The inhabitants of the east entry of Hale were enjoying a season of unusual quiet. Duncan Peck, because of unacceptable work, lay under the ban of study hours,—a fact which damped the ardor of both the brothers. Clarence Moon had apparently learned wisdom from experience, for he had much less to say about the exalted state in which he lived at home, and in general bore himself with more becoming modesty. Lindsay and Owen and their room-mates had other ambitions than to be disturbers of the peace, and Payner lived solitary and secure in his fortress. There remained but the conscientious Smith and Crossett the absentee, neither of whom was likely to spend time in fomenting discord in the dormitory.

Smith studied continuously. His lamp was[Pg 75] lighted at five every morning, he was always in bed at ten at night; but between these two periods, except for the time inevitably wasted on meals and devoted to school exercises, he plodded unweariedly at his books. And did he accomplish great things? I wish I could answer yes. I would not willingly detract one jot from the value of habits of industry. They are rough diamonds which Young America is too prone to throw aside for the flashing brilliants of smartness and wit. But the truth must be spoken. Smith's industry earned no apparent dividends. With the gift of great perseverance, nature had also bestowed on him a very thick head, through which ideas soaked but slowly. He rarely got a conception right without having first tried all the possibilities of error. His influence was ambiguous: some jeered at him as an example of the ineffectualness of grinding; others, among whom was Owen, felt a kind of reproof in the patient, untiring, undiscourageable zeal of this oft-discomfited drudge. To most who knew him he was merely "Grinder Smith."

Owen came in one day from cage practice with[Pg 76] Patterson, who had fallen into the habit of doing his afternoon study in Rob's room. At the head of the stairs they met a tall, light-haired boy coming out of Payner's room. Owen nodded.

"Who was that?" asked Patterson, as soon as they were out of hearing. "I didn't suppose Payner had callers."

"His name's Eddy," Rob replied. "No, Payner doesn't have many callers. Eddy and I are about the only ones, I guess."

"Who's Eddy, anyway?"

"He's a senior. I met him once over at Poole's room."

"I wonder what he can find in a freak like Payner," pursued Patterson.

"Payner isn't such a freak as you think," returned Owen. "I couldn't make anything of him for a long time; but when once you've broken through his shell you'll find there's something in him."

"I never shall. No fun in a sour apple like him. Give me the Pecks every time. Payner's just a snapping turtle."

[Pg 77]

A door slammed in the entry; quick, elastic footsteps, accompanied by a whistle, passed.

"Lindsay," observed Owen.

"Wasn't it great the way he blocked that kick in the Hillbury game!" exclaimed Patterson. "If I could play football as he does, I'd be willing to work a hundred years."

"I'd rather play on a winning nine, myself," observed Rob.

"Would you? I wouldn't. You see, in football you catch the spirit of the thing, and you're swept right along with the gang. There's a swing that carries you. You just rush in and give a big drive for all that's in you. But in baseball it's different. Everybody has to stand around waiting and watching and quivering while one man does the work. When you pitch a hard baseball game, every ball's got to go just so. If it's two inches too high, or two inches wide, or an out when it ought to be an in, it's all wrong. And then there are about a thousand things that can happen whenever a man hits the ball."

Rob nodded in agreement. "And you've got[Pg 78] to be ready for any one of those thousand things. That's where the fun comes in, and the skill. When you know you can handle any ball that's likely to come your way and handle it right, there's fun just in waiting."

"I suppose that's true. I wish I knew as much baseball as you do. Honestly, now, do you think I'm ever going to learn to pitch?"

This was one of the times when Patterson needed encouragement.

"Yes, I do," Owen replied earnestly. "You're gaining all the time. If you're willing to count by the weeks instead of the days, you'll see a gain yourself. You may never be able to do the things with a ball that Carle can do,—he's got a wonderful wrist, that fellow!—but you may be just as good a pitcher."

"As good as Carle!" cried Patterson, with a grin of incredulity. "You're jollying me!"

"Not a bit!" Owen retorted. "You never will see that it isn't what you do to the ball, but what the batsman doesn't do to it, that shows that you are a pitcher. Suppose Carle has ten chances and throws five of them away, and you have[Pg 79] eight and throw away only two, who is the better man?"

Patterson shook his head doubtfully. "It's one thing to stand in the cage and put 'em where you say; it's a different thing to face a batter in a game and feel that he may drive the next one over the fence."

"You can put 'em where I say just the same, can't you?" retorted Owen, sharply, as he opened his books. There was good promise in Patterson, but these attacks of despondency were of distinctly bad omen.

"You didn't tell me how Payner got hold of Eddy," said Patterson, returning again to the topic from which he had been diverted by the ever recurrent baseball.

"Didn't I? Well, Payner is a great fellow for bugs,—in fact, for every kind of animal, big or little, that has more than two legs; and Eddy is cracked on trees and birds. Payner spent all his half-holidays last fall, when he ought to have been at ............