His enemies would crow over the fact. Doubtless some of them, inspired by the malicious tongues of Lef and his cronies, might even whisper that Frank had been overtaken with a case of “cold feet,” and shirked his duty. Ralph went straight to the home of Paul Bird. The morning was still young and there would be plenty of time for the new battery to practice together, and arrange all needed signals. Ralph had not as yet played a regular game with Paul behind the plate, so that it was necessary they should come together, since so much depended on their acting in concert. As it happened, Buster was out walking with the visitor at his house, and seeing a couple of boys hard at work in a lot, they drew near. To his surprise he discovered that it was Ralph and Paul. “Here, what does this secret work mean? Going to spring a surprise on the enemy when they show up this p. m.?” he demanded. “Then you haven’t heard?” asked Paul, eagerly. “About what? Goodness gracious! don’t go telling me that anything’s happened to Frank!” ejaculated Buster. “He won’t be able to pitch this afternoon, and Ralph has to go in. That’s why we are tossing a few here, so as to get in touch,” replied the catcher. “What happened? Has Frank fallen sick? Did he get waylaid last night on the road home from the meeting. I’ve known pitchers to be pounded in order to keep them out of a game. Tell me, won’t you, fellows? I’m quivering like a bowl of jelly with eagerness. This _is_ a nasty mess.” “Oh! I don’t know,” returned Paul, with a smile at Buster’s anxiety, and the look of grief on his red face, “it might be worse. Frank’s a dandy pitcher, but I guess he has little on Ralph here. If he gets that spit ball of his working right it’s going to be one, two, three for Bellport.” “But is Frank hurt; I must know?” insisted the other. “He got a bruise on his arm this morning while we were out walking. Nothing serious, but it interferes with his muscles when he grips a ball. He is going to be on the field, and if they knock me out of the box, why, Frank will have to go in, no matter how he feels. But I hope it won’t be so bad as that,” smiled Ralph. “Well, suppose you let my friend, Coach Willoughby, give you a few pointers that may be useful. He’s seen a lot of pitchers in his time, and used to throw them in for the Tiger once himself,” suggested Buster. “Oh! if he only would, I’d be ever so much obliged. You see, Mr. Willoughby, I’m only a tenderfoot at this thing, and I’ve got heaps to learn!” cried Ralph. “No doubt of that, my lad, but if yesterday’s performance is a fair sample of your ability to puzzle the batter, I rather think you’ll have some of these heavy Bellport hitters knocking holes out of the atmosphere this afternoon. What you need fear most of all is lack of confidence. Get it in your head that you _can_ do a thing, and that you’re just _going_ to do it, and nine times out of ten you _will_ do it.”