“What?” cried Tommy, jumping up. “Are you going to let Big play? That settles it. It’s all off as far as I’m concerned.”
“What do you mean?”
“I quit. I throw up both hands. Bigelow play baseball! Say, Dick, you’re a subject for the dotty house.”
“Oh, come now,” protested the fat fellow. “I don’t pretend to be a crack at baseball, but if you’ve got to have me, I’ll do my best. One thing I’m proud of, I never was dropped from the Yale varsity.”
“A stab at me,” snapped Tucker; “a most unkind thrust. But, look here, it’s a well-known fact that I got too fast for the varsity.”
“Oh, yes,” agreed Bouncer, “you got too fast all right. You certainly hit a fast pace, and it’s a wonder you didn’t get too fast for the college. All your friends expected you would be invited to chase yourself.”
“Of course,” said Dick, “if we can find a crackajack ninth man, Big will be willing to sit on the bench and look handsome. You see, we’ll give the impression that he’s a marvelous pinch hitter, and his size ought to awe the Outlaws.”
“I’m a martyr,” said Bigelow. “For the sake of any good cause I am ready to be benched. In fact, I’d really enjoy playing the game on the bench, for then I wouldn’t have to exert myself and get all damp with perspiration and rumple my beautiful hair and scatter a lot of cuticule around the diamond sliding to bases. I love baseball, but oh, you cuticule!”
“You’re sure a generous, self-sacrificing soul, Bouncer,” grinned Buckhart.
Dick told of his encounter with Buzzsaw Stover.