“You seem to know something about baseball,” admitted the manager of the Outlaws, nodding his head slowly, “and there’s more or less sense in what you say; but you’re talking about picking up a team here in Colorado Springs to butt against the acknowledged fastest independent nine the country has ever seen. You haven’t practiced together, and you would be rotten on team work.”
“By chance,” said the young man, “I happened to come to Colorado Springs. With me came some players from my own college team. To our surprise and pleasure, we found here at the Springs some other men from the same college team. We’ve nearly all played together. I’m confident that we can get together a nine that will acquit itself with a certain amount of credit. In fact. I think we can make you hustle to beat us.”
“You don’t look like a chap with a swelled head; but I’m afraid you’ve got a touch of it.”
“In that case,” was the laughing retort, “you might do me an eternal favor by reducing the swelling.”
“I’m not working for the benefit of humanity in general; I work for Bob Harrison’s pocket.”
“You might be doing that at the same time. You have been well advertised. Wherever you go people turn out especially to get a look at your wonderful aggregation of stars. They would do it here, even if they felt pretty sure that the game might be one-sided. It’s better than lying idle to-morrow.”
“What’s your name?” demanded Harrison suddenly.
“You may call me Dick.”
“Dick what?”
“Well, Richard Dick—let it go at that for the present.”