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“Well,” replied Jack cheerfully, “I’m like that, I guess. If I like a fellow I like him a lot. If I dislike him I haven’t any use for him. I suppose it’s my ardent Spanish nature.”

“Your what?”

“Yep. You see, Joey, about three or maybe four hundred years ago I had a Spanish ancestor. Spaniards, you know, are hot-blooded, desperate rascals. Whenever I do anything real wicked I lay it to that ancestor. It’s a convenience.”

“You and your old ancestor!” scoffed Joe. “Say, what sort of practice do we do in the baseball cage?”

“Naturally, we do tatting and plain sewing.”

“Oh, cut it out, Jack! Honest, what can you do indoors? I never saw anyone practise baseball in a cage.”

“Batteries get the most out of it, Joe. But we all go through a certain amount of stuff. Bat’s a great believer in setting-up exercises, for one thing. He keeps us at that for a week or so before we’re allowed to touch a ball. Then the pitchers and catchers work together and we have a batting session each day and we slide to base and—and pass, of course.”