On the 21st day of March as Harold with the other members of the squads was in the dressing room after practice, the head coach came into the room with a slip of paper in his hand which he posted on the Bulletin Board. There was a rush to read the notice as soon as the coach had departed, and several faces, as they turned away, wore a look of disappointment, while others seemed proud and happy.

Hagner and Case finally finished dressing and turned to the board to read the bulletin before going out. This is what they read:

“Guess I’ll get a chance to pitch after all,” said Harold. It was a great day for him and he was highly elated. The 19— Varsity had begun to take definite shape, and being named on it meant recognition by the great student body as possessing something worth while in the line of ability. The news spread rapidly through the University and wherever the boys who had been named went they were treated with honor and respect.

Breakfast the first morning at the training table was a good deal of a get-together, get-acquainted affair. I do not know what it is that makes the choice of nicknames or how it is that it comes easier to know some fellows by either their first or last names, others by an abbreviation of one or the other, and still others by adoption of something entirely different, but when boys get to a certain stage of acquaintance with each other there comes a spontaneous desire to bestow a nickname and these names generally fit in a remarkable way. Harold Case went to breakfast known as Case and came out to be forever known to Lowell men as Hal.

John Hagner started to drink his coffee that morning as Hagner and when he had folded his napkin he was known as both Hans and Honus, why nobody ever could tell, and the names stuck to him for life.

Charles Radams came away with the nickname Babe and as Babe he went down into the Lowell Book of Heroes.

Everson had always been Everson before. He was Everson when he sat down to the table that morning, and he was still Everson when he left the room, though why this little brainy Crab should have gotten off without a nickname is far beyond me.

You would think that Larke, who was always jolly, either whistling or singing when not eating or asleep, would have been named The Lark years before, but no, they called him just Cap., yet they had always called Gibbs, Gibbie.

If there were a regular rule for nicknames they would undoubtedly have called Black, White, but they always referred to him as Miner. Delvin they generally called Arthur.

There was something stiff about Dill which was a good deal like the way he played first base in the few games he lasted on the Varsity that year, and the dispenser of nicknames overlooked him entirely at that first breakfast. In fact, he never did acquire one, for he was dropped from the team before anyone could really find a good name to fit him. Pickle would have been a good name for him, and also his fate so far as the team was concerned.

Talkington was a quiet young chap, who said very little either at the table or on the field, so that “Talkie” or “Mr. Speaker,” or anything like that wouldn’t seem natural at all, so they called him “Tris” and let it go at that.

Robb might really have been given a fitting name at the end of the season. If they had waited until then they would undoubtedly have called him Robb because he had developed into the greatest base stealer the game ever knew, but somebody had passed him the oatmeal that morning, after he had demanded it vigorously, with a “Here you are, Tyrant,” and Ty he is to-day—a very short name for so long a fellow.

A week later they played the first real game of the season, the first real test of the line-up as it had been worked out by Jenkins. The game, which was with Colfax, a small neighboring college, was not an important one. Never had they been able to beat Lowell and rarely in all the games that had taken place between the two teams had Lowell been even scored upon. As it was, it was hardly even a test game for the Varsity. Hal sat on the players’ bench with his chin on his hands, and watched the Colfax boys getting licked.

There wasn’t anything very exciting about sitting on the bench and there was nothing very encouraging about the playing of even the Lowell boys. With the exception of a hair-raising one-handed stop by Hagner of a fast grounder over second, and a wonderfully accurate throw to first without getting into position, and the fine work of Gibbie behind the bat in stopping Babe Radams’ wild drops and curves which the Colfax boys struck at blindly, the game was dull and uninteresting.

If the Colfax team had not had the usual attack of stage fright that struck it whenever it played Lowell, it probably would have won. Dill on first dropped three throws in succession made by Everson to catch runners at first, and if it had not been for the accurate throwing of Gibbie to Delvin and Everson who nipped all base runners as they tried to reach second and third, there is no knowing but that the Colfax team might have scored, to say nothing of the possibility of winning. Hagner had fumbled an easy grounder, only to make a jumping catch of a high liner from the bat of the next man, which he promptly threw to first completing a double as Dill did not miss that one.

Ty in right field had misjudged the only chance he had but had recovered the ball in time to catch his man at third with a quick throw and Delvin at the bag to receive it.

By the end of the seventh inning the score stood 8 to 0 in favor of Lowell in spite of the poor playing. The Varsity had batted well, nearly every one had made hits, Everson had 1; Honus, 2; Delvin, 1; Ty, 2; Tris, 2; Cap., 1; Gibbie, 1; Dill, 1; and even Babe Radams had dropped a Texas Leaguer over second. Hal had sat on the bench all the time with Ross and Miner and some of the second squad.

