Unconsciously, perhaps, he looked at Roland Hewett, the centre fielder, a slim, fastidious fellow with thin, blond hair and pale blue eyes, whom he knew was another friend of the deserting pitcher. There was a worried, undecided look on his weak face.
“I don’t know——” he stammered. “I—I believe I’ll go and see if he really meant what he said.”
Then he, too, left the group on the diamond and presently disappeared into the clubhouse.
For a moment no one spoke. Then Reddy Maxwell broke the silence.
“Well, fellows,” he said, with forced cheerfulness, “I should say that the team is better off without a bunch that will desert it at a time like this.”
“But how the deuce are we going to fill their places?” Irving Renworth, the right fielder, asked apprehensively.
“By Jove, fellows. I’m sorry!” Gardiner broke in contritely. “It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have talked that way to Morrison, knowing how touchy he is.”
“Oh, cut that, Glen,” Maxwell said quickly. “It would take a wooden man to stand Morrie’s nasty, sneering way without answering back. I’m glad he’s gone, though I am surprised at Burgess backing him up.”
“Yes, don’t worry, Glen,” Garrick said in his deliberate manner. “It wasn’t your fault. We’ll have to make the best of it, and look around for some one else.”
The captain ran his fingers despairingly through his thick brown hair.