“I shall have to break a bill, then,” said Bosworth, drawing out a ten-dollar note from his waistcoat pocket.
“You’re lucky!” said Marks, opening his eyes. “I’ve only two dollars left, and it’s ten days to my next allowance.”
The clerk changed the bill with his usual nonchalant air, and turned his attention to more interesting customers. The two boys sauntered out.
In front of the store they met Poole. Bosworth gave him a stare, and Marks a cool nod, which Phil returned as coolly.
“He has cheek, that cub, to try for the nine,” said Marks. “I told Sands he was a fool not to fire him long ago.”
“He’s Melvin’s room-mate,” returned Bosworth, in a spiteful tone. “These athletic fellows hang together. I shall be surprised if they don’t work the little lamb in somewhere.”
“Not Sands,” replied Marks. “Favoritism doesn’t go down with him. There’s been a lot of talk about it, though. I’ve heard fellows say that the kid was the best thrower in the out-field, and pretend that Lyford thought so, too. I heard Lyford say one day that Poole was the only man playing who knew how to bunt; but that’s nothing. I don’t believe they’ll be likely to put out big husky fellows like Vincent and Sudbury and Taylor, who are good for long hits, for a little bantam that can only bunt.”
Bosworth, less interested in baseball than in cultivating the acquaintance of a man whom he thought popular, drew out his watch.
“I must be getting home,” he said. “I’ve got a lot of Latin to work out before twelve o’clock.”
Marks sniffed: “Work out! Still doing that, are you? Come up to my room and I’ll lend you a trot. I’ve got a whole stableful,—Bohns, Interlinears, Teachers’ Editions, Hinds and Noble,—whatever you want. It’s the best collection in town.”