“Taylor didn’t get his home run on Saturday,” remarked the clerk, gazing out of the window at the passers-by.
“No, he didn’t,” replied Marks. “I don’t know what’s got into Walt. He hasn’t made a long drive in two games.”
“Getting stale, perhaps,” said the clerk, who had only a dim idea as to what “stale” meant, but fancied the word.
“A little too sure,” said Marks. “He’ll take a brace before the Hillbury game.”
“Tompkins is making quite a pitcher.” The clerk offered the suggestion indifferently. There were two opinions as to Tompkins among his patrons.
“I don’t know about that,” answered Marks, with a knowing tilt of his head. “Tompkins isn’t anything great when he’s at his best, and when he’s poor, he’s no good at all. He’s got a good drop and an underhand rise, and the usual out and in, but that’s about all.”
“It’s Sands who really does the pitching,” added Bosworth, draining his glass. “Sands tells him exactly where to put the ball, and all the pitcher has to do is to follow his directions. There’s no great credit in that.”
The clerk was about to remark that to put the ball where it was wanted required some ability, but on second thought concluded that he had given his customers their money’s worth, and remained silent. Bosworth was going through his pockets.
“I thought I had a quarter,” he murmured, a little confused.
Marks displayed no interest in the search. He had change in his purse, but it was late in the season to lend. Besides, he did not want to lend twenty cents: it was too small a sum to ask back again.