The High School Pitcher Part 15

"It's lovely of the boys," Belle admitted. "But it's foolish, too, for they've had to use their pocket money away ahead, I'm certain."

d.i.c.k and Dave had sent their gifts, as had the girls, in both names.

Christmas was a day of rejoicing among all of the High School students except the least-favored ones.

Fred Ripley, however, spent his Christmas day in a way differing from the enjoyments of any of the others. A new fever of energy had seized the young man. In his fierce determination to carry away the star pitchership, especially from d.i.c.k Prescott, Ripley employed even Christmas afternoon by going over to Duxbridge and taking another lesson in pitching from the great Everett.

CHAPTER IX

FRED PITCHES A BOMBSh.e.l.l INTO TRAINING CAMP

"One, two, three, four! One, two, three, four!

"Halt! Rest!"

"Attention! Overhead to front and back. Commence! One, two, three, four!"

Coach Luce's voice rang out in a solid, carrying tone of military command.

The baseball squad was hard at work in the gymnasium, perspiring even though the gym. was not heated above fifty degrees.

Dumb-bell drill was going off with great snap. It was followed by work with the Indian clubs. Then, after a brief rest, the entire squad took to the track in the gallery. For ten minutes the High School young men jogged around the track. Any fellow in the lot would have been ashamed to drop out, short of breath.

As a matter of fact, no one was out of breath. Mr. Luce was what the boys called a "griller," and he certainly knew all about whipping a lot of youngsters into fine physical shape.

This training work was now along in the third week of the new winter term.

Three times weekly the squad had been a.s.sembled. On other days of the week, the young men were pledged to outside running, when the roads permitted, and to certain indoor work at other times.

Every member of the big squad now began to feel "hard as nails."

Slight defects in breathing had been corrected; lung-power had been developed, and backs that ached at first, from the work, had now grown too well seasoned to ache. Every member of the squad was conscious of a new, growing muscular power. Hard, b.u.mpy muscles were not being cultivated. The long, smooth, lithe and active "Indian" muscle, built more for endurance than for great strength, was the ideal of Coach Luce.

After the jogging came a halt for rest. Luce now addressed them.

"Young gentlemen, I know, well enough, that, while all this work is good for you, you're all of you anxious to see the production of the regular League ball on this floor. Now, the baseball cage will not be put up for a few days yet. However, this afternoon, for the rest of our tour, I'm going to produce the ball!"

A joyous "hurrah!" went up from the squad. The ball was the real thing in their eyes.

Coach Luce turned away to one of the s.p.a.cious cupboard lockers, returning with a ball, still in the sealed package, and a bat with well wrapped handle.

"I'll handle the bat," announced Mr. Luce, smiling. "It's just barely possible that I, can drive a good liner straighter than some of you, and put it nearer where I want it. Until the cage is in place, I don't like to risk smashing any of the gymnasium windows. Now, which one of you pitchers is ambitious to do something?"

Naturally, all of them were. Yet none liked to appear too forward or greedy, so silence followed.

"I'll try you modest young men out on my own lines, then," laughed the coach. Calling to one of the juniors to stand behind him as catcher, Luce continued:

"Darrin, as you're a candidate for pitcher, show us some of the things you can do to fool a batsman."

Dave took his post, his face a bit red. He handled the ball for a few moments, rather nervously.

"Don't get rattled, lad," counseled the coach. "Remember, this is just fun. Bear in mind that you're aiming to send the ball in to the catcher. Don't let the ball drive through a window by mistake."

A laugh went up at this. Dave, instead of losing his nerve, flashed back at the squad, then steadied himself.

"Now, then, let her drive---not too hard," ordered Mr. Luce.

Dave let go with what he thought was an outcurve. It didn't fool the coach. He deliberately struck the ball, sending it rolling along the floor as a grounder.

"A little more twist to the wrist, Darrin," counseled the coach, after a scout from the squad had picked up the ball and sent it to this budding pitcher.

Dave's next delivery was struck down as easily. Then Darrin began to grow a bit angry and much more determined.

"Don't feel put out, Darrin," counseled the coach. "I had the batting record of my college when I was there, and I'm in better trim and nerve than you are yet. Don't be discouraged."

Soon Dave was making a rather decent showing.

"I'll show you later, Darrin, a little more about the way to turn the hand in the wrist twist," remarked the coach, as he let Dave go. "You'll soon have the hang of the thing. Now, Prescott, you step into the imaginary box, if you please."

d.i.c.k took to an inshoot. His first serve was as easily clouted as Dave's had been. After that, by putting on a little more steam, and throwing in a good deal more calculation, d.i.c.k got three successive b.a.l.l.s by Mr. Luce. At two of these, coach had struck.

"You're going to do first-rate, Prescott, by the time we get outdoors, I think;" Mr. Luce announced. "I shall pay particular attention to your wrist work."

"I'm afraid I showed up like a lout," whispered Dave, as d.i.c.k rejoined his chums.

"No, you didn't," d.i.c.k retorted. "You showed what all of us show---that you need training to get into good shape. That's what the coach is working with us for."

"I'm betting on you and d.i.c.k for the team," put in Tom Reade, quickly.

"d.i.c.k will make it, and I think you will, too, Dave," added Harry Hazelton.

"I wish I were as sure for myself," muttered Greg Holmes, plaintively.

"Oh, well, if I can't make the team," grinned Dan Dalzell, "I'm going to stop this work and go in training as a mascot."

"Look at the fellow who always carries Luck in his pocket!" gibed Hazelton, good-humoredly.

Coach Luce was now calling off several names rapidly. These young men were directed to scatter on the gym. floor. To one of them Mr. Luce tossed the ball.

"Now, then," shot out Luce's voice, "this is for quick understanding and judgment. Whoever receives the ball will throw it without delay to anyone I name. So post yourselves on where each other man stands. I want fast work, and I want straight, accurate work.

But no amount of speed will avail, unless the accuracy is there.

_And vice versa_!"

For five minutes this was kept up, with a steam engine idea of rapidity of motion. Many were the fumbles. A good deal of laughter came from the sides of the gym.

"Myself!" shouted Luce, just as one of the players received the ball. The young man with the ball looked puzzled for an instant.