High School had arranged a schedule calling for seventeen games this Spring, eight of which were to be played away from Amesville. Aside from Petersburg High School, Amesville High’s real rival in athletics, whom she played the final game with the last of June, the only notable foes were Lynton High School and Crowell Academy. There were two games scheduled with Lynton and one with Crowell. Besides the scheduled contests there were others which might or might not eventuate; as, for instance, a game with the nine from the carpet mill and a second, possibly a third meeting with the grammar school. Until the middle of May only Saturdays were scheduled, but after that midweek games were down for the balance of the season. Outdoor practice continued uninterruptedly for the rest of the first week. Then, on Sunday, began a four-day stretch of wretched weather and the fellows went disgustedly back to the cage. On Sunday it blew a gale and swept a hard rain from the southwest. On Monday the rain turned to snow for a while, later changing to sleet and, finally, back to rain again. Tuesday it drizzled. Wednesday was a day of mist and fog. Thursday noon the sun came out. But by that time the field was a quagmire again and all hope of playing the game with Grammar School on Saturday had to be abandoned. Consequently the contest was put over until Tuesday at four, and Manager Thad Mifflin, who was popularly believed to be accountable for weather conditions and the state of the diamond, found life a burden. Meanwhile Joe had performed, if not brilliantly, at least satisfactorily as a substitute baseman. He had been tried at first, second and third bases, and, on one occasion, had pulled down flies in centre field. At the bat he had so far signally failed to distinguish himself. Perhaps he did as well as most of the substitutes, but he found that trickling bunts across the floor of the cage was not the same as standing in front of Tom Pollock, or even Carl Moran, and trying to connect with their various offerings. The best Joe could expect, or, so he told himself, was a place on the Second Team――The Scrubs, they called them――when that was formed. Jack was plainly disappointed in the proficiency of his chum, although he tried not to show the fact, and never ceased to offer encouragement. “You’ll find your batting eye presently,” Jack would assert stoutly. “A fellow can’t play decent ball, anyway, until the weather settles down and gets warm. I never could. Along about the middle of May――――” Joe interrupted with a laugh. “Along about the middle of May,” he replied, “will be a bit late, Jack. If I’m going to do anything this year I’ll have to do it pretty quick, I’m thinking.” “Ye-e-es――I’ll tell you, Joey, the trouble is you don’t go at it right; batting, I mean.” “I suppose I don’t,” owned Joe. “Anyway, I don’t accomplish much.”