“O. K. I’ve got a lot of paper I’ll agree to scatter through this town, telling people just what sort of a team they’ll see if they come out for the game to-morrow.”
“And I’ll attend to the rest of the advertising.”
At the desk they called for the proprietor, who came forth, after a brief delay, from his private office. When the matter was explained he agreed to hold the forfeit money, which was placed in his hands.
As they were turning from the desk a lanky, hard-faced man with a hoarse, rasping voice approached and spoke to Harrison.
“What’s this about the game here?” he inquired. “I hear it’s off. If there’s no go to-morrow, I’ll run up to Denver this afternoon to visit an old partner of mine who’s playing on the Denver nine.”
“It looks now, Stover,” said Harrison, “as if there might be a game to-morrow, but not with the regular Springs team.”
The fellow with the harsh voice appeared decidedly displeased.
“I was counting on a lay-off,” he growled.
“You get lay-offs enough, Stover. Out in this country we don’t play more than four games a week at the most.”
“Well, when we’re not playing, we’re pounding around over four or five hundred miles of railroad at a jump.”