“No. He bears it wonderfully. Oh, I suppose I’ve made him out worse than he is. I just don’t like him. Still, I’m not the only one, by a long shot. You’d have trouble finding many fellows who do like him. But he can play baseball and he’s a peach of a baseman. He’s not much at hitting, though. Are you, Joe?” “Fairly rotten, thanks.” “Well, that won’t do. You dig hard when practice begins. Find your batting-eye, Joey. Then, if you can hold down first base decently well, you might oust Mr. Foley. I’d consider it a personal favour if you did.” “Seems to me it’s a good thing you don’t actually hate Foley. If you did you’d insist on having him thrown into the river or browned in oil! When you take a dislike to me, please let me know, Jack, so I can beat it while the beating’s good.” “Well,” replied Jack cheerfully, “I’m like that, I guess. If I like a fellow I like him a lot. If I dislike him I haven’t any use for him. I suppose it’s my ardent Spanish nature.” “Your _what_?” “Yep. You see, Joey, about three or maybe four hundred years ago I had a Spanish ancestor. Spaniards, you know, are hot-blooded, desperate rascals. Whenever I do anything real wicked I lay it to that ancestor. It’s a convenience.” “You and your old ancestor!” scoffed Joe. “Say, what sort of practice do we do in the baseball cage?” “Naturally, we do tatting and plain sewing.” “Oh, cut it out, Jack! Honest, what can you do indoors? I never saw anyone practise baseball in a cage.” “Batteries get the most out of it, Joe. But we all go through a certain amount of stuff. Bat’s a great believer in setting-up exercises, for one thing. He keeps us at that for a week or so before we’re allowed to touch a ball. Then the pitchers and catchers work together and we have a batting session each day and we slide to base and――and pass, of course.” “Bat’s the coach, isn’t he?” “Yep. Mr. Bennet A. Talbot; B, A, T, Bat. He’s a good sort, too. And knows a baseball from a rosy-cheeked apple, if anyone should enquire. He’s all right. I’m strong for Bat.” “A good name for a baseball coach,” laughed Joe. “The fact has been suggested before,” replied Jack with a grin. “Oh, I didn’t suppose I was getting off a new one. But, look here, you can’t do much hitting in a little old cage, can you?” “Not if Tom Pollock’s pitching,” chuckled Jack. “Why, you see, my ignorant friend, the idea is not to knock the ball through the wires, but to tap it politely. Bat will tell you that if you can get your bat against the ball in the cage you can do it when you get on the field. I don’t know that he’s terrifically right about it, though. I don’t believe it does any harm to roll bunts around in the gym, but I do know that in my own case as soon as we move outdoors and I take a healthy swing at the ball it isn’t there! And it takes me a week or so at the net to find it.” “They tell me you’re a peach of a batter,” said Joe admiringly and a trifle enviously.