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The Crimson players came flocking back to the bench, panting and smiling, and threw themselves under the grateful shade of the little strip of awning.

“Easy with the water,” cautioned the trainer as the tin cup clattered against the mouth of the big water-bottle.

“Who’s up?” asked some one. The coach was studying the score-book silently. Pritchett was up, but Pritchett, like most pitchers, was a poor batsman. The coach’s glance turned and wandered down the farther bench where the substitutes sat.

“Eaton up!” he called, and turning to the scorer: “Eaton in place of Pritchett,” he said.

The youngster who stood before him awaiting instructions was a rather stockily-built chap, with brown hair and eyes and a merry, good-natured face. But there was something besides good nature on his face at this moment; something besides freckles, too; it was an expression that mingled gratification, anxiety, and determination. Tom Eaton had been a substitute on the varsity nine only since the disbanding of the freshman team, of which he had been captain, and during that scant fortnight he had not succeeded in getting into a game.