But it must not be imagined for an instant that there are only four varieties of curve balls. There are almost as many curves as there are pitchers. Moreover, balls curve differently and "break" at different points, according to the position in which the hand may be, with relation to the body of the pitcher, at the moment of release. Add to these factors each man's individual knack of grasping a ball, holding it, letting it go, and it can easily be seen why there are so many varieties of curve balls, "hooks," "shoots," "jumps," "floaters," etc., in the arsenal of the Big-League pitchers.

Nor does the pitcher's equipment end with his multitudinous varieties of curve balls, his armory of jumpers and breakers. He also has that most puzzling of weapons, the change of pace, and a curious thing called a slow ball. Consideration of these takes one at once from the realm of physics and mechanics into that of athletics, muscle, and the action of the mind. It is a curious fact but a true one, that a ball which revolves rapidly while traveling through the air looks smaller than one which does n't revolve. A plain, slow ball, thrown without any attempt to produce a curve or deceive the batter, looks "like a balloon," as the players put it. Pitch a dozen fast balls to a batter, and then, without warning, a slow one, and he will almost fall over in his anxiety to hit it. He generally hits at it before it gets to him! But pitch him another immediately, and he will judge it correctly, and knock it out of the lot! The ball did n't deceive him the first time; he saw that it was bigger and slower than the fast curves, and knew just what he ought to do, but being "set" for faster ones, he did n't have time to get ready to advance on the slow one, his swing was too quick, and he "fanned." But the slow ball may be delivered so that it looks small, like a fast one; and one of the most puzzling of the various deliveries it is! Like the curves, it is made to revolve by friction with the fingers, but its direction of revolution is directly opposite to its line of flight—it is, in fact, one variety of the raise ball. But whereas the raise ball, like all the more puzzling of the curve balls, is thrown with swiftness, since the higher the speed and the greater the revolution the sharper the "break" of the curve, the revolving "floater" is not thrown fast at all. All the muscular effort ordinarily imparted to the ball in an endeavor to get swiftness is here put into a flip of the wrist and a squeeze of the fingers, to get a sharp backward revolution of the ball. It is hard to describe, but it may be said, perhaps, that the effort is made to throw the ball forward and pull

so that the ball is made to revolve very rapidly backward. It comes up to the plate looking like any other swift and curving ball, small to the eye, since it is revolving swiftly, and as it can be thrown with the same motion of the arm and apparently with full muscular force, the batter has no reason to doubt that it is a fast ball. So he strikes at it, and the ball, of course, being much slower than it looks, has n't got there yet! and the batter looks, as he feels, foolish!

You must never forget that the batter seldom, if ever, hits at the ball. He hits where he expects it to be. He has only a fraction of a second to make up his mind where he is going to hit that ball; only a tiny interval to make his plan and swing his bat. So when he sees a ball start toward him with the same motion and the same appearance which accompany a very fast ball, he gets all ready, and hits at that fast ball. It is for this reason that the real slow ball, as developed by all good pitchers nowadays, is so effective, and why the average boy has no success with it. The BigLeague pitcher pitches a slow ball which looks like a fast one; the lad pitches a slow ball which is simply his fast ball thrown with less effort.

But still we are not at the end of the pitcher's collection of "teasers." There is what is known as the "spit" ball. It is n't a very pretty name, but it is highly descriptive of the thing itself—a ball one part of which is moistened to make it slippery. It is obvious that any ball held in the hands must be held on more than one side. It is also obvious that to make that ball revolve, one side must have a heavier friction from one part of the hand than the other part has with the other part of the hand, at the instant the ball is let go. So it seems plain enough that if that part of the ball where friction is not wanted is made slippery, the fingers will slide off it more easily than otherwise.

That is the reason for moistening one part of the ball-to make it slippery. But it is not, as might be imagined, simply to produce a wider curve. It is to make the ball indulge itself in antics which fool batsmen-nay, which fool the pitcher himself sometimes, and his catcher not infrequently.

