“Oh, of course—certainly,” said Chester hastily. “I’ll return directly, mother.”
Buckhart had turned the car over to a man from the garage, who took it away.
Tucker threw himself into a chair on the veranda.
“There,” he said, “we’ve done up this old town brown. We’ve taken a peek from the top of Pike’s Peak, we’ve gaped at the wonders in the Garden of the Gods, we’ve seen a man or two down at Manitou—likewise two or three girls. There isn’t anything more to be done, and I’m ready to weep. Bigelow, lend me your handkerchief.”
“Not on your life,” said Bouncer. “I’m sick of paying laundry bills for you. I’ve been lending you handkerchiefs and socks and pajamas until the laundry man has got the most of my wealth.”
“Now, wouldn’t I look well rattling around in a suit of your pajamas!” scoffed Tommy. “Big, you’re a heartless, unfeeling creature, and I repudiate you as a friend. In order to get up some excitement to kill the monotony, I’ll have to kill you.”
“There’s a little excitement in the air,” said Dick. Then he told them of the arrangements for the baseball game.
“Wow! wow!” barked Tucker delightedly. “You’ve saved my life, Richard. You’ve preserved me from a possibly fatal attack of ennui. Will we play the Outlaws? Oh, say, watch us!”
“But can you get together a team, pard?” asked Buckhart.
“I’ve figured it all out. We will have nine men, including Bigelow.”