“Yes, the hall porter took charge of it. Show me a tub of cold water, John. I’m two inches deep in train dust!”
It was a few minutes before eight when Sam, turning into Main Street at the corner of the Adams Building, saw Mr. Hall and Mr. York just entering the big doorway. He caught up with them at the elevator and as they were whisked aloft past dark corridors he had to listen to much praise.
“You played a regular air-tight game, Sam,” declared Mr. York. “And that throw to second at the last was a marvel. What did you think when you heard me yell?”
“There wasn’t time to think anything,” replied Sam. “If I’d stopped to think I’d never have thrown that way, sir. You see, I haven’t much chance to try it yet.”
“But you had tried it, hadn’t you?”
“Not in a game, sir; just in practise the other day.”
“Well, you certainly pulled it off in grand style! And I want to tell you that if you’d thrown your old way you’d never have caught him. He had an awful lead from first and ran like a rabbit. This our floor?”
“Yes,” replied Mr. Hall, “unless you and Craig want to stay there and ride up and down and talk baseball.”
“This man, Sam,” warned Mr. York, “is an awful hypocrite. He pretends he doesn’t care a thing about the game, but some time I’ll tell you a few facts about him; like the time he dented in the immaculate silk topper of a perfectly respectable old gentleman at the White Sox park in Chicago.”
“Well, I bought him a new one,” laughed Mr. Hall, as he unlocked his door. “Enter, gentlemen.”