and sent the
blood running like quick-silver through his veins, yet which made him
feel curiously alone and out of it. Other springs had meant to him
the beautiful awakening of nature, the return of the birds he loved,
the charm of wood and stream and open country-side at its best. But
somehow that failed to satisfy him as it had in the past. Vaguely he
felt that something was missing, he could not say just what. A feeling
of emulation stirred him, a desire to take his part in the clash and
struggle and ceaseless competition from which, till now, he had held
aloof. Admiringly, with a faint touch of envy, he watched Frank Sanson
make a difficult one-hand stop with seeming ease. Why hadn't he come out
before and learned the game and how to uphold his end with the others?
Was it too late even now? he wondered.

"Hi, Paul! Get under this one!"

The shout from Sanson roused Trexler to the realization that a fly
was coming in his direction. He ran back a little, then forward. The
ball seemed to be dropping with the speed of a cannon-shot, but he
forced himself to meet it without shrinking. Thrusting up his hands
awkwardly, he staggered a bit under its momentum, as he caught at it,
and a burning sting tingled in the bare palm which had taken most of
the impact. The ball, bouncing off, rolled to one side, and a laugh
went round the field as he chased after it and threw it in. When he
returned to his place Paul's face was crimson, but his lips were set
in a stubborn line and he scarcely noticed the pain in his hand.

"I _will_ get the hang of it!" he muttered under his breath. "I'll learn
to do it right if--if it takes all season!"

He stuck to his position as long as any of the others, and on the way
home, with some embarrassment, he spoke to Frank of his determination.
The latter was delighted and offered to help him in any way he could.
As a result, from that time forth the two rarely went anywhere without
a baseball. Whenever there were a few minutes to spare they used them
for throwing and catching. On the field, before and after the regular
work, Frank knocked out flies or grounders, and in many other ways did
his best to give his friend as much as possible of the practice he needed.

A baseball player isn't easily made to order. The normal boy seems almost
to absorb his knowledge of the game through the pores of his skin,
gaining proficiency by constant, never-ending practice that usually
begins as soon as he is big