The poker incident caused repeated discussions between the classmates. Melvin was sure Tommy’s method was wrong, though he could not suggest a satisfactory substitute except to thrash Bosworth until he made amends; while Varrell, though disapproving of poker in general, maintained that in this exceptional case the means were excusable. Neither succeeded in bringing the other over to his view.

It happened that Tompkins, who was not bothered by scruples as to his course, was the chief sufferer by it; for additional victims kept turning up with sad tales to have their losses made good by the generous restorer, until Tommy had parted not only with his questionable winnings, but with the surplus of his honestly acquired quarterly allowance as well. This latter fact he did not confide to his friends. It seemed to detract somewhat from the excellence of the joke.

Meantime the baseball practice in the cage was taking the usual course. Besides Flanahan, two or three other fellows were pitching, among them Tompkins. The latter had been pulled out of obscurity by some enthusiast who discovered that he had had experience in the box, and so reluctant Tommy was now forced to take his regular turn in the cage with the rest. Phil did his work with all the energy he possessed, not because he had any real hope, but because his heart and ambition were in the contest, and even the prospect that the battle would go against him did not take away his joy in the fighting.

Flanahan had good sharp curves and high speed. His best balls were a jump at the shoulder and a fine abrupt drop. Tompkins had fewer curves at his command, but he could vary his speed in a most deceptive way, and he showed an ability to put the ball where he wanted it and where the batsman did not like to have it come. Another advantage Tompkins possessed lay in his coolness; gibes from batters or spectators never hurried or confused him, while Flanahan’s quick temper went to pieces under slight provocation. Smith, the best class-team pitcher of the last season, was a third candidate, but ranked unquestionably after Tompkins.

Flanahan’s curves were the delight and admiration of the spectators, who would cluster around the catcher’s end of the cage when Flanahan was pitching, and express their appreciation by manifold ejaculations. Such wonderful rises and drops and shoots, the Hillburyites would certainly find impossible to hit. And so did the Seatonians, for that matter, though the result was really due as much to the wildness of the pitching, and the consequent fear of getting hit on the part of the batsmen, as to the skill of the pitcher. For the most part Flanahan preferred to let some one else pitch for the batting, while he practiced by himself.

The first time Phil came up to bat Flanahan, he had the misfortune to get hit. Phil was a right-hander who batted left, and Flanahan’s wide out off the plate caught the boy in the back as he turned to dodge, and inflicted a painful bruise. The result was to give him a scare that prevented his facing the pitcher for a fortnight, and confirmed Sands in the impression that he was too young and green to be of any use on the school nine. As the cage practice is necessarily limited to pitching, batting, sliding, and handling grounders, and Phil as a candidate for the out-field was not given much chance at grounders, he seemed to have excellent prospect of being dropped from the squad among the first. It was Wallace who saved him from this ignominy.

Wallace was the head coach for baseball at the great university near by,—a graduate a year or two out of college, with an enthusiasm as unprofessional as his knowledge of the game was complete and technical. He could pitch and field and hit; he was a master of the ritual of that mysterious coaching book in which are written all possible details of play under all possible circumstances, and on which the Varsity candidates are examined for their positions as a candidate for a degree is quizzed by the specialists who sit in commission over him. Indeed, Wallace was more of a master than the original authors, for the supplement was of his own making. Though not a Seatonian himself, his baseball sympathies were wide, and his college mates from Seaton had found no difficulty in enlisting his help for the school nine.

He began with grounders which he made the boys take with heels together and elbows between the knees, bending slightly forward as they settled. Some did this instinctively as the most natural way, others went down on one knee or tried to make the hands alone a substitute for a solid wall of arms and legs. With others, again, Wallace found fault for sinking for the ball and rising before they got it. “Settle, get the ball, then rise and throw” was, according to the college expert, the right order of movements for “gathering in” grounders.

After grounders came starting and sliding. At first he put them through a series of standing sprint starts, like the old-fashioned erect start for short races, with first steps short to develop immediate speed; then the double balancing start that the base-runner uses as he poises off first base ready to return instantly, or go down hard to second, as the need may be. In sliding he urged the slide head first as the college ideal, at the same time adding that professionals generally slide feet foremost for the sake of greater safety. “Good sliding is fearless sliding,” he said, “and the man who slides fearlessly is much less likely to be hurt than the coward.”

When they came to the batting practice, the first thing which the expert did was to moderate the speed of the pitcher, who was sending in hot balls to show his ability. “Only slow pitched balls in the cage,” was his warning; “the light is too poor for swift pitching. Moreover, in a confined place like this, a batsman is likely to become frightened at a swift ball as he wouldn’t be out-of-doors.”

