you had failed."

Weakly Springer sought to protest against this, but stopped in the
midst of it, fully comprehending how feeble his words were.

"It's folly, Springer," said Eliot, "sheer childish folly. We were all
sorry to see you get your bumps and lose control, and I don't believe
any one was any sorrier than Grant himself; for, somehow, I've come
firmly to believe that he's on the square. He was reluctant about
going on to the slab when I called him."

"Perhaps that was because he was afraid he'd get his, too," muttered
Springer.

"Now, that isn't generous, and you know it. If the score had been
heavy against us at the time, some fellows might have fancied Grant's
reluctance was prompted by fear and a disinclination to shoulder
another man's load in the first game he pitched. I've not sized it up
as anything of the sort. You and he were close friends, and, knowing
how you must feel to be batted out, he was loath to go in. You must
realize it was a mighty lucky thing for us that we had a pitcher to
take your place. Barville had you going, Phil, and you couldn't seem
to steady down. Even old stagers get into that condition sometimes
when pitching, and it's not an infrequent occurrence that a slabman who
is not thought so good steps in and stops the slaughter."

"Every-bub-body seems to think Grant is pretty good," mumbled Springer.

"He certainly did amazingly well, for which he generously gave you all
the credit."

"I suppose he'll be the whole shooting match, now."

"Those words betray you, my boy. You've been trapped by the green-eyed
monster. Come, come, Phil, you're too manly for that." He put out a
hand and rested it on Springer's shoulder.

The color mounted into Phil's cheeks and slowly receded, leaving him
pale, and still with downcast eyes. Eliot went on, steadily and
earnestly:

"We need two pitchers--we must have them if we hope to make a decent
showing in the series. By and by we'll have to play two games a week,
and some of those games come so close together that one pitcher alone,
unless he has an arm of iron, can't do all the flinging. You've been
wonderfully successful in coaching Grant, and all the time you were
training him to relieve you in a measure when the hardest work should
come. Nobody wants to rob you of any credit; every one says you've
done a mighty good turn with him. But if you continue to sulk, as you
have for the past few days, you'll lose the sympathy of