“Yep, that’s Frank. You can’t always tell him by that green suit, though, for he has half a dozen if he has one. I don’t see how he does it, because his father hasn’t much coin, they say. He’s division superintendent on the railroad. I’ll bet he keeps his father poor. Anyway, he’s our best little dresser and we’re mighty proud of him.”
“You didn’t sound so a moment ago.”
“Well, I’ll tell you.” Jack changed his position with a suppressed groan. “As a thing of beauty, so to speak, as a—a picturesque feature of the local landscape—say, that’s pretty good, isn’t it? Picturesque feature of the local landscape!—Well, as one of those things he’s fine and we’re proud as can be of him. If a circus came to town we’d trot Frank out and simply run away with the honors. But as a—a regular fellow he won’t do. He’s too—oh, I don’t know what he is. I don’t like him for so many reasons that I can’t think of the first one. I always have a fearful temptation to walk on his shoes and take the shine off or bang a snowball against his hat or tie him down and put a little natural dirt under his finger-nails. Mind you, Joey, I love clean finger-nails”—he shoved his hands under him as he spoke—“but I hate to have a fellow dazzle my eyes every time he moves his hands! Besides, I object to green Norfolks and green hats with the bows in the wrong place and fancy vests—waistcoats, I mean! Gee, I’m glad Frank didn’t hear me call ’em vests! The trouble with Handsome Frank is that he’s a good-looker and someone’s told him about it. He can’t forget it for a minute. Now, I’m a handsome brute, Joey, and you’re not as homely as you might be, but we don’t go around throwing our chests out and trying to look like—like a work of art, do we? And we don’t dress up like a horse, do we? And we don’t polish our finger-nails till they shine like nice little pink pearls, do we? Let’s see yours. No, we don’t!”
“Well, if he’s like that I shouldn’t expect him to play anything as rough and rude as baseball,” said Joe.
“No, would you? And yet he does. And he plays football, too, which is a degree and a half rougher and ruder. As a matter of fact, Joe, Handsome Frank is a corking good first baseman, and no slouch of a tackle. He’s the fellow you’ll have to fight hardest for first, if you’ve set your heart on that position.”
“I haven’t. I’d be a silly chump to. I don’t believe I play well enough to get a show with the Second Team.”
“Two more orders of piffle, and have them hot! Don’t assume that attitude, Joey. Don’t tell folks you’re no good. They might believe you. I’ve noticed folks are more likely to believe you when you tell them you’re rotten than when you crack yourself up. You keep a still mouth, old chap, and if anyone says ‘What was your batting average last year, Mr. Faulkner?’ or ‘What was your fielding average?’ you dust a speck off your sleeve and look ’em square in the eye and say, careless-like, ‘I batted for three-twenty-seven and fielded for a little over four hundred!’ They won’t believe you, but they’ll think ‘If he can lie as well as that he must play a pretty good game of ball!’”
“Jack, you’re an awful chump tonight,” laughed his chum. “What does your friend Frank do when he gets some dust on his hands fielding a ball or soils his trousers sliding to base? Does he stop the game and telephone for a manicure and a whisk-broom?”
“No. He bears it wonderfully. Oh, I suppose I’ve made him out worse than he is. I just don’t like him. Still, I’m not the only one, by a long shot. You’d have trouble finding many fellows who do like him. But he can play baseball and he’s a peach of a baseman. He’s not much at hitting, though. Are you, Joe?”
“Fairly rotten, thanks.”