“Oh, hello, Morrison,” he bellowed. “How’s things?”
“Come over here a minute, will you? I want to talk to you.”
“Sure, Mike.”
McDonough arose and, stepping over to the chair Burgess had just vacated, plumped himself down.
“Well, what’s up?” he inquired, with a grin.
“What’ll you have—vichy?”
“Sure. I could drink gallons of the stuff without quenching my thirst.”
Morrison beckoned to a waiter and ordered a siphon of vichy, then he leaned forward with his elbows on the table and surveyed the hulking giant before him.
“I just wanted to give you a little point about the game to-morrow,” he said significantly. “Do you know who’s going to pitch?”
“Sure,” grinned McDonough. “Some guy from Yale College.”