By Wednesday the second――or the “Tuskers,” as the first surreptitiously called it――was doing rather better. Neither Frost nor Purdy yet had anything much to offer, and they yielded hits continuously, but the infield pulled itself together and here and there an individual shone brightly. “Slim” Scott, at first base, for instance, began to show rather a talent for his work. Slim was tall and long of arm, and, while somewhat deliberate, was also dependably steady. Connell, shortstop, who had recently been chosen captain, was another high spot. And then there was Jack Cooper, first choice catcher, hard-working and plucky, who handled the pitchers nicely and could peg a good throw to second. As for the others, they were so far no more than promises, and as for batting, well, the second hadn’t yet discovered just what that was, but it was learning. Tusks put the team through a solid hour of practice every afternoon before he led it across to oppose the first, and batting in front of the net consumed the major portion of the period. Clif began to show promise as a hitter, although there were plenty who bettered him at it daily, while Tom, with more playing experience, was making slow progress. Perhaps this was partly because Tom had much to unlearn. Tusks had ideas of his own on batting form and was quite out of sympathy with individual eccentricities. A few of the second-nine candidates who had undergone instruction at his hands before got along very well during that first fortnight, but the rest were continually being reminded to stand up to the plate, which, with Billy Purdy in one of his erratic moods, was something requiring real physical courage. Nevertheless, Tusks required that the batters should fairly toe the rubber. “If you can’t get out of the way of a ball before it hits you,” he said, “you’re too slow to bat at all.” He was also down on “swings.” If you wanted to please Tusks you held the bat a foot from the end and never, never let it get behind your shoulder. Many of the fellows had their own particular idols and tried to copy their styles; there were at least half a dozen imaginary Ruths in the second squad, but this course was speedily discouraged by the coach. “After you’re playing ball for half a dozen years,” he said one day to Evans, “you can stand any way you like and swing any way you like, and walk to first on your hands, if you fancy doing it, but there’s only one way to learn to bat, and that way’s the _right_ way. And when you fellows spread your feet all over the box or start your swing from somewhere around the back of your necks you’re all wrong. If I want to hit a nail on the head with a hammer I don’t hold the hammer off at arm’s length. I hold it a foot or so away, and when I strike I hit the nail and not my thumb. In other words, fellows, the longer the swing the less accuracy. Now try it again, Evans. Shorten your grip. That’s better. Now, watch the ball and meet it square.”