A pitcher named Elmer Stricklett is credited with the invention of the spit ball. He was with the "White Sox," in training camp, and one day pitched a ball in practice to the batters which none of them could hit. One of them said afterward:

"That ball was bewitched! You can't tell me! I've been playing ball all my life, and MajorLeague ball for seven years, and I never saw a

ball do two things at once before! It starts off like a curve, and then wobbles round in the air like a slow one, and ends up with a jump!"

And that is n't a bad description of a spit ball, at that. It is a little doubtful if the ball really does all these things. What probably happens is this: the ball is held very much as one holds it for an in-curve. The thumb is placed squarely against a seam of the ball, and the ball tightly gripped to make the thumb's skin "bite" on the seam. Then the ball is moistened with saliva, where the fingers will grip it. The ball is then pitched overhand, with great force. The result is that the ball, slipping out from the moistened fingers, gets its

FIG. 9. THE PRINCIPLE OF ALL CURVES. Look at this diagram and suppose it is from the point of view of a

the Chicago White Sox, told the writer: "This ball slips off the fingers and thumb together, and because the fingers are slippery from being moistened, the ball has practically no revolution at all. It differs entirely from a 'floater' because it is thrown with great force. And some people never can get a spit ball to 'break' for them, and others can't get it to 'break' on certain days. When I pitched in the city of Mexico, which is eight thousand feet up and where the air is thin, I thought I had lost my curve-I could n't get any of them to 'break.' But when I got down in New Orleans, I thought I was getting younger-I had all kinds of curves in that damp and heavy air!"

Since the advent of this form of pitching, many pitchers have become proficient in its use, notably Walsh, of the White Sox, in whose hands it is a wonderful delivery. And here a curious condition has arisen. Walsh does n't pitch the moist ball nearly as often as he seems to! Batters expect it from his hands, and are so worried over it, that he has found it to be a very effective pitching method to pretend to pitch it and really pitch

the way it is going, and having its greatest friction on top.

only revolution from the thumb, which has not surface enough to impart much revolution. It progresses toward the batter without much spin of any kind-the seams are sometimes visible to the man waiting for it at the plate.

Now a ball without revolution and thrown swiftly is at the mercy of the air-as a billow of air piles up in front of it, it "wobbles" from one side to the other, in the effort to escape this obstruction. Finally, as the speed dies out but as the billow of air gets most dense, the ball breaks sharply down (Fig. 8) and to one side or the other-and the batsman is left staring at what has to him at different times in its flight appeared a slow ball, a fast ball, a curve, a straight one, and which finally ends up as some variety of a drop! Do you wonder that it is hard to hit? Here are different accounts of it by two men who ought to know a great deal about it. Clark Griffith, formerly a star pitcher, now manager of the American League Washington Club, said to the writer: "The ball is misnamed. It ought to be called a thumb ball, because it takes its last impulse and friction from the thumb, which is down under the ball when it is pitched."

"Doc" White, the great left-handed pitcher of

ing. And sometimes he will pitch the ball with a side-arm instead of overhead motion, when it will break "out" instead of down, in a most puzzling way. This ball requires great strength of arm to pitch well, and many pitchers think it injures their arms to use it. But how, then, does it happen that it is so successfully used by so many pitchers who do not seem to suffer from its employment?

The second part of this article on pitching, to be published next month,, will contain some hints as to the way you, a lad, can learn to curve balls; the way you, not yet at your full growth, can learn "finger magic" without injury to your arm; the way you can do something, at least, of what the Big-League pitcher does. Meanwhile, by way of caution, take this to heart: never throw a ball which hurts you to throw, or throw a curve until your arm is warm, and don't try to master all the curves at once. If, between the time you read this and the next half of this account of the art of pitching, you have mastered the difference between a straight ball (which is your natural throw) and the out-curve (which is the easiest and most natural curve), you will have cause to congratulate yourself on your progress. "Make haste slowly" is a good motto.

