans by a narrow margin. It was a fine play and the crowd let out another blast. Raymond, coming up, began his old trick of trying to work the pitcher for a base.
I don't mean to flatter you, but we've got nothing in this league that can touch you. Come, now! As a personal favor to me!" "All right. I'll do my best." "Good for you! Now we've got to pick up a third-baseman!" Jim hesitated. "Our Academy shortstop is here," he said, slowly. "He can play a mighty good third at a pinch." "If he's willing, we'll take him on your say-so, and snap at the chance."
He remembered also Graves's reply to a question put by the coach. "I was only tagging him. I didn't mean to hurt him." That rankled inside Ken. He kept his counsel, however, even evading a sharp query put by Arthurs, and as much as it was possible he avoided the third-baseman. Hard practice was the order of every day, and most of it was batting.
Accordingly Ken tried the slow curve that had baffled Raymond. Weir popped it up and retired in disgust. The following batter was Graves, who strode up smiling, confident, sarcastic, as if he knew he could do more than the others. Ken imagined what the third-baseman would have said if the coach had not been present. Graves always ruffled Ken the wrong way.
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