Chapter X Kingdon States a Determination
“‘Minds me of Wash Hornbrook, Red. ’Member?” whispered Peewee Hicks, watching the tall, dark fellow going out to the mound.
Kingdon had already noted the resemblance of Pence to the clever, good-looking athlete who had once been the leading spirit at Walcott Hall. Horace Pence did not look at all like Hornbrook, but his manner suggested the prep. school hero, now gone to college.
That Pence was a leader the attitude of his mates plainly revealed. He was a personable fellow, and as graceful as a panther. Kingdon smiled and settled himself to receive the first pitched ball.
Kingdon had succeeded as captain of the school ball team, principally because he was a good reader of character. He gave less attention now to the muscular development of Horace Pence than he did to his face.
He saw in Pence’s handsome, reckless visage with its sneeringly uplifted lip, a certain cool determination that Rex could not but admire. The black-haired chap was going out there with the intention of making the Walcott Hall backstop flinch before his speed. He saw, likewise, that Pence was a left-hander; for when the chap reached the pitcher’s station he turned his right side to Kingdon. He took little time for his wind-up, merely tossing over his shoulder:
“Ready?”
“Waiting,” answered Rex.
The horsehide struck the catcher’s mitt, seemingly the next second.
“Oh, boy!” yelled Red Phillips, giving credit where credit was due. “Some speed!”
Kingdon tossed the sphere back. The bullet that next shot over hummed like a bee. Kingdon spread his legs wider and waited impassively for the third ball. Pence took more time about it and put even more speed into his throw. It was a wonder. The Walcott Hall lads, camped in the shade, gasped.
A flush had come into the dark fellow’s face. He rolled up his sleeve with a vexed motion, spat upon his hand, grinned at the waiting backstop, and drove in his fourth ball.
It was caught as the others had been, but the force of the delivery was so great that Kingdon stepped back to recover his balance. Then he drawled:
“That’s four balls. Man takes his base. Say, the speed is all right; why not put over a strike now and then?”
“Your eyesight’s bad,” declared Pence, poised for another throw. “You’re weakening.”
“Maybe,” Kingdon said, holding up his hand. “But I don’t think so. What’s the use of having all that speed if you have no control?”
The pitcher’s black eyes flashed. “Who says I don’t get ’em over?” he snapped.
Kingdon beckoned to Harry Kirby. “You umpire,” he invited.
Kirby looked at Pence for permission. The latter said:
“Oh, go ahead. The blond person’s beginning to feel weary already. When I’ve poured a few more into him he’ll claim his lip’s cracked, or something, and quit.”
Kingdon smiled as Kirby ran to take his station, adjusting his mask.
“Now, son,” muttered the Walcott Hall backstop, “keep your eye on the ball.”
The southpaw wound up again, and the ball whizzed in and slapped against Kingdon’s glove. The latter held it and looked at Kirby.
“Ball!” Kirby was forced to proclaim.
“What?” ejaculated the boy on the mound. “Give me that——”
He caught Kingdon’s accurate throw, and immediately flung another hot one. “How’s that?” he demanded exultantly.
Kirby actually flushed. “Ball again,” he said.
“Why, you poor bat!” Pence exclaimed. “Can’t you see anything?”
Kingdon chuckled and tossed up the ball. “Two to one, Mister,” he said. “You’ve got to do better than that. Your speed’s all right; but you’re as wild as an Igorote. Come down to Mother Earth.”
Horace Pence recovered from his momentary display of spleen, and smiled. That uplift of his lip was not pleasant to observe. He was cool again.
He marked the plate well, poised himself with more care for the throw, and grooved the pan. Kingdon caught the ball in his ungloved hand.
“Right over,” he said. “But the batter could have poled it over the fence, if he’d had any kind of luck at all.”
“That’s all right,” Pence said easily. “I’ll work up to my speed in a minute or two. You don’t want to stop many of them with your bare hand.”
He flung another that cut the corner of the plate. Then another. His arm seemed tireless, and the balls were soon whizzing in again with terrific speed. About half of them the prejudiced Kirby pronounced strikes.
Kingdon beckoned to Red Phillips. “Let’s see how these limited expresses look to a real batsman,” he said. “Bring your club, Red. See if you can aeroplane one of these hot ones. Run down toward center, Peewee, and watch it sail.”
“Don’t let that lanky chap hit me, King,” said the red-haired youth. “He’s as wild as a hawk.”
Pence smiled his canine smile and waited for Red to take his position. Without accepting any advice from the catcher, he sent in the first ball. Red was not on the job, and Kirby shouted:
“Strike!”
“Hold your bat out, Carrots, and I’ll hit it,” drawled the black-haired chap.
“See that I don’t hit you one,” warned Phillips. Then he swung, with a grunt. The ball came like a shot from a cannon, but Red was well used to fast ones. Bat and ball connected, and the latter sailed high over Horace Pence’s head into center field. Peewee retrieved it; and it was relayed home; for Midkiff had gone out by the second bag rather than sit with the crew from the other camp.
“You see,” said Kingdon softly, “that’s what a real good batsman would do to your fast balls when you got ’em over.”
“Not to all of ’em,” returned Pence, his black eyes flashing and the red deepening in his cheeks.
“Enough to make you tired,” drawled Kingdon.
“You’re mighty smart!” scoffed Kirby, as Pence made no reply. “Who told you so much, Curly?”
Phillips continued to connect with about two out of every three balls Pence pitched. And the dark chap grew hotter and hotter—inside. On the surface he was like ice. Kingdon admired him.
“Red,” the backstop whispered while Peewee and Midkiff were relaying the ball on one occasion, “that lad will be a pitcher some day.”
“He thinks he is now,” returned the batter.
“You’re the only man I know could bump his speed this way. Things aren’t breaking good for him, but he keeps his head. And he’s a southpaw. Red, I’d give all my old hats to have that chap at Walcott Hall!”
Phillips stared at him. “What’s the matter with you?” he demanded. “Some of your gears are loose.”
“Believe me,” said Kingdon, softly, “if it can be did, your uncle is going to bring it about. Don’t you think that you are the only real, blow-in-the-bottle scout for the old school. There are others. You lassoed me into the Hall, didn’t you?”
“Aw—well—you——”
“I wasn’t as good as this Pence,” admitted Kingdon, honestly. “I tell you I yearn for Blacky on our pitching staff, and I hope to see him there.”
“The foolish factory’s where you belong,” returned Red.