Nor was it all easy work, it was really hard toil. It is one thing to play ball without much care as to the outcome, to toss the horsehide back and forth, and, if it is missed, only to laugh.

It is one thing to try to bat, to watch the ball coming toward you, wondering what sort of a curve will break, and whether you will hit it or miss it--or whether it will hit you--it is one thing to do that in a friendly little game, and laugh if you strike out.

But when making a nine depends on whether your stick connects with the sphere--when getting the college letter for your sweater can be made, or unmade, by this same catching of the ball, then there is a different story back of it. There is a nervous tension that tires one almost as much as severe physical labor.

And there is hard physical work, too. Of course it is a welcome change from the cla.s.s-room work, or the lectures, to get out on the diamond, but it is work, none the less.

Then there are the coaches to put up with. I never was a coach, though I have played under them, and I suppose there is some virtue in the method they use--that of driving the men.

And when a lad has done his best, has stood up to the ball, and clouted at it for all he is worth, only to fan the yielding air, it is rather discouraging to hear the coach remark sarcastically:

"You're not playing ping-pong, you know, Jones."

Or to hear him say with vinegary sweetness:

"Did you hurt yourself that time, Smith? It was a beautiful wind blow, but--er--pardon me if I mention, just for your benefit you know, that the object in this game is to _hit the ball_. You hit it, and then you run--run, understand, not walk. And another thing, don't be so afraid of it.

"Of course this isn't a rubber ball, of the sort you probably used to play baby in the hole with--it's hard, and when it hits you it's going to hurt. But--don't let it hit you, and for cats' sake stand up to the plate!"

It's a way coaches have, I suppose, and always will. Joe felt so, at any rate, and he had rather one would fairly howl at him, in all sorts of strenuous language, than use that sarcastic tone. And I think I agree with him.

There is something you get at when a coach yells at you:

"Come on there you snail! Are you going to hold that base all day?

Someone else wants to get past you know.

"Come on in! We need that run! Move as if you meant it! Don't fall asleep! Oh, for cats' sake, fanning the air again? Run now! That's it.

Slide! Don't be afraid of soiling your clothes, we'll buy you another suit!"

I hold this is preferable to the soft and sarcastic method, but they used both varieties at Yale, and Joe sometimes got so discouraged at times that he felt like resigning. It was harder than he had dreamed of, and he had not pictured a rosy time for himself.

"I don't believe I'm ever going to make even the cla.s.s scrub, Spike,"

said Joe to his room-mate one day, following some long practice, when he had not even been called on to bat.

"Oh, yes you will," declared his friend. "You can pitch--you know it, and I know it. I haven't caught off you these two weeks for nothing. You can pitch, and they'll find it out sooner or later. Don't give up!"

"I'm not going to. And say, come to think of it, you're no better off than I am. They haven't noticed you either, and yet I've never seen anyone who held the b.a.l.l.s any better than you do. And, as for throwing to second--say, you've got Kendall beaten."

"I'm glad you think so," murmured Spike.

"I know it!" insisted Joe. "I've played in a few games. But what's the use of kicking? Maybe our chance will come."

"I hope so," replied Spike.

The practice went on, the elimination and weeding out process being carried on with firm hands, regardless of the heart-breaks caused.

"First game to-morrow," announced Jimmie Lee, bursting into Joe's room one evening. "It's just been decided."

"Who do we play?" asked Spike. Joe felt his heart sink down lower than ever, for he realized that if he had a chance he would have heard of it by this time.

"Oh, it isn't a regular game," went on Jimmie, who was jubilant from having heard that he would at least start at first base for the cla.s.s team. "The scrub, as they call it, and 'varsity will play the first regular contest. Horsehide is to be there for the first time. Then there'll be something doing. I only hope he sees me."

"The first regular practice game to-morrow," mused Joe. "Well, it will be a good one--to watch."

"Yes--to watch," joined in Spike, grimly. "But the season is early yet, Joe."

As they were talking the door opened and Ricky Hanover came in. He was grinning broadly.

"Let's go out and have some sport," he proposed. "It's as dull as ditch water around here. Come on out and raise a riot. I'll take you fellows down to Glory's, and you can have a rabbit."

"Get out!" cried Spike. "We're in training, you heathen, and you're not."

"A precious lot of good it will do you," commented the newcomer. "Why don't you chuck it all? You'll never make the team--I mean you and Joe, Spike. Jimmie here has had luck. Chuck it and come on out."

"No," spoke Joe slowly. "I'm going to stick."

"So am I," added his room-mate. "You never can tell when your chance will come. Besides, we owe it to Yale to stick."

"All right--I suppose you're right," agreed Ricky, with a sigh. "I did the same thing at football. But I sure do want to start something."

"Begin on that," laughed Joe pa.s.sing him over the alarm clock. "It's run down. Wind it and start it going!"

Ricky joined in the laugh against him, and soon took his departure. Joe heard him come in at an early morning hour, and wondered what "sport"

Ricky had been up to.

A large gathering turned out to see the first real baseball contest of the season. By it a line could be had on the sort of game the 'varsity would put up, and all the students were eager to see what sort of championship material they had.

There was a conference between coaches and captains, and the 'varsity list was announced Weston was to pitch, and Kendall to catch. Neither Joe's name, nor those of any of his intimate chums were called off for a cla.s.s team.

Joe did have some hope of the scrub, but when the name of the last man there had been called off, Joe's was not mentioned. He moved off to the side, with bitterness in his heart.

The game started off rather tamely, though the cla.s.s pitcher--Bert Avondale--managed to strike out two of the 'varsity men, to the disgust of the coaches, who raced about, imploring their charges to hit the ball. At the same time they called on the scrub to do their best to prevent the 'varsity men from getting to the bases.

It was playing one against the other, just as diamond dust is used to cut the precious stones of which it once formed a part.

"Well, I haven't seen anything wonderful," remarked Joe to Spike, after the first inning.

"No, they're a little slow warming up. But wait. Oh, I say, here he comes!"

"Who?"

"The head coach--Horsehide himself. I heard he was to be here to-day.

It's his first appearance. Now they'll walk Spanish."

Across the back-field a man was approaching--a man who was eagerly surrounded by many of the candidates, and he was cheered to the echo, while murmurs of his name reached Joe.

"Let's go up and have a look at him," proposed Spike.

"Go ahead," agreed Joe, for the game had momentarily stopped at the advent of the head coach.