Fudge Shaw sat on the bench between Felker and Grover and awaited his turn in the outfield. Fudge had played in center some, but he was not quite Varsity material, so to speak, and his hopes of making even the second team, which would be formed presently, from what coach and captain rejected, were not strong. Still, Fudge "liked to stick around where things were doing," as he expressed it, and he accepted his impending fate with philosophy. Besides, he had more than half made up his mind to cast his lot with the Track Team this spring. He was discussing the gentle art of putting the twelve-pound shot with Guy Felker when Dick summoned the outfield trio in and sent Fudge and two others to take their places. Fudge trotted out to center and set about his task of pulling down Bert Cable's flies. Perhaps his mind was too full of shot-putting to allow him to give the needed attention to the work at hand. At all events, he managed to judge his first ball so badly that it went six feet over his head and was fielded in by one of Way's squad. Way was laughing when Fudge turned toward him after throwing the ball to the batter.
"A fellow needs a pair of smoked glasses out here," called Fudge extenuatingly. This, in view of the fact that the sun was behind Fudge's right
shoulder, was a lamentably poor excuse. Possibly
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