Then he made the batters stand firmly, watch the ball closely, step straight out toward the pitcher, and strike quickly at what they were sure were good chances. “Don’t worry,” he kept saying. “Don’t watch the pitcher too much. The ball is the thing you are trying to hit. Don’t commit yourself too soon; wait till you know what is coming.”

Phil came up for his trial as nervous as a young boy can be under the eyes of an admired master whom he would give a month’s allowance to please. “Steady, my boy, steady,” said the kindly voice of the coach, who probably felt with Sands that he was wasting his time on an impossible candidate, but who, unlike Sands, was still generous and glad to help.—“Don’t be frightened. ‘Step straight, hit late, watch the ball and not the pitcher’ is the thumb rule for good batting.—Less body and more arms.”

Phil gathered himself together and cracked out a good wrist hit.

“That’s the way. I always like to see that!” exclaimed Wallace, approvingly. “The wrist hitters are the safest hitters.” With face aglow with satisfaction Phil stole back among the group of waiting players. “Step straight, hit late, and watch the ball,” he repeated to himself. “Why didn’t some one tell me that before? I’ve been going contrary to every part of that rule.”

It is to be feared that Phil’s lessons on those two days of Wallace’s stay were somewhat neglected. He certainly haunted the cage at all vacant hours when Wallace was engaged in instruction, and when the practice was over he ran back to his room and put down in a note-book snatches of baseball wisdom caught from the collegian’s lips. Many of the notes were doubtless futile, merely serving to give the boy the satisfaction of doing something to help himself on in his great ambition. Yet many were of great value, not only for immediate drill, but also for use later on in answering questions that unexpectedly arose, when the details of Wallace’s instruction were as thoroughly forgotten by the boys as the teachers’ comments on their first translations.

Wallace’s view of the pitchers mystified Phil a good deal. With Flanahan the coach made short work, giving him only a few words of general advice. Tompkins, on the other hand, absorbed much attention.

“That man has the making of a great pitcher in him,” the collegian remarked to Sands in Phil’s hearing. “A couple of years of good training would do wonders for him. He is cool, knows what he is doing, and has the full arm shoulder swing which not one amateur in twenty ever gets.”

“What about Flanahan?” asked Sands.

“He hasn’t it,” returned Wallace, emphatically. “His is a fairly swift arm throw with good curves and poor command. He’s used to playing, and probably knows a good deal about the game, without possessing any great intelligence. I should put him, at a guess, on the edge of the semi-professional class. He has reached his limit and is beyond instruction. Tompkins, on the other hand, is good, improvable material.”

“I guess Flanahan will do for us,” said Sands, with a smug smile of confidence.

“It seems to me that I’ve met him before,” mused Wallace, with his eyes fixed on Flanahan, who was still pitching; “but I can’t now recall where or under what circumstances. He certainly isn’t the kind of man I like to see on a school nine.”

“Oh, he’s all straight,” insisted Sands. “We often have old fellows here who are anxious for an education but have begun late.”

“I don’t doubt that,” replied Wallace, “but none the less, semi-professional ball players don’t belong on school teams.”

Perhaps it was this difference of opinion regarding Flanahan that made Sands so lukewarm in his praises of the coach. The boys generally spoke of him with veneration, but boy-like gave more attention to his appearance and his prowess than to his directions. No one profited more by these than the owner of the note-book, who learned to stand firmly and step out fearlessly; and as he really had a quick, accurate eye, he was soon hitting with the best. Sands was oblivious to all improvement, but the others noticed it, and Smith went so far as to warn him.

“You’re finding the ball right, Poole, but don’t get a swelled head over it. Outside, you may not be able to do a thing. There were Baker and Lydecker last year, who couldn’t hit a balloon in the cage, and yet used to swipe out two and three baggers ’most every game.”

Then Phil went home and consulted the note-book, rereading the quotation from Wallace which Dick had said was the best thing his room-mate had written down: “The good player,—and the rare player,—is the one who can analyze his own errors, and instead of giving up discouraged when he fails, can discover and remedy the fundamental fault.”

“I’m willing to be shown my faults,” said Phil to himself, earnestly; “and if I stick to it long enough and use my brains, I ought to get ahead.”

And Phil was right. Those who use brains do get ahead, in ball playing or anything else. But brains unfortunately cannot be furnished on demand, or ordered in advance, like a supply of coal for the winter.