“Pretty good, though,” replied Mr. Talbot, tossing the ball back. “What’s your drop like, Pollock?” Tom showed him, and the coach scrambled the ball out of the dirt. “Seems to me,” he said finally, “you’ve got about everything, Pollock. Give me two or three fast ones now.” And Tom let himself go and slammed in a high one, a low one, and a “waister” that made Mr. Talbot beam. “Great stuff!” he said. “Where the dickens did you learn to pitch like that, Pollock?” “There’s a man who lives where I do,” replied Tom, returning to the bench, “who used to be a professional pitcher. He’s been teaching me for a month or more. Maybe you know him. His name is George.” “‘Big Ben’ George? Yes, but I never knew he’d been a ball-player. Guess I’ll have to get him to come out and coach our pitchers for us. He has surely done well by you, Pollock.” When the last of the next and fifth inning began, Tom faced Bert Meyers, the husky third baseman, and Meyers landed on Tom’s first offering and cracked it far into left field, getting two bases. As Tom did not yet trust himself to throw to bases, he left Meyers to his own devices, much to the surprise of that youth and to the chagrin of the scrub second baseman. Frank Warner was the next man up, and, as the captain was something of a hitter, perhaps it was as well that Tom gave him all his attention instead of sharing it with Meyers. Tom realised that it might be a diplomatic act to “let Frank down easy.” He was certain that the captain for some reason rather disliked him already, and knew that if he managed to strike him out that dislike would not lessen any. But the scrub team had gained a one-run lead in their half of the final inning and Tom concluded that to deliberately endanger the scrubs’ victory would be hardly fair, even if by so doing he managed to partly placate Captain Warner. So Tom set himself very carefully to dispose of the redoubtable one. On second, Bert Meyers was taking all sorts of leads and yelling like a Comanche Indian in an effort to disturb the pitcher. If he had only known it, he could have stolen third base with impunity, for Tom had determined to take no risks of hurriedly pegging the ball into the outfield. But Tom’s cool scrutiny fooled Bert. Every time Tom wound up Bert dashed up the base-line, but he always stopped short of a steal and scuttled back to safety as the ball went to the catcher. Bert was big and rangy, but not a fast man on bases.