“Oh, we’ve got a big drag around this town,” replied Bob. “I guess they’d give us the Town Hall if we asked for it.”
“You hate yourselves, don’t you?” asked Larry.
“That isn’t as big a claim as it may seem,” remarked Joe. “The Town Hall is so old that I think they’d be glad of an excuse to give it away. But they won’t build a new one until the old one falls down.”
“That’s the way with all these bush league towns,” remarked Larry, with a wicked grin.
“You’re getting well all right,” laughed Bob. “When you begin knocking again it’s a sure sign that you’re getting back to form.”
“You bet I am,” returned Larry. “I’ll be as good as ever in a little while. Now that I can begin to see where the next square meal is coming from, it gives me some incentive to get well.”
“Well, it’s fine to hear you say so,” declared Bob. “We’ll call for you around one o’clock Saturday, and we’ll be at the station about four. Then if you don’t convince them that your imitation of bird songs is better than the little birdies themselves, we’ll murder you.”
“I wish I could get in as solid with every audience 133 I play to as I am with you fellows,” said Larry. “Life would be one grand, sweet song.”
“You’ll get in solid enough to be able to drag down good pay, don’t worry about that,” replied Joe.
“Well, we’ll know more about it after Saturday afternoon,” said Larry. “Until then, hope hard.”