CHAPTER XIII

A GUEST FOR SUPPER

ELIZABETH proved herself gifted by nature with three essentials of a good tennis-player-quickness of thought, quickness of eye, and quickness of movement. It remained for her to make her racket obedient to these faculties. This was a matter largely of practice, but, if she had not had such a good coach as Nance, she might, in the meanwhile, have acquired faults that would have taken her long to correct. Like most girls, Nance had learned the game in a haphazard fashion, and had only seen her mistakes after she had progressed to a point where they made all the difference between an exceedingly good player and a merely fair player. By that time, they had become so fixed as to be extremely difficult to overcome. From the first, Nance insisted that Elizabeth play very carefully, even though the result made a game more like battledore and shuttlecock than tennis.

"It 's very poky," protested Elizabeth, who longed to hit the ball as hard as she could.

"I know it," Nance agreed. "But it 's the only way to learn. In a game I generally feel the way you do, and pay for it by getting beaten. Miss Winthrop knew this, and just waited for me to beat myself."

"Does n't she play good tennis?" asked Elizabeth, in some surprise that Nance should put this forward as an excuse for her defeat.

"Indeed she does!" Nance replied quickly. "It 's good tennis to take advantage of your opponent's weakness."

"I thought you played a better game than she did in the tournament," said Elizabeth.

"At times I did," laughed Nance. "But that is n't what counts. It 's better to play a good game all the time than a brilliant game part of the time."

"I don't believe it 's as much fun though," Elizabeth declared.

"In the end it is," answered Nance. "It 's steadiness that wins, and winning is part of the fun, anyhow."

Day after day they used the court at "The Towers," and, for three weeks, Nance insisted upon making the play as slow as it was possible to make it and keep the ball moving. She allowed Elizabeth to attempt nothing but straight shots.

"For," she explained, "the first thing to make sure of is that your return lands in the court. The fastest and prettiest stroke in the world won't count you a point, if it goes out of bounds."

But, even using no speed, Nance was able to keep Elizabeth running about the court in a way that gave her plenty of exercise. And though, at first, this practice seemed dull to Nance herself, she discovered before long that it was proving just as valuable to her as to her pupil.

In this way Elizabeth became thoroughly limbered up, and learned to keep her eye on the ball, and to move her racket almost unconsciously. The little she had played the year before helped

her in this.

The next step added both interest and excitement to the game, without increasing the speed of the ball; Nance instructed Elizabeth to do as she herself had been doing all along, and to attempt place shots.

"You ought to know just where every ball is going when you strike it, and just why you want it to go there," explained Nance. "But you must n't forget your first lesson while you are trying this. trying this. Remember, the thing that always counts is to have the ball land somewhere in the court. It gives you one more chance."

To emphasize the value of placing, Nance at first stood still at the end of each play until the ball on the return struck the ground. This gave Elizabeth an opportunity to see just how far out of reach of her opponent she succeeded in driving it. It taught her, furthermore, to look for open spaces and to keep Nance on the move.

This continued for another three weeks, and then Nance allowed more speed.

"Hit the ball a little harder, Beth," said Nance; "but don't try any cuts for the present. A hard, straight ball, well placed and sure, is better than a hundred fancy strokes that go wild. Miss Winthrop taught me that, though I ought to have known it before."

By the first of August, the two girls were playing a game that was really interesting to watch. It was straight, heady tennis, with some speed and few faults. Every point was contested as much with the brain as the arm, and, though Nance, of course, was still beating Elizabeth, she found it necessary to work harder every day.

But the thing that made it interesting, after all, was Elizabeth's intense earnestness. Some new

quality had been roused in her which gave her not only eagerness but patience. From the beginning of every game to the end, she played each point as hard and as conscientiously as possible. She never flagged. The last game of the last set called forth as much in her as the first game. More, perhaps, for it nettled her to think she was not yet able to press Nance to her best. "You keep on playing better all the time," laughed Elizabeth, at the end of one hard-fought

set.

