As he glanced musingly around his eyes fell on Bert. They rested there. He knew a thoroughbred when he saw one, and this was undeniably a thoroughbred. The lithe form, supple as a leopard's, the fine play of shoulder muscles that the uniform could not conceal, the graceful but powerful swing, the snap with which the ball shot from his fingers as though released by a spring--all these he noticed in one practised glance. He sauntered over to where Bert was pitching. "Done much in the pitching line?" he asked carelessly. "A little," answered Bert modestly, "only on high school nines though." "What have you got in stock?" asked the coach. "Not much besides the old 'roundhouse' curve," replied Bert. "I don't think so much of my incurve, though I'm trying to make it break a little more sharply. I can do a little 'moist' flinging, too, though I haven't practised that much." "Don't," said the coach. "Cut out the spitball. It's bound to hurt your arm in the long run. Trot out your curve and let's have a look at it. Easy now," he said as Bert wound up, "don't put too much speed in it. You'll have plenty of chances to do that later on." The ball left Bert's hand with a jerk, and, just before it reached the center of the plate, swept in a sharp, tremendous curve to the outside, so that the catcher just touched it with the end of his fingers. "Not so bad," commented the coach carelessly, though his eyes lighted up. "Here, Drake," he called to a burly veteran who was looking on with interest, "take your wagon tongue and straighten out this youngster's curves." The good-natured giant, thus addressed, picked up his bat and came to the plate. "Get it over the plate now, kid, and I'll kill it," he grinned. A little flustered by this confidence, Bert sent one in waist high, just cutting the corner. Drake swung at it and missed it by six inches. "One strike," laughed the coach, and Drake, looking a little sheepish, set himself for the next. "Give him a fast one now, shoulder high," ordered the coach. Again the ball sped toward the plate and Drake struck at it after it had passed him and thudded into the catcher's glove. "Gee, I can't hit them if I can't see them," he protested, and the coach chuckled. "No," he said, as Bert poised himself for a third pitch, "no more just now. I don't want you to throw your arm out at practice. There are other days coming, and you won't complain of lack of work. Come out again to-morrow," and he walked away indifferently, while his heart was filled with exultation. If he had not unearthed a natural-born pitcher, he knew nothing about ball players. Drake was more demonstrative. While Bert was putting on his sweater, he came up and clapped him on the shoulder.