Tom realised, as he walked over to the mound and picked up the ball, that at least a portion of his audience was hostile. He could not expect Pete Farrar to be wholly pleased at his advent on the scene, and Pete’s demeanour showed that he wasn’t, while for some less easily explainable reason Captain Warner seemed far from friendly. Not that these things bothered Tom very much, however. He was naturally a little nervous, but I doubt if anyone guessed it. As luck had it, the first three batsmen to confront him were Kenny, Craig, and Farrar, the last trio on the first team’s batting-list. Tom knew nothing about them and so wisely relied on the scrub catcher to tell him what to offer.

Tom presented a rather incongruous appearance in the box. He had removed his coat and waistcoat, tied his suspenders around his waist, and rolled up the sleeves of his blue-stripe shirt. Tommy Hughes had supplied him with a cap to take the place of the straw hat he had been wearing. His long trousers struck an odd note amongst the surrounding uniforms. On the bench, Mr. Talbot and Mr. Cummings sat side by side and watched interestedly, the latter a trifle anxiously as well. He was prepared to be very proud of Tom’s prowess and was mutely hoping that the boy would not, after all, prove a fiasco.

Arthur Brown, who caught for the scrubs, knelt behind the plate and gave the signal for a fast, straight ball. Tom settled his cap with a tug at the visor, brought his arms back over his head, lifted his left leg in air a little, and pitched. Joe Kenny watched the ball cut the centre of the plate, waist-high, and heard it slap into the big mitt behind him. Then he tapped his bat on the plate, squared himself, and seemed to dare Tom to do it again. And Tom did it again, only this time the ball, instead of whizzing up to the plate, came with deceptive slowness and Kenny hit much too soon. Steve Arbuckle, the team’s manager, who was umpiring, watched the ball go dancing along outside third-base-line and announced:

“Foul! Strike two!”

After that Tom tried Kenny with an out-shoot and Joe wisely refused to offer at it and it went as a ball. Then came another ball, a drop that was too low, and then, getting the signal from Brown, Tom shot over a high one that cut the plate squarely in two. Kenny struck at it too late, whirled on his heel, and dragged his bat toward the bench. A chorus of approval arose from Buster and Tommy and some of the others, and Mr. Cummings turned beamingly to the coach.

“How’s that?” he demanded. “That’s pitching ’em, isn’t it?”

The coach smiled approvingly. “He looks good, Mr. Cummings. And I like the way he does it, too. Looks like a born pitcher to me.”

“Of course he is!” declared the other convincedly, evidently forgetting that it was he who had evinced doubt of Tom’s ability. “That boy’s a wonder, Mr. Talbot!”

Sam Craig was the slugging kind of a batter and wanted, as all free hitters do, a ball on the end of his bat. Consequently when, after Tom, at Brown’s demand, had offered a high fast ball on the outside of the plate and Craig had slammed at it viciously and narrowly missed it, the catcher signalled for a straight, low one, Tom shook his head. Brown signalled again, and again Tom refused. Mr. Talbot watched eagerly.

“Brown’s signalling for something Pollock doesn’t want to give him,” he said softly to Mr. Cummings. “Evidently Pollock has a head as well as an arm.”

“Head!” began Mr. Cummings. But at that moment, Tom and his catcher having reached an agreement, a slow in-shoot floated across the inside of the plate, Craig staggered away from it, and the umpire announced, “Strike two!”

Craig got to first in the end, however, finally taking an inside ball on the handle of his bat and trickling it slowly toward third, so slowly that by the time third baseman had come in and got it and thrown it to first Craig was safe on his bag. But Farrar was an easy proposition. Three fast, straight balls and one slow teaser did for him, and he retired disgruntled to confide to Frank Warner that “that chump hasn’t anything but a fast ball and you can knock the spots out of him!”

Buster Healey faced Tom with a grin. “Be easy with me, Tom,” he called. “I used to play with you!”

Tom smiled. “Just tell me what you want, Buster,” he answered.

“And you won’t give it to me,” grumbled Buster. “I know!”

Whatever it was Buster did want, it is safe to assume that what he got was something quite different, for Buster, after popping a foul back of first base, went out on strikes.

When Tom came back to the bench, Mr. Talbot was slipping his left hand into a catcher’s mitt. “Pollock, come over here and show me what you can do,” he said eagerly. “Unless your arm’s tired?”

“Not a bit, sir.” So while the school team took the field and the scrubs went to bat again Tom pitched to the coach, explaining his deliveries as he sent them in.

“Here’s an in-shoot, sir. I try to break it just in front of the plate, but it doesn’t always do it.”

“Pretty good, though,” replied Mr. Talbot, tossing the ball back. “What’s your drop like, Pollock?”

Tom showed him, and the coach scrambled the ball out of the dirt. “Seems to me,” he said finally, “you’ve got about everything, Pollock. Give me two or three fast ones now.”

And Tom let himself go and slammed in a high one, a low one, and a “waister” that made Mr. Talbot beam.

“Great stuff!” he said. “Where the dickens did you learn to pitch like that, Pollock?”

“There’s a man who lives where I do,” replied Tom, returning to the bench, “who used to be a professional pitcher. He’s been teaching me for a month or more. Maybe you know him. His name is George.”

“‘Big Ben’ George? Yes, but I never knew he’d been a ball-player. Guess I’ll have to get him to come out and coach our pitchers for us. He has surely done well by you, Pollock.”

When the last of the next and fifth inning began, Tom faced Bert Meyers, the husky third baseman, and Meyers landed on Tom’s first offering and cracked it far into left field, getting two bases. As Tom did not yet trust himself to throw to bases, he left Meyers to his own devices, much to the surprise of that youth and to the chagrin of the scrub second baseman. Frank Warner was the next man up, and, as the captain was something of a hitter, perhaps it was as well that Tom gave him all his attention instead of sharing it with Meyers.

