"I wish you would!"

As they went off the field they saw the knot of players still gathered about the head, and other coaches, receiving instructions, and how Joe Matson wished he was there none but himself knew.

In their rooms that afternoon and evening the ball players talked of little save the result of the first real clash between 'varsity and scrub, and the effect of the return of the head coach. It was agreed that the 'varsity, after all, had made a very creditable showing, while the upholders of the cla.s.s team players gave them much praise.

"But things will begin to hum now!" exclaimed Jimmie Lee, as he sat in Joe's room, while the beds, sofa and table, to say nothing of the floor, were enc.u.mbered with many lads of the Red Shack, and some visitors from other places. "Yes, sir! Horsehide won't stand for any nonsense. They'll all have to toe the line now."

"Jove, weren't the other coaches stiff enough?" asked Clerkinwell De Vere, who aspired to right field. "They certainly laced into me for further orders when I m.u.f.fed a ball."

"And so they should," declared Spike. "That's what they're for."

"Oh, but wait until you do that when Horsehide sees you," went on Jimmie. "That won't be a marker, will it, Shorty?"

"I should say not. He'll make your hair curl all right. He's a terror."

"Friend of Joe's here," put in Spike.

"No! is he?" demanded Ricky Hanover, who had drifted in. "How's that?"

"Oh, I just met him by accident," declared our hero. "It isn't worth mentioning." He told the incident after some urging.

"I wish I stood in your shoes," said De Vere. "I'd be sure of my place then."

"Nothing of the sort!" exclaimed Jimmie Lee. "If Horsehide played favorites that way, he wouldn't be the coach he is. That's one thing about him--he makes his friends work harder than anyone else. I know he did it other seasons--everyone says so."

"Oh, he's square," chimed in another. "There's not a better coach living, and none you can depend on more. All he wants is to see good, clean playing, and Yale to win."

Joe could not help thinking of the coincidence of meeting the head coach but, though he did have slight hopes that it might lead to something, he resolutely put them out of his mind.

"I don't want to get on even the 'varsity that way!" he said to himself that night, when the visitors were gone, and he and Spike had turned in. "I want to win my way."

Nevertheless, he could not help a feeling of slight nervousness the next day, when he reported for practice.

"Well, same old gag over again I suppose," remarked Spike, as they went out to toss and catch.

"I suppose so," agreed Joe.

He pa.s.sed Mr. Hasbrook, who was giving some instructions to the fielders just before the 'varsity-cla.s.s game, but the head coach did not even notice Joe.

After some batting and catching, and some warming-up work on the part of the pitchers, Mr. Benson called for a cessation of practice.

"Here is the batting order and positions of the nines for to-day," he announced, producing a paper. He began to read off the names. For the 'varsity they were the same as the day before. Joe, who had permitted himself a faint hope, felt his heart sinking.

"For the opposition, or scrub," announced the a.s.sistant coach, and he ran down the line, until there was but one place unfilled--that of pitcher.

"Joe Matson!" he called, sharply.

CHAPTER XVI

JOE MAKES GOOD

For a moment our hero could scarcely believe his good fortune. He had been called to pitch for the scrub! Once more as he stood there, scarcely comprehending, Mr. Benson called out sharply:

"Didn't you hear, Matson? You're to pitch against the 'varsity, and I want you to beat 'em!"

"Yes--yes, sir," answered Joe, in a sort of daze.

"And, 'varsity, if you don't pound him all over the field you're no good! Eat 'em up!" snapped the a.s.sistant coach.

"Don't let 'em win, scrub," insisted Mr. Whitfield, and thus it went on--playing one against the other to get the 'varsity to do its best.

"Play ball!" called the umpire. "Get to work. Come in, you fellows," and he motioned to those who were out on the field warming up.

"Congratulations, old man!" murmured Spike, as he shook Joe's hand. "You deserve it."

"And so do you. I wish you were going to catch."

"I wish so, too, but maybe my chance will come later. Fool 'em now."

"I'll try."

Joe had a vision of Bert Avondale, the regular scrub pitcher, moving to the bench, and for an instant his heart smote him, as he noted Bert's despondent att.i.tude.

"It's tough to be displaced," murmured Joe. "It's a queer world where your success has to be made on someone else's failure, and yet--well, it's all in the game. I may not make good, but I'm going to try awfully hard!"

He wondered how his advancement had come about, and naturally he reasoned that his preferment had resulted from the words spoken in private by Mr. Hasbrook.

"I wonder if I'd better thank him?" mused Joe. "It would be the right thing to do, and yet it would look as if he gave me the place by favor instead of because I've got a right to have it, for the reason that I can pitch. And yet he doesn't know that I can pitch worth a cent, unless some of the other coaches have told him. But they haven't watched me enough to know. However, I think I'll say nothing until I have made good."

Had Joe only known it, he had been more closely watched since his advent on the diamond than he had suspected. It is not the coach who appears to be taking notes of a man's style of play who seems to find out most.

Mr. Hasbrook, once he found that the lad who had rendered him such a service was at Yale, and had aspirations to the nine, made inquiries of the coaches who had done the preliminary work.

"Oh, Matson. Hum, yes. He does fairly well," admitted Mr. Benson. "He has a nice, clean delivery. He isn't much on batting, though."

"Few pitchers are," remarked the head coach. "I wonder if it would do to give him a trial?"

"I should say so--yes," put in Mr. Whitfield. He was quick to see that his co-worker had a little prejudice in Joe's favor, and, to do the a.s.sistant coaches justice, they both agreed that Joe had done very well.

But there were so many ahead of him--men who had been at Yale longer--that in justice they must be tried out first.

"Then we'll try him on the scrub," decided Mr. Hasbrook; and so it had come about that Joe's name was called.

In order to give the scrubs every opportunity to beat the 'varsity, and so that those players would work all the harder to clinch the victory, the scrubs were allowed to go to bat last, thus enhancing their chances.

"Play ball!" yelled the umpire again. "It's getting late. Play ball!"