“If he hasn’t, the school ought to pension him,” said Tom Henderson. “How long has he been here—nearly forty years?”
“I guess they won’t let him starve; I guess the alumni would see to that,” remarked Wallace.
“Pretty tough, though—just to sit in the dark and wait for death,” said Clarke.
“I can’t imagine anything worse,” agreed Henderson.
But after the first pitying comments they did not concern themselves with Mr. Dean’s plight; their own affairs were too absorbing. That afternoon the Corinthians and the Pythians held their baseball practice just as usual; of all the participants David was perhaps alone in being preoccupied and heavy-hearted. He had come so much nearer to Mr. Dean than any of the others, had been so bound by gratitude and affection to him on account of the master’s tenderness when he was overwhelmed with sorrow, that he could not lightly dismiss that helpless figure from his thoughts. So his playing was mechanical and listless; he could take no part in the brisk dialogue, the lively chatter that prevailed. It was quite otherwise with Lester Wallace, who played brilliantly at first base and who in the intervals of batting practice bubbled over with enthusiasm about his own feelings.
“Wish we were playing a real game to-day,” said Lester. “I’ve got my batting eye right with me, and my wing feels fine. Some days I can whip ’em over to third better than others; this is my day all right.”
“You bet; keep up this clip and you’re going to play first on the school nine,” remarked Henderson.
“Dave Ives here is some live wire in that position,” Wallace answered.
“Oh, Dave will do for a substitute,” said Henderson candidly. “If you get off probation, Lester, you’ll have the position cinched.”