The Owl cocked his head to one side, but made no comment. All during Hastings' turn at bat he had sat silent. He had been trying to puzzle out the mystery of why he had been brought to the bench. The same intelligence that he devoted to his books had been bent upon the problems. He could not fathom why he had been singled out for attention, but he did arrive at one conclusion. In some fashion he, for some reason, was to be an inspiration for the nine.
The team came in to the bench in no sense depressed. Vance was rattling the bats, looking for the one he wanted. Morelli made no excuses, but buttoned up a sweater and sat down quietly.
A high-pitched, nasal voice suddenly made itself heard. "You fellows said"
Vance, who had found his bat, looked up. "What's the matter, Owl? Going to coach this team?"
The Owl did not smile. "No; but you fellows said you were going to show me a real Northfield team. Where is it?"
"Will you listen to what's giving us the raspberry?" cried Stafford; and Littlefield broke in with a: "That's the stuff, Owl; make them stand up to their job." "We'll show you something, you slave-driver," Vance vowed, and walked out toward the plate.
