There was an exclamation of satisfaction from the rookies at this, and the rather supercilious smiles that had come on the faces of the Regulars disappeared and they lost some of their confidence. “Markwith will do the hurling for the Regulars,” concluded McRae. He then went on to pick out the men who were to play on the second team and assign them their respective places. A coin was tossed to decide which nine should go to the bat first, and luck pronounced against the Regulars, who for the occasion posed as the visiting team. Joe drew his recruits aside to have a little talk with them before the game began. “Now, boys,” he said, “the old-timers think we’re going to be easy meat, and we want to give them a surprise party. I’m looking to every one of you to do your level best. Don’t let them block you off the bag or get your goat by gibing at you or by any other tricks of the game. I’m not going to try much for strike-outs, because I want you to do your share of the work and get the practice you need. But I’ll try to tighten up in the pinches. Now get out to your positions and show these fellows what you’re made of. And remember that McRae is watching you like a hawk. Now’s your chance to make good with him.” Curry came first to the plate for the Regulars and grinned at his comrade. “Put over a good one, Joe, and I’ll give this punk team of yours a little exercise,” he said. “Just for that I’m going to make this first one a strike,” laughed Joe. He wound up with deliberation and the ball whizzed over the plate like a bullet. It plunked into the catcher’s mitt as Curry swung at it. A laugh went up from the bench, and Curry looked sheepish. “The fielders of my punk team didn’t get much exercise that time, did they?” asked Joe tantalizingly. “I hadn’t got set yet,” grunted Curry, as he took a firm toehold for the next ball. Thinking that Joe would rely on a change of pace, Curry looked this time for a floater or a curve. But again the ball shot over, splitting the plate for a perfect strike. Again the big left fielder swung and missed. “Did you see that, John?” asked Robbie, bringing his hand down with a resounding slap on McRae’s knee. “That arm of his isn’t an arm at all. It’s a cannon!” “It sure is,” agreed McRae. “His speed is blinding. But for the love of Pete, Robbie, remember that knee of mine is flesh and blood and keep that big ham of yours off it.” “I’m going to let you hit this one, Curry,” Joe promised, “but it won’t do you any good.” He put one over that forced Curry to hit it into the dust. It came on a bound to Joe, who threw to first in plenty of time for an out. “’Twas just playing with him he was, like a cat with a mouse,” gloated Robbie, as Curry came back discomfited to the bench. “What that boy can do to a batter is a shame.”