At the beginning of the eighth, Jenkins turned to Ross and said: “You cover the first bag,” and then to Hal, “Go on in the box for a little real practice, Hal.” “That’s all right, Babe,” noticing a look of disappointment on Radams’ face. “You are doing fine, but you can’t have all the practice.”

“Remember, Hal,” he called from the bench, “let them hit it, but we can’t have any scoring against us.”

“All right,” said Hal, as he picked up the ball.

The first man up hit the first ball pitched for a base. The second batter laid down a neat bunt along the first base line. Ross, the first baseman, came in for it, and Hal hustled over to cover the bag. Meantime the batter who was fast man, was tearing down the base line like mad. Ross made a good pick-up and turned to throw.

By that time the batter was only a few feet from the bag where Hal was to receive the throw. Ross had to throw quick and in doing so threw the ball at Hal’s feet. Hal reached down, made a neat pick-up, and the umpire waved the runner out.

There was now one out with a man on second. The third batter hit a hard one at Everson, who retired the runner at first, the man on second reaching third. The next batter hit a slow bounder between the box and first. Hal started after the ball, grabbed it on the bounce with one hand and without stopping raced to first base, which he reached just ahead of the runner, making the third out.

As he walked to the bench Jenkins came up to meet him and patting him on the back, said: “Good boy, Hal,” which was fine, Hal thought.

It was his turn at bat, and he walked to the plate with high hopes of making at least a two bagger. The first ball looked like a straight one so Hal took a good swing at it and missed. “That’s all right,” called Hughie from the coaching lines, “there will be two more better ones coming over directly.” The next was a ball. The third was a slow one, and as Hal noticed the left-fielder playing pretty far out he thought he would just tap it for a nice little short fly back of third. He thought of this as the ball was coming toward him from the pitcher’s hands. He whirled his bat with a short, quick swing and—thud—he heard the ball strike the catcher’s mitt.

“Well,” he heard Hughie calling him, “you only need one to hit it, and you got one left.” The next two balls he fouled off. The next two the umpire called balls and it was two strikes and three balls. Hal set himself for the last one. It was now or never. Here was probably his only chance to-day to make a hit and he might not get into another game for weeks and show what he could do with his bat. Slowly the pitcher started to wind up. Hal watched every move. Here it came waist high and straight. Now watch it. He swung at it hard. He heard first—a tick, then a thud. He had made a foul tip and the ball had struck in the catcher’s mitt.

“That’s all right,” he heard Hughie saying, “we don’t expect pitchers to hit ’em anyhow.” But Hal was disappointed and sore as he walked to the bench. The next two men were retired on infield hits, and as Hal walked to the box to pitch the first half of the ninth inning he was nervous and mad at himself.

The result was he served up four bad balls in succession and there was a man on first. The next up hit the first ball right at Ross who was hugging the base and he booted it. Hal was over on first bag in a jump but Ross got the ball to him too late to earn an assist and there were two men on and nobody out. The crowd began to yell, “Take him out.” “Where’s Miner?” but Jenkins paid no attention. Many a pitcher had given a base on balls, and Hal was not responsible for the second man.

He got ready to pitch as he faced the batter; he somehow felt the man was going to bunt. As he delivered the ball he started toward the plate on the run, following the ball in. The batter bunted. Hal was almost on top of him. He reached out, caught the ball off the bat before it had reached the ground, thus making a caught fly out of what would have been a perfect bunt, whirled around and fired the ball to Everson at second, who nearly missed it because the play was almost too quick for him, thus completing a remarkable double play.

The crowd cheered. He heard them saying: “Oh! You! Hal! Good boy! You needn’t take him out!” and he felt so good he went back into the box and struck out the next batter and the game was over. Then there was the usual rush to get the sweaters, and the fans and players hustling to get off the field as fast as they could together—the fans to get home to dinner and the players to the shower baths and rub-downs.

Hal hustled along with the rest. On the way he caught up with and passed Jenkins and Everson, together as usual. They did not see him, but he heard Jenkins say: “He looks more like a fielder than a pitcher,” and he thought they meant him. Later, as he walked along to his boarding house with Hans, they talked about the game, and the part each of them had taken in it, and Hans said, “I think you would make a good first baseman,” but Hal, who thought he had come out of his pitching test pretty well said, “But you see they don’t need a first baseman (they all have their bad days like Dill and Ross to-day), and they may need a good pitcher any time.”