“Richard Dick? Odd name. Mr. Dick, what do you reckon you’re going to get out of this?”
“Sport—that’s my object. If we could beat you, we would get a little glory also.”
“I should say so! Beat us? Why, boy, you couldn’t pick up a bunch of college men in America who could do that trick once out of ten times.”
“Did it ever occur to you, Mr. Harrison, that you might possibly have a slight touch of the swelled head yourself?”
The manager of the Outlaws gasped, frowned, and grinned.
“Of all sassy youngsters, you are certainly the smoothest.”
“I’m not insinuating that you have; but such a thing is possible for a man of any age and station in life. It is true that young men are far more often afflicted by it. Now, look here, Mr. Harrison, you’re up against the necessity of lying idle, accepting Charlie Loring’s terms, or playing with some other team. I don’t think Loring is anxious to play for some reason or other. He may have been; perhaps he was when he phoned you. Isn’t it likely that advisers got at him after he phoned and made it apparent that he would place the Springs in a ridiculous light if the game was pulled off and your Outlaws buried him alive? If he could be sure of the soothing balm of an equal division and a big pull at the gate money, he might afford to let them laugh; but to be walloped and get the short end of the finances would make him ridiculous. Now I’m not afraid of anything of that sort.”
“I should say not! Apparently you’re not afraid of anything at all.”
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll guarantee to pick up a team to play you to-morrow, and the winners shall pocket three-fourths of the gate money, the losers paying all expenses. Can you ask anything more satisfactory?”
“Nothing except an additional guarantee of two hundred and fifty dollars.”