Joe, who had had hopes since the day before of getting another chance at first base, was considerably disappointed at being left idle on the bench until the eighth inning, when he was put in to run for Tom Pollock, that youth having turned his ankle at first base. That was all the playing Joe did, and he sat disgruntledly during the rest of the game and watched Amesville hold her lead and ultimately emerge the victor, eight runs to six