“I’ve seen him,” replied Joe. “He knows the right place to buy cigars.”
“Well, he told one day about a coach they had at college when he was a freshman. I forget what college he went to; Sam could tell you. But it seems that they had an awfully wet spring that year and the diamond was on a rather low piece of ground, anyway, and it wouldn’t dry out for them. So this coach got the idea of having the players wear rubbers! Said it would be dangerous to have them work on such wet ground without them because they might get rheumatism and sciatica and grippe and various other things, and he didn’t intend to lose half his team through illness just when it was needed most. So he sent in a requisition to the athletic committee or whoever attended to purchasing supplies—probably the manager—for three or four dozen pairs of rubbers of assorted sizes. There was a lot of argument about the expense and finally the coach got his dander up and bought the rubbers himself, and one day the fellows put them on and went out for their first practice on the field. The field was as soft as mush and whenever you put your foot down it went out of sight as far as your shin-bones! Mr. Hall said it was the funniest thing he ever saw. About every man in college was out to see what they called the ‘Gumshoe Nine,’ and they almost laughed themselves to death. Every time a fielder started after a ball he’d leave one or both of his rubbers sticking in the mud and have to go back and hunt for them. Mr. Hall said that at one time there were three pairs of rubbers sticking out of the base-path between second base and the plate where the runners had left them in their hurry to get around! Finally the coach sent back to town and got a box of elastic bands and made the fellows snap them around their ankles over the rubbers. Practice went better after that, but there was almost a riot once, when one chap, who had stolen second, went back to get his rubbers and the second baseman tagged him out!”
The laughter of Tom’s audience was interrupted by the opening of the door and the advent of Frank Foley. Handsome Frank quite deserved the title this morning. For a day or two there had been unmistakable indications of spring, and Foley had responded to them today by donning a Norfolk suit of very light homespun material with knickerbockers, a pair of very green golf stockings, and a cap that matched his suit. A pale heliotrope “sport shirt” from under whose flaring collar emerged a vividly green scarf completed the costume, except that he was, naturally, appropriately shod with brown rubber-soled shoes. Even Tom was a bit taken back by the radiance of the vision which sought the athletic goods department, and his “Hello, Frank,” sounded rather feeble. The other boys nodded, Jack adding a murmured salutation to the nod. Foley returned the greetings with a remarkable absence of self-consciousness and joined the group.
“What about a baseman’s glove, Tom?” he asked. “Anything new in that line this spring?”
“No, nothing much different,” was the answer as Tom pulled some boxes from a shelf. “You had one of these last year, didn’t you?” he continued, placing a glove on the counter. Foley examined it indifferently.
“Yes, that’s like the one I’ve got now. I thought maybe there was something new on the market. How’s everything, Jack?”
“Pretty good, Frank. My eyes are troubling me a bit, though.”
“What’s the matter with them? They seemed all right at practice yesterday.”
“I don’t know.” Jack gravely blinked. “They seem sort of weak. I guess it’s the glare that hurts them, Frank. You couldn’t turn your coat collar up, could you?”
“Oh, that’s the idea?” said Foley calmly. “Don’t you like what I wear, Jack?”