Immediately Wiley popped up.
“Tom, I will provide you with a match, as long as you have legal tender to combusticate. I have a few germ-infested dollars which I am willing to risk on the result of this baseball game.”
Tom seemed surprised.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Me! I am nobody but a rover of the briny deep. I am a sailor, and to me baseball is an unknown quantity. I never saw a game in my life, but I am willing to take any kind of a bet—almost—when the odds are two to one. So, Tommy, my dear, pick out the honorable gent who will hold the stakes and stick up as much cash as you like. I will cover it with half as much, and my bet goes that Fardale beats you to a crisp to-day.”
Wiley’s words and manner seemed to amuse the boys in the car, for they laughed uproariously and urged Tom to get after the money.
Tommy was not really anxious to bet, but thus encouraged by his comrades, he placed his money in the hands of his companion.
“Now make good!” he cried, nodding at Wiley. “I don’t believe you have ten dollars in your clothes.”
“It’s plain you are of a skeptical disposition,” said the sailor. “However, I will soon alleviate your skepticism.”
Saying which, he plunged a hand into his pocket, and drew forth a wad of bills.