"You make me," Nance replied quietly. "But, even if I beat you, I'd rather play with you than any one I know.”

"Now, Nance!"

"Honestly. I have to use my head more."

The compliment pleased Elizabeth, and she knew it was sincere. Nance was as outspoken as a boy, especially in the matter of tennis.

"And I love to play with you, but I can't help wanting to beat you, Nance." Elizabeth answered with equal frankness.

"I think you will, in the end," Nance answered. "But, if you do, you 'll make me play my hardest." "And it's playing hard that makes it fun," added Elizabeth, with her lips firmly together.

But, if Elizabeth was catching up with Nance on the tennis-court, Nance had the satisfaction of seeing herself catch up with Elizabeth in the kitchen, It added to the interest of both girls to work together, and, under the able tutoring of Mrs. Trumbull, they advanced rapidly. Mrs. Trumbull had much the same idea about learning to cook that Nance had about learning to play tennis.

"Learn the plain, simple things first," she said "After that there 's time enough to fool round with folderols. Beth's mother made the best bread I ever ate. A man won't starve to death if he has good bread."

At first, Nance found it impossible to work up very much enthusiasm over this new acquirement. Only a sense of duty, and Elizabeth's eagerness, saved the task from drudgery. That was all it had ever been considered at home, where the constant worry over securing and satisfying a good cook made housekeeping a real burden. But, at the end of a few weeks, Nance imbibed a new spirit here in the house by the lane. The kitchen was not so much a feature of housekeeping as it was of home-making. This was equally true of the other necessary duties. The result was the creation of so intimate and personal an atmosphere under this roof that the presence of a servant would have seemed almost like an intrusion. From cellar to garret, this was Elizabeth's house -as much a part of her as she was a part of it.

Though Nance, of course, did not have an equally personal interest in the house, she found herself in a very short time sharing, to a large extent, Elizabeth's enthusiasm. Mrs. Trumbull made her feel that, as a woman, she would be called upon, some day, to direct a household, and that it would then be to her honor that she was prepared.

"A man is n't a man who can't handle tools and animals!" Mrs. Trumbull exclaimed one day, as the conversation drifted back to what boys used to know in the old days. "No, sir, not if he 's president of a bank! And a woman is n't a woman who can't take care of a house-not if she 's the wife of a bank president. A woman can be whatever she likes after she knows how to sew and cook and make a home; but she 's got to know that first to be a woman."

"But a great many of them don't know how to do those things," laughed Nance.

"I've learned that since I came up here," Mrs. Trumbull answered. "And I 've no patience with that kind! They are as helpless as kittens when the cook leaves, and of about as much use."

"All girls don't have the chance to learn that Beth has had," answered Nance.

"If I'd had my own way, I would n't have had the chance," laughed Elizabeth. "You don't know how I hated to come down here."

"You were different then, Beth," answered Nance.

"So were you," replied Elizabeth.

That evening after Nance had gone, Mrs. Trumbull observed:

"I wish every one of your friends could live here a while with you."

"Even the Brookfield girls?" asked Elizabeth. "Well, it would do them good," declared Mrs. Trumbull; "but I must say I'd hate to be around."

"There's Daddy," began Elizabeth, with a little break in her voice, and a wistful look toward "The Towers."

"It would do him more good than any one," Mrs. Trumbull affirmed.

"But he won't come."

Mrs. Trumbull placed her hand affectionately on the girl's shoulder.

"There, child, there!" she said. "Don't worry about him. It takes time to change a man as set in.. ys as he is."

But it happened that this very evening, as they were sitting down to supper, there was a rap at the front door. Elizabeth answered it, and found her father there. She threw her arms about his neck.

"Oh, Daddy, but I'm glad to see you!" she cried. "You don't know how very glad I am!"