“Well, he’s going to umpire the game for us to-morrow.” “Good! Great! He’ll be pretty sharp with you.” “All right.” “Who’s to pitch for your nine?” “I am.” “Who is to catch?” “Tom.” “Your brother?” “Yes.” “I shouldn’t think you’d have time to practise.” “We don’t have much time.” “How long have you been pitching?” “Three weeks.” “You played first base last year.” “Yes.” “What made you think you could pitch?” “I don’t know that I can. I’ll tell you more about it to-morrow, after the game with Benson.” “It’s a pity I didn’t come up a little sooner. I might have given you a little coaching. Of course, I’m not a pitcher. I play short on the Tait School nine. But I know a little how it ought to be done, even if I can’t do it myself.” “We have had a little coaching,” said Dan quietly. “Who has been coaching you?” laughed Walter. “Moulton.” “What? The Princeton pitcher?” “Yes.” “That’s great!” exclaimed Walter, his enthusiasm returning in full measure. “How does he do it? When do you get the time?” “He comes over to the house every night after supper.” “And Moulton has been showing you how to do it?” “He has been trying. He has done his best. If I don’t learn the fault isn’t his, anyway.” “I wouldn’t miss that game to-morrow for a fortune. I’m going to see how much you can do.” “Wouldn’t you like to play short?” “I’m your man!” “I thought you’d want to, so I saved the position for you.” “That’s good of you! I’ll try not to disgrace――hold on, I’ve got another strike! I don’t want to lose this fellow!” Once more Dan swung the skiff around until it was broadside to the struggling fish. He was too wise to make any suggestions to his companion at such a time, though he quizzically watched his friend as the latter attempted to follow the directions that had been given him before. The pickerel was securely hooked and at last Walter managed to bring his victim near enough to the boat to enable Dan to secure it with the aid of a landing-net. “It’s only a little fellow!” exclaimed Walter in disgust, as he looked at the fish after it had been thrown upon the bottom of the boat. “It won’t weigh more than a pound and a half. Not much like the big one that got away.” “That’s a trick fish have,” remarked Dan dryly, as he once more resumed his task at the oars, after he had placed a fresh bait on the hook. “But the one I lost was a big one!” persisted Walter. “That’s what I’m telling you. It will get bigger and bigger all the time. To-night when you go back to your grandfather’s, that pickerel will weigh ten pounds at the very least. The weight increases as the square of the distance.” “That’s all right, Dan,” laughed Walter. “Have it your own way. You’ll have to own up that I landed this fellow all right, anyway.” “It couldn’t get away, it was hooked so well. You could have landed it with a block and tackle. It had swallowed the hook.” “Well, you just watch me next time.”