“I’ll match you for ice-cream soda, Bosworth,” said Marks.

“All right,” replied Bosworth, cheerfully, as he flipped the coin with a skill born of experience. “Heads it is. I’ll pay, come on. Two ice-cream sodas, Sam.”

The clerk filled the glasses to the accompaniment of remarks on the ball games. Sam knew his business; agreeable conversation was served gratis at the counter with all soda orders. For fellows like Marks this made no great demand on the server’s originality.

“Taylor didn’t get his home run on Saturday,” remarked the clerk, gazing out of the window at the passers-by.

“No, he didn’t,” replied Marks. “I don’t know what’s got into Walt. He hasn’t made a long drive in two games.”

“Getting stale, perhaps,” said the clerk, who had only a dim idea as to what “stale” meant, but fancied the word.

“A little too sure,” said Marks. “He’ll take a brace before the Hillbury game.”

“Tompkins is making quite a pitcher.” The clerk offered the suggestion indifferently. There were two opinions as to Tompkins among his patrons.

“I don’t know about that,” answered Marks, with a knowing tilt of his head. “Tompkins isn’t anything great when he’s at his best, and when he’s poor, he’s no good at all. He’s got a good drop and an underhand rise, and the usual out and in, but that’s about all.”

“It’s Sands who really does the pitching,” added Bosworth, draining his glass. “Sands tells him exactly where to put the ball, and all the pitcher has to do is to follow his directions. There’s no great credit in that.”

The clerk was about to remark that to put the ball where it was wanted required some ability, but on second thought concluded that he had given his customers their money’s worth, and remained silent. Bosworth was going through his pockets.

“I thought I had a quarter,” he murmured, a little confused.

Marks displayed no interest in the search. He had change in his purse, but it was late in the season to lend. Besides, he did not want to lend twenty cents: it was too small a sum to ask back again.

“I shall have to break a bill, then,” said Bosworth, drawing out a ten-dollar note from his waistcoat pocket.

“You’re lucky!” said Marks, opening his eyes. “I’ve only two dollars left, and it’s ten days to my next allowance.”

The clerk changed the bill with his usual nonchalant air, and turned his attention to more interesting customers. The two boys sauntered out.

In front of the store they met Poole. Bosworth gave him a stare, and Marks a cool nod, which Phil returned as coolly.

“He has cheek, that cub, to try for the nine,” said Marks. “I told Sands he was a fool not to fire him long ago.”

“He’s Melvin’s room-mate,” returned Bosworth, in a spiteful tone. “These athletic fellows hang together. I shall be surprised if they don’t work the little lamb in somewhere.”

“Not Sands,” replied Marks. “Favoritism doesn’t go down with him. There’s been a lot of talk about it, though. I’ve heard fellows say that the kid was the best thrower in the out-field, and pretend that Lyford thought so, too. I heard Lyford say one day that Poole was the only man playing who knew how to bunt; but that’s nothing. I don’t believe they’ll be likely to put out big husky fellows like Vincent and Sudbury and Taylor, who are good for long hits, for a little bantam that can only bunt.”

Bosworth, less interested in baseball than in cultivating the acquaintance of a man whom he thought popular, drew out his watch.

“I must be getting home,” he said. “I’ve got a lot of Latin to work out before twelve o’clock.”

Marks sniffed: “Work out! Still doing that, are you? Come up to my room and I’ll lend you a trot. I’ve got a whole stableful,—Bohns, Interlinears, Teachers’ Editions, Hinds and Noble,—whatever you want. It’s the best collection in town.”

On Wednesday the nine played the Harvard Second. Phil sat on the bench as usual, waiting for the chance that never came, amusing himself by guessing from the attitude of the players at the bat where their hits would be, and planning the position he should take in left-field, if he were playing, for the various men. Ordinarily, when a visiting nine had already played Hillbury, he contrived to strike up a conversation with the pitcher or some of the fielders, and learn if possible where and how the various Hillbury batters had hit. To-day the players from the University had seemed so imposing—one of them was a famous Varsity half-back—that the boy had not yet mustered courage to accost them.

By this process of questioning visiting teams, Phil had gathered a very considerable fund of information about the peculiarities of the individuals who made up the Hillbury team. The pitchers contributed most to this fund, for they were often able to recall clearly just what kind of balls had deceived the respective Hillbury batsmen, and what had proved unsuccessful. One was easily caught by a sharp drop, another could not hit a fast straight ball kept high, still another was regularly fooled by a change of pace. All these discoveries, with other facts culled from newspaper accounts, went down in the baseball note-book which Phil had started early in the winter, but no one except Dick had yet seen. He meant in time to submit the results to Sands and Tompkins; at present he was still collecting facts.

The game was already past the fourth inning, without a run scored on either side. The visitors had twice got a man as far as second base, once on a fumble by Hayes, the short-stop, and a hit to centre-field; once on a long drive to left-field close to the line, which Taylor ran for but did not reach. Tompkins was getting acquainted with the batters. He had his own way of testing a new man. First he tried to drive him away from the plate by a ball close in. If the batsman pulled away, he was sure he was pitching to a timid man, and caught him on an assortment of swift curves; if, on the other hand, the batsman declined to pull away, Tompkins knew that he had to do with a cool, determined hitter who would probably be able to detect the curve on the break, and meet it squarely. To such dangerous men he gave his best drops and worked high and low straight balls with a change of pace. So far his method had been successful with the visitors.

Taylor came in at the beginning of the fifth with a pale face. “I’m afraid I can’t finish out, Archie,” he said to Sands. “I feel so blamed sick I can hardly stand.”

“What’s the matter?” demanded Sands, with little show of sympathy.

“My stomach’s out of order, I think,” groaned Taylor. “I haven’t been well all day.”

“What have you been putting into it?”

“Nothing,—that is, nothing unusual.”

Sands peered at him for an instant questioningly. “Well, then, go home and lie down. Here, Poole, take Taylor’s place. You’re up next.”

The blood rushed to Phil’s face; his pulse began to leap in excited throbs. He was to have a chance in a real game,—a hard game, too! He bent over the pile of bats to choose his favorite, glad of an opportunity to hide his confusion, and a little afraid of hearing unfriendly criticism.

“Now’s your chance to show what’s in you, Phil,” said Watson, the third baseman, who liked the boy. “You can hit him all right.”

“Stand up to the plate,” warned Sands, “and don’t let him frighten you. Manning isn’t as bad as he looks.”

Sudbury had two strikes called on him, then hit a liner over second.

“Now, Phil,” said Tompkins, quietly, “you know what we expect of you.”

Poole planted his left foot firmly beside the plate, raised his bat, and waited, wondering whether Manning would try on him the method Tompkins used for new men. The pitcher wound himself up with the usual absurd motion, and sent a ball whistling hot, that veered suddenly off the plate. Phil smiled to himself and gripped the bat more firmly. “No, I’ll not bite at any such,” he said to himself. “Old Rowley has given me too many of them.” Next came a drop, but it was low. “Two balls!” Then one close in, which the batter hesitated on and then let pass. This was also called a ball. The next was straight and fast.

“I know you,” thought Phil, and swung straight at it, meeting the ball fairly “on the nose.” As he sped exultantly away to first, he saw the ball cutting a line well above the first baseman’s head. Knowing that the hit was good for two bases at least, he rounded first with all his attention centred on his running, passed second, and then, looking for the ball for the first time and seeing the right-fielder just about to throw, he went on easily to third, where Watson caught him by the shoulders and made him pause. Sudbury was already back upon the bench.

“Splendid!” exclaimed Watson. “I always said you could do it. Bring your fielding to that level, and you’ll get your ‘S.’”

Sands went out on strikes; Waddington hit a long fly to centre, which the Harvard fielder got under without much exertion and secured. He threw it in with all the speed he could, but Phil, who was waiting on the bag for the ball to touch the fielder’s hands, was off with the Harvard man’s first motion, and easily beat the ball to the plate.

“Why didn’t he throw to second, and let second throw it home?” inquired Tompkins of the coach. “Wouldn’t that have been quicker?”

“I think so, at that distance,” said Lyford. “The great out-fielder makes a single long throw, but with players of average ability two quick line throws will bring the ball in sooner and more accurately.”

Hayes hit to second base and made the third man out. The Seatonians trotted contentedly away to their positions; they were sure of two runs, anyway.

Out at left Phil was abandoned to his own devices. Either because he wanted to try the player, or because he had no distinct notion as to where the batter was likely to hit, Sands gave no hint as to the best position for the fielder to take. As Hawkins, the second baseman, who led the batting list, stood boldly up to the plate as if he were longing to pound the first ball pitched, Phil took a position well out, drawing, he knew not why, somewhat toward the side-lines. Hawkins did pound the first ball pitched, but he struck a trifle too soon, and a little underneath. The result was a beautiful high foul over by the benches on the edge of the field. Instinctively, as the ball rose, the left-fielder started. It fell easily into his hands ten yards outside the foul line. The second batter went out on a grounder to Watson. The next man up sent a fly between centre and left, which Poole, who was nearer, also took. In five minutes Seaton was at bat again.

In the sixth and seventh neither side scored, though the collegians repeatedly got men on bases, and Phil captured another fly, this time in short out-field. In the eighth the visitors, through an error by Robinson, and hard hitting, succeeded in tying the score.

The schoolboys came in for the last inning a little depressed. Hillbury had beaten the Harvard Second six to four. If their rivals had made six runs, in the face of a good pitcher like Manning, while Seaton could make but two, the inference was obvious. With three balls called, Robinson went out on strikes. Watson got his base on balls. Sudbury made his second hit,—a clean drive to centre, advancing Watson to third. Phil took his bat and started for the plate.

“Bunt the first one and let Watson come home,” said Lyford, as Phil passed him.

“I can bunt a low ball,” said Phil, “but what shall I do if it comes high?”

“Hit it out,” said Lyford.

There were calls for the batter, and Phil hurried to his position, took a firm stand, and waited. The first one was low and a little wide, but Phil reached over to meet it, and dropped it along the side-lines halfway between home and third. The same instant he was off, running with all his might for first. Watson had started at half speed with the pitch, and on the bunt came on with all his strength, reaching home just as the pitcher picked up the ball. Meantime Phil, with his left-hander’s start, was safe at first when the pitcher threw to cut him off, and Sudbury went on to third.

The schoolboys on the benches cheered loudly at the successful play, breaking suddenly off to watch the next move. Sands hit at the first ball pitched and sent a grounder to the third baseman, who fumbled just long enough to prevent his throw to first. Then came two strikes on Waddington in quick succession. Sands gave the signal for a double steal, and on the next pitch started hard for second, and Phil a trifle later for third. The Harvard catcher hesitated, then threw to third; but in his haste he threw a little wide and the boy slid safely. Waddington went out on strikes, and Hayes took his place.

“Two men out, run on anything!” shouted Watson at the side-lines. The Harvard catcher pretended a passed ball, and ran back a few feet, but Watson saw the trick and kept Phil on the base. Hayes had two strikes and three balls called on him. The crowd waited eagerly for the next pitch.

“Four balls!” Hayes sped away to first, Manning snarled and stamped, the crowd yelled. Tompkins came up bat in hand, with a determined look on his face. “One ball!” The catcher threw to third, but Phil, who was watching the ball as a cat watches the low flight of a bird, flung himself back in safety. The Harvard third, pretending to throw to first, let drive at second. Sands scrambled back as best he could, but the ball reached the base before he did, and only the error of the second baseman, who seemed as much surprised as Sands, saved the latter from an out.

Tompkins, who knew he was no batter, was waiting. “Two balls!” “One strike!” The next one tempted him and he hit at it, but it was a wide out curve. “Two strikes!” Then came an in curve, sweeping in over the corner of the plate. Tommy did not want to try it at all, but he knew that if he did not, he should go out on called strikes; so he smote at it with all his strength, and was as much surprised as Manning, though by no means so unpleasantly, to see the ball go flying over the third baseman’s head.

Phil came trotting in, followed closely by Sands, while Hayes paused at third. And then Tompkins, having glorified himself and brought in two runners by a two-base hit, ventured too far off second, and was ignominiously put out on a quick throw from the pitcher.

In their half of the inning, the Harvard men tried hard to retrieve themselves. The first man up went out on strikes. Big Gerold then proceeded to pound the ball to the left-field fence. Phil got it back in season to hold the man on third, but the next man brought in the run with a single. Then followed two easy in-field flies, and the game was over with the score five to three in favor of Seaton.

The students went home elated. Tompkins had held the heavy batters down to a few hits, the nine had fielded well and had hit the ball when hits were all-important. The forecast for the Hillbury game seemed at least fair.

“Well, what do you think now?” said the coach to Sands, as they walked slowly over to the dressing rooms.

“About the game? Why, it was a good one; the best yet, I think.”

“No, about Poole. Isn’t he a better man than Taylor?”

“I wish I knew,” replied Sands. “He certainly batted well to-day. I doubt if we should have done as well with Taylor. He caught three flies too, but two of those came into his hands.”

The coach smiled. “Did you give him any directions as to where he should stand?”

“Why, no, I let him take his own position.”

“Then, do you know that those three flies, coming in two innings, were in totally different parts of the field?”

“What of it?” asked Sands, perplexed.

“Why, the boy has a good fielder’s instinct; he guesses well where the batter is likely to hit.”

“That may be luck,” replied the captain, thoughtfully.

“In my opinion, at least, there is no question as to the men,” said the coach, rather curtly. “Poole is better at the bat, better as a fielder, and better in another respect.”

“What’s that?”

“He takes good care of himself.” And with this last opinion Sands had to agree.

On Thursday and Friday the team practiced as usual, Poole batting with the squad, and catching flies with the out-field. Taylor was back in his place.

On Saturday morning Sands hailed Phil as they were coming out of chapel: “Be out early this afternoon.”

Phil nodded, and went on into the mathematics room. “Another afternoon on the bench,” he thought dismally. “Taylor’s stomach isn’t likely to fail him again.”

As he entered his room an hour later, he found Melvin deep in the semi-weekly Seatonian which had just been delivered.

“See here, Phil,” called his room-mate, with a joyful light dancing in his eyes; “here’s information for you!”

And Phil, looking over Melvin’s shoulder at the passage in the “Notes and Brevities” pointed out by the stout forefinger, read, “Poole will play left-field in the game with the Harvard freshmen this afternoon.”