Tom realised that it might be a diplomatic act to “let Frank down easy.” He was certain that the captain for some reason rather disliked him already, and knew that if he managed to strike him out that dislike would not lessen any. But the scrub team had gained a one-run lead in their half of the final inning and Tom concluded that to deliberately endanger the scrubs’ victory would be hardly fair, even if by so doing he managed to partly placate Captain Warner. So Tom set himself very carefully to dispose of the redoubtable one.

On second, Bert Meyers was taking all sorts of leads and yelling like a Comanche Indian in an effort to disturb the pitcher. If he had only known it, he could have stolen third base with impunity, for Tom had determined to take no risks of hurriedly pegging the ball into the outfield. But Tom’s cool scrutiny fooled Bert. Every time Tom wound up Bert dashed up the base-line, but he always stopped short of a steal and scuttled back to safety as the ball went to the catcher. Bert was big and rangy, but not a fast man on bases.

Tom’s first offering to Frank Warner almost brought about disaster. It was an in-shoot and it broke badly, passing over the plate “in the groove.” Frank swung at it and struck it and dashed for first, but the ball was a foul by a bare two inches when it struck back of third. After that Tom was more cautious. A wide one was wasted and then Tom worked a drop that fooled Frank so badly that the players on the bench chuckled audibly as he recovered himself after a vicious swipe at empty air. A rather ugly expression came into the captain’s face then. He didn’t like being made a fool of. A fast ball that went over too high counted against the pitcher. Then Frank landed on a low one and popped a foul into the stand. Tom had only one more to waste, and when Arthur Brown asked for a curve Tom shook his head. What he did send in was a slow ball, Frank, angry and anxious to hit, did just what Tom thought he would do. He struck too soon, the ball passed under his bat, and, although Brown dropped the strike, Frank was too disgruntled to try for his base.

Tommy Hughes was easy for Tom, four pitched balls disposing of him, and the game was over, the scrubs winning by a score of seven to six. Arthur Brown, tossing aside his mask, intercepted Tom on his way to the bench. “That’s some pitching, Pollock,” he declared admiringly. “I’d like to catch you all the time!”

“Well, I guess you did as much as I did,” answered Tom. “Glad I helped you win, though.”

Frank Warner lounged over to where Tom, assisted by the proud and delighted Mr. Cummings, was donning his coat. “That’s quite a drop you have, Pollock,” he said patronisingly. “You want to practise up on your curves, though. It won’t do to break ’em over the plate, you know. Mr. Talbot says you’re coming out for the team.”

“I don’t know yet. If I can, I will.”

“Glad to have you. We need more pitchers.” The captain nodded carelessly and turned away. Mr. Cummings chuckled.

“He’s sore because you struck him out, son,” he said. “I was glad you did, too. Sort of a stuck-up fellow, isn’t he?”

Tom, Sidney, Mr. Cummings, and Coach Talbot walked over to the trolley line together and boarded the same car. Sidney, before he dropped off at Alameda Avenue, made Tom promise to come around to see him that evening. As they neared the store, Mr. Cummings, who had been talking with Mr. Talbot most of the way, turned to Tom.

“Tom, you might as well go on home,” he said. “It’s almost half-past five. I’m going to talk to Mr. Wright about you while I’m feeling brave,” he added, “and I guess I’ll get on better if you’re not there.”

“If there’s anything I can do to help,” offered Mr. Talbot, “I’ll be very glad to stop in with you.”

“N-no, I guess not, thanks. If it comes out all right, I’ll let you know and Tom can start in with you Monday.”

When Tom reached home he found Mr. George pitching at the fence in the side-yard. “Hello, Tom, you’re home early,” he said. “Haven’t been fired, have you?”

“Not exactly,” laughed Tom. “I’ve been pitching for the high school scrub team. Five strike-outs in two innings, Mr. George!”

“Well, that’s going some, Tom. Let’s hear about it.”

So Tom recounted the happenings of the afternoon and the detective was delighted that Tom was to have a chance to put into practice what he had taught him. Mr. Talbot’s suggestion that he come out and coach the pitchers pleased him, too.

“Say, I’d like to do that if I had the time,” he declared.

“I think he’d like to have you. I know I would. Why don’t you talk it over with him? You know him, don’t you?”

“Yes, Bat’s handled a few small cases for the railroad. That’s how I met him. He’s a nice fellow. Maybe I’ll look him up this evening and see what he says. Too tired to practice, are you?”

“No, I’m not tired at all. I only worked two innings and didn’t have to bat. I guess I’ll rest a little while, though, first. What were you doing when I came in?”

Mr. George smiled at the ball he held. “Say, I was trying to get the knack of the ‘knuckle-ball’ that fellow Summers, of the Detroits, pitches. Haven’t got it yet, though. Here’s the idea, though, as I figure it out. You double back your middle fingers like this and hold the ball with your thumb and little finger. It’s not easy, though. Try it.”

Tom took the ball and strove to get a grip on it in the manner shown. “That’s it, isn’t it?” he asked finally. “But I’d never be able to pitch it that way. Why, it would just fall out! I wouldn’t have any control over it!”

“That’s the way it seemed to me until I tried it, but I’m getting the hang of it. It’s a great ball when it’s done right; looks like a fast one and floats over as slow as an ice-wagon going up hill! When I learn it, I’ll show it to you, Tom. Say, I’m mighty glad you’re going to pitch for those fellows! Bet you anything we just mow ’em down this spring, Tom!”

“Well, it isn’t settled yet. Mr. Wright may not agree to it.”

“Pshaw! What’s the reason he won’t? You tell him if he doesn’t he’s got to look out for me, son! I’m liable to put a dent in him!”