“One strike!” called the umpire. Phil gripped the bat and waited. It was the first practice game, the scrub against the school. Phil had been put at left-field on the scrub; and he was now at bat nervously conscious that it was his first real trial, perhaps his only one, and that Sands was waiting for the pretext to fire him with the first batch of disappointed candidates. Tompkins was also on trial, and while he rubbed the damp ball into a state to grip decently for the next pitch, he considered whether he could afford to give the youngster an easy one to help him out, without interfering with his own reputation. Then he caught Sands’s signal as the crouching catcher wagged his hand between his knees, and answered it with an in-curve. No, there was no place in the Seaton game for favoritism. The boy must take his chance.

Phil’s bat came almost to the plate, but he stopped it short at the first veer of the ball. He had learned from Wallace to watch the ball, but it was Rowley who had taught him to detect the first sign of the veer.

“One ball!” shouted the umpire.

The next one was an out meant to swing over the plate. It swung too far, and Phil had to dodge to save himself, but he did it easily, stepping back just far enough to avoid the ball. There was no sign of fear in the movement.

“Hang a left-hander!” muttered Tompkins; and sent a straight ball over the corner of the plate a little below the shoulder.

With the instinct of a real ball-player Phil knew his ball and met it squarely, dropped the bat and scampered for first. He perceived as he ran that the second baseman jumped for it and missed it, and a moment later as he touched first he saw the centre-fielder stoop and then turn and run. He did not need the coacher’s advice to go down. By the time the centre-fielder got his hands on the ball, the runner was already beyond second; he slid to third with a fine dive, the prettiness of which was not spoiled by the fact that the slide was wholly unnecessary. At third he waited while the three men who followed him at bat went out in quick succession, two as victims of strikes, tempted to hit at balls they didn’t want, and one on a pop fly.

Sands threw down his mask and protector and joined the coach.

“That hit of Poole’s was the second made off Tompkins in five innings,” said the coach. “A pretty hit and a good slide. Too bad he’s so young, for he seems about the only man on your scrub team who stands up to the plate and keeps his head. He’s been up twice: the first time he got his base on balls; the second he made a hit.”

“He’s doing better than I expected,” said Sands. “Probably it’s his lucky day; but he’s too light and too green for us. He’ll make good material for about two years from now. We must have steady men for the Hillbury game or they’ll go to pieces. The strain’s terrific.”

“He’s had two fielding chances with one error,” said the coach, consulting his record. “Oh, yes, I remember; the error was on a long hit close by the foul line, but he got it back well to the in-field.”

In the sixth inning Robinson, second baseman on the first team, led off with a single over third. Maine, who was being tried at short, followed with a hot grounder to right-field, which the scrub-fielder let bounce past him, allowing the batsman to reach second and advancing Robinson to third; and Sands followed with a liner over the short-stop’s head that set the runners moving again. By some unaccountable instinct—he certainly had not seen enough of Sands’s playing to know the general direction of his hits—Phil had moved up toward the in-field. Suddenly he heard the crack of the bat, and saw the ball shooting straight toward him, apparently likely to strike a dozen yards ahead. Impulse drove him forward to meet it; intelligence, with tardier admonition, held him back. So he took a step forward, then several back, and just reached the ball as it skimmed above his head, and pulled it down.

It was a creditable catch, but more creditable still was the unhesitating, accurate throw to Rhines at third to cut off Robinson, who had started for home; for it was proof that the boy could think quickly and take advantage of the chances of the game.

Whatever the merit of quick thought, Rhines evidently lacked it; for he stupidly held the ball on third, without perceiving that the other base-runner was thirty feet from second, and might have been caught equally well. Smith, who was pitching, finally made it clear to him with expletives and yells, but the opportunity for the triple play had passed. Vincent went out on a pop fly to the pitcher, and the scrub came in triumphant.

The coach made another mental note in Phil’s favor. A catch may be by chance, a double play never. It was no great feat, but the boy could use his brains; that was worth remembering.

Phil’s side went out readily enough, one hitting to pitcher, one on a little fly to second, one on strikes. The first followed in similar fashion, and the scrub in their turn advanced no farther than second. It was still early in the season, and schoolboys are likely to be poor batters. The pitchers were the only men who had had any regular practice for their positions. Then with the return of the first to bat, came a set of in-field fumbles and wild throws, and general heedless passing of the ball around the diamond, that set the first to running recklessly, and drove the scrub to wilder errors. Such practice is as vicious for base-runners and coachers as for fielders.

“Stop, stop!” cried Lyford, running out into the diamond. The scrub short-stop had fumbled a grounder, and then after juggling the ball a second had thrown to first when it was quite impossible to catch the man; the first baseman had put it frantically across the diamond to Rhines six feet off the base, in a wild attempt to catch a runner at third; and Rhines had made haste to contribute his part to the general demoralization by throwing several feet over the second baseman’s head, in an equally hopeless effort to intercept the man speeding down to second.

“Give that ball to the pitcher,” shouted the coach, as the ball finally came back from the distant out-field, “and don’t do any more of this reckless tossing round the diamond. Until you can throw the ball straight, don’t throw it; and never throw unless you know what you’re trying to do.”

The scrub steadied down and put three men out,—two, including Taylor the left-fielder, being struck out by Smith, and the other sending an easy fly to the centre-field. Rhines then made a hit for the scrub, stole second, and was pushed on to third by an out. Newcomb sent an easy fly to Taylor, and Phil came up to bat with two men out and Rhines on third. This time Tompkins had no question as to the youngster. Phil struck once, had two balls and a strike called on him, and then, just holding the bat to meet the ball, and drawing it a little back rather than striking, dropped a pretty bunt near the side-lines, between third and home, and easily beat the ball to first. With Rhines on third, the boy stole second without fear; and then as Smith sent a bounder to right-field, he was off with the sharp start, rounded third at full speed, and came racing over the plate just before the ball reached the catcher’s hands. An easy strike out sent the scrub for the last time into the field.

Phil ran out to his place with a heart throbbing with joyful exhilaration. He had reached first every time he had come to bat,—once on balls, once on a genuine hit, once on a successful bunt. His fielding chances had been at least decently good. He had caught two flies, made one assist, and there was but one error against him. There was certainly nothing here to be ashamed of.

The first of the school batters went out on an easy in-field fly; the second reached first safely through an error by the fumbling short; the third got his base on balls; and the fourth hit to centre-field, filling the bases. Phil pulled his cap down tight over his head, blew on his fingers to keep them warm, and pondered what he should do with the ball if a fly came into his hands.

Tompkins came up to the plate. “Line it out, Tommy!” cried Sands. “A hit means two runs, a two bagger, three!”

One ball! One strike! Tompkins set his teeth and smashed at what he thought to be his chance. He hit hard, but he hit a trifle under, and the ball went up, up, up, going, it seemed to Phil, as if it never would stop. The short-stop staggered back with his eyes on the ball, but it was out of reach behind him.

“I’ll take it!” shouted Phil. He ran hard forward; then looked up and waited. How it wabbled! How it swung! How it changed its size in the air! He cleared his eyes with a wink; the next instant the ball was in his hands.

A moment only he staggered for better footing; then as he saw the runner cut loose from third and dash for the home, he set himself for a throw. The catcher stood on the plate and waited dutifully but hopelessly, ready to leap to either side for the wild throw from the field. To his surprise he did not need to stir from his tracks. The ball came directly toward him,—a long straight line throw,—made an easy bound, and landed in his hands just as the runner came within reach.

“Out!” cried the umpire. “By a mile,” added Tompkins under his breath. “Bully for the kid! That’s a throw a professional wouldn’t be ashamed of.”

During the last half of the ninth, Phil sat on the bench enjoying the compliments of his associates, and cared not a whit whether the scrub batters reached first or not. As a matter of fact, they went out as quickly and easily as three timid batters could go; and Phil, his ears tingling with a commendation from Sands, and a warning from the coach as to taking care of himself after the game, that was more delightfully significant than the captain’s good word, trotted gayly down to the gymnasium for his bath and rub-down and a change of clothes.

Half an hour later he rushed in on Melvin, who had just come in from a trip up the river in Varrell’s canoe.

“What luck, Phil?”

“Luck indeed! Nothing but luck! I helped in two double plays, caught two flies, made two hits and only one error. Lyford was cordial, and even Sands gave me a compliment.”

“That is a record. You remember what I said about my getting a start by luck; you’ve beaten me in luck, anyway.”

The boy’s face fell. “But you got on the team and I shan’t, that’s the difference. Sands thinks I’m too young, and it will make no difference whether I play well or not, he won’t take me on.”

“Has he told you so?”

“No, but I suspect it, and I’m pretty sure I’m right.”

“Nonsense,” said Melvin. “He’ll take you if you’re the best man, or I don’t know Sands. Only bear in mind that you’ve had a lucky day, and the first practice game isn’t enough to prove anything. You’ve won the first heat, but don’t get a swelled head over it, or you’ll win no more.”

At the same time Sands and Coach Lyford were lingering on the gymnasium steps, in the midst of a conversation on the very same subject.

“The little chap did well,” Sands was saying; “I don’t dispute that. He’s a clever little player. What we want is a big player, a hard, experienced, steady man who can swat the ball for two or three bases when he hits it, and can stand the strain of the season without going up in the air.”

“I’d rather have a man that can hit often than one who sometimes hits hard,” replied the coach; “and as for throwing, give me brains and skill rather than muscle behind a ball any time. There is good baseball in the boy, and you ought not to discourage him. I don’t ask you to put him on the team; keep him as substitute if you wish, but watch him and help him and see what you can make of him.”

So it happened that Phil was retained as substitute when the great majority of the candidates were dropped. Some said he ought to be on the team, some that it was gross favoritism not to fire him with the rest; but Phil himself was content to sit and watch, and do what he was told, and play when he had a chance with all the earnestness and strength and skill he had. And twice a week he turned out early for the six o’clock practice with Rowley.