"We want to defeat the army lads!" exclaimed the head coach a few days before the West Point game.

Contrary to the general custom the two who were to pitch and catch were announced the night before. It was at a meeting of the team, during which the coaches gave some good advice. Joe saw Weston in close conversation with Mr. Benson and Mr. Whitfield, and he had a fear that the deposed pitcher was trying to "pull strings" and make a place for himself.

"Of course you'll pitch, Matson," said Mr. Hasbrook, in such a matter-of-fact voice that Joe was rather startled. "And Kendall will catch."

There was a murmur, possibly at the remembrance of the Harvard game, but no one said anything. Joe, who sat beside Spike, whispered:

"I wonder when you'll get your chance?"

"Oh, some day, maybe," was the answer. "I can wait. I'm glad you've had yours."

"I must make good, though," declared Joe, half fearful that he would not.

They arrived at West Point to be enthusiastically greeted by the cadets, who took charge of the team, the subst.i.tutes and the "rooters" in right royal fashion. A big crowd had a.s.sembled, and as the day was a fine one there was every prospect of a game that would be all that was desired.

"I wonder if we'll win?" mused Joe, as he got into his uniform and started out on the field. The cadets were already at practice, and showed up well.

"A fine, snappy lot of fellows," observed Jimmie Lee. "We've got our work cut out all right."

"That's what," declared Hen Johnson.

As Joe left the dressing room, he saw Weston talking to Mr. Benson, who was having a conversation with the trainer. The former 'varsity pitcher--who was now second choice it seemed--was much excited, and as Joe pa.s.sed he heard Weston say:

"Well, I want half the game, anyhow. Can't I have it?"

"I--I'll see what I can do," replied Mr. Benson. "I'll do all I can."

"I'm tired of playing second fiddle," snapped Weston, as he drifted out behind a knot of players. Joe began to think of many things.

CHAPTER XXVI

A SORE ARM

Yale won the toss and chose to go to the bat last--always an advantage it seems--so Joe had to go on the mound as soon as practice was concluded. The usual practice of the home team batting last did not prevail on this occasion.

The stands were filled with a ma.s.s of spectators, in which pretty girls seemed to predominate. At least Joe a.s.sumed that they were pretty for they had escorts who looked on them with eyes that seemed to bear witness to this designation. Many of them were "stunning," to quote De Vere, who took a position in the outfield during practice.

"Just so he could be nearer some of the girls," declared Jimmie Lee, who had the reputation of being a "woman hater."

"Some crowd," remarked Joe to Spike.

"Yes, and a good one, too," declared Joe's room-mate. "It isn't all howling for Yale blood. There are a lot of old grads. here to-day, as well as a lot of army men, and we've got our friends with us. You've got to play for all you're worth."

"I intend to," declared Joe, "but----"

"Now there you go!" interrupted his chum. "Getting doubtful of yourself.

Stop it, I tell you! Just make up your mind that you're going to make good and you will. These fellows are only human, and, though they've got the game down to a fine point, and play together like machinery, on account of their drill practice, yet baseball is always uncertain. Yale luck is bound to turn up sooner or later."

"It had better be sooner then," remarked Joe, with a grim smile. "Two defeats, hand running, would about put me out of business. I'd resign."

"Nonsense!" declared Spike. "You can make good all right. Remember that Weston is just hankering for a chance to displace you, so don't give it to him. Hold on to the mound."

"I intend to. And yet I heard something that set me thinking," and Joe related what he had inadvertently listened to, adding:

"I may be taken out after two innings."

"Not much!" declared Spike emphatically. "I see what's going on. Weston is trying to work his society pull and get the trainers to pitch him.

The cad!"

"Well, I can't find the heart to blame him," said Joe, softly.

"I can," snapped Spike. "He's putting himself above the team."

"Well, maybe it will all come out right," said Joe, but his tone did not support his words, for he ended with a doleful sigh.

"Oh, you get out!" cried Spike cheerfully. "You've got the losing bugaboo in a bad form. Cheer up--the worst is yet to come."

"Yes, a defeat," murmured Joe, and then Spike hit him such a thump in the back that the pitcher had to gasp to recover his breath, and in doing so he forgot some of his gloomy thoughts.

The practice went on over the field, until the umpire called the captains together for the final conference, and an agreement on the ground rules. These were adjusted satisfactorily, and once more the inspiring cry rang out:

"Play ball!"

"Get 'em over, Joe," advised Shorty Kendall, as the young pitcher walked out to his place. "Shoot 'em in good and hard, but keep 'em over the plate. I know this umpire. He's fair, but he's careful. You'll have to work for all the strikes you get."

"And I'm willing to," declared Joe.

Somehow his confidence was coming back, and as he caught the new ball which the umpire tossed to him, he felt that he could pitch as he never had before. He was aware of the scowling glance of Weston, who sat on the bench, and, as Joe stooped over to rub some dirt on the ball, to render it less slippery, he wondered if the deposed pitcher had so managed to "pull strings" as to gain his end.

"Anyhow, I'll pitch as long as I can," thought Joe with grim determination.

The game started. There was nothing remarkable about it, at least at first, so I shall not weary you with details of the strikes, b.a.l.l.s, the sliding for bases, the decisions, and the runs. Sufficient to say that at first neither side could score. Joe and the rival pitcher were in good form, and, aside from scattering hits, which were usually only good for a single bag, little was done.

For four innings neither side scored a run, though on one decision of the umpire, when Joe came sliding home on a sacrifice by Jimmie Lee, and was called out, there was a howl of protest.

"Robber!"

"Blind man!"

"He was safe by a yard!"

"Don't give it!" were some of the mildest epithets and expressions of opinion hurled at the umpire.

"Hold on! That isn't Yale's way," said the captain quietly. "It's all right," and the decision stood, though had it been otherwise it would have meant a run for Yale.