One of Mr. Wadleigh’s favorite slogans was “Hit with your eyes!” Elaborated, that meant that you were to watch the pitcher from the instant you stepped into the box until the ball left his hand. After that you were to watch the ball. “Sometimes you can learn by watching the pitcher what sort of a ball he’s going to offer you. Very few pitchers that you’ll face can throw a curve with the same motion they throw a straight ball. Learn to note the difference. Study the pitcher, even when you’re on the bench. When he pitches glue your eyes to the ball and watch it until you’ve hit it or it’s gone by you. You’ll learn after a while to detect the wide ones and let them alone. The trouble with most of you right now is that you’re afraid to have a strike called on you, and you go after the ball no matter where it is. Remember that it’s only the third strike that carries a sting. That’s the one you must be ready for. It’s only weak batters who worry when the count’s against them. The experienced batters realize that if the pitcher has pinned two strikes on them the law of average is against his getting a third one over. Learn to let the ‘teasers’ alone and concentrate on the good ones. Hit with your eyes!” Clif, having played but little ball before this spring, had fewer mistakes to correct than many of the others and followed Tusks’ instructions without questioning them. He began by standing up to the plate, keeping his feet together――the coach wasn’t insistent on that, but advised it――and confining his efforts to hitting the ball at no more than a half swing. Of course he developed faults, such as pulling away as he struck, but they were corrected before they had time to become habits. Tom, on the other hand, was prone to crouch as the ball sped toward him and straighten up as he swung, and, for this reason or some other, invariably hit, when he did hit, into the air. He was willing enough to substitute the coach’s methods for his own, but he found difficulty in doing it. There was much discussion between Tom and Clif――yes, and Loring, too――on the subject of batting. Tom invariably instanced the phenomenal hitting of one “Clouter” Hearn, who played on one of the New Jersey State League teams, when either of the other members of the Triumvirate tactfully questioned the efficacy of his style. Clouter, it appeared, had never batted for less than .368, and Tom’s form was molded closely on Clouter’s. “Of course,” he said one evening in Loring’s room, “I don’t say that Tusks doesn’t know his business or that his dope isn’t right, but just the same I believe I can get a heap better results batting my own way than his. I could most always get a couple of good whangs off Purdy when I was doing the way I’m used to doing, but now, since I’ve been standing like a wooden soldier and sort of pecking at the ball, I don’t do a blame thing but fan!” “I noticed, though,” remarked Loring, “that you generally hit flies, Tom.”