enough to throw a ball. But much can be done
by dogged persistence, and Paul Trexler had that quality to a marked
degree. As the days passed, dust began to gather on his camera and on
the cover of his book of bird photographs. In this new and strenuous
occupation he found little time for the things which had formally
absorbed him. He regretted the many long tramps he had planned, but
somehow he failed to miss them as much as he expected. Each noticeable
improvement in his game filled him with a deep, abiding satisfaction,
surpassing even the delight which he used to feel on securing a fine
photograph. The climax came that afternoon when he was allowed to play
on the scrub in place of one of the fielders who had not shown up. Not
only did he fail to make any mirth-provoking blunders, but he even put
through one play that brought forth a surprised, approving comment
from Ranny Phelps himself.

"I don't know what you've been doing to him, Frank," the latter said to
Sanson, who passed on the remark afterward. "I've never seen anybody
improve the way he has. That catch wasn't anything wonderful, of course,
but when he threw to third he used his head, which is more than a lot of
fellows right here on the field ever think of doing."

The latter part of the speech, especially, was typical of the handsome
Ranleigh. He ran the ball-team as he did a good many other things,
reaching decisions more often through impulse and prejudice than from a
mature judgment. There could be no question of his knowledge of the
game or his ability as a pitcher. The latter was really extraordinary
for a fellow of his age and experience, and this, perhaps, was what
made him so intolerant of less gifted players. At all events, he had
a little trick of sarcasm which did not endear him to those on whom it
was exercised. Most fellows take the ordinary sort of "calling down,"
especially if it has been earned, with a fair amount of grace, but it
rarely does any good to rub it in, as Ranny so often did.

"You'd think he was a little tin god on wheels the way he struts up
and down, digging into the fellows in that uppish, sneering way," Court
Parker heatedly remarked one afternoon late in the season. "You might
think he never made any errors himself."

"I don't suppose he really means anything by it," returned Dale Tompkins,
rather deprecatingly. For some time that day he had been watching Phelps
and wondering rather wistfully whether Ranny was ever going