“What do you want that doesn’t cost more than the bat-bag?”
“I don’t know. Leave it that I’m to pick out anything I like up to that amount, eh?”
“Certainly. Gentlemen, you’ve heard the terms of the wager. If, at the end of the season, Frank has played in more games than I have he comes in here and goes the limit—up to two dollars and three-quarters. If, on the other hand——”
“Why do I have to buy the thing here?” asked Frank.
“Because I want to see my friend Mr. Pollock make a little money. Tom ought to get something out of it, Frank.”
“Oh, all right. I’ll find something I want, I guess.”
“As I was saying when so rudely interrupted,” resumed Jack, “if, on the other hand, Frank plays in no more games than I do he comes across with one of those perfectly beautiful and useless bat-bags which Tom prices at two dollars and seventy-five cents and which you can get from the mail-order house for a dollar sixty-nine.”
“You try it,” laughed Tom.
“I don’t need to. The cost doesn’t interest me a bit. Well, that is the wager, gentlemen. May the best man win—so long as it’s me. Come on, Joey. So long, Tom. Bye, Frank. By the way, which way are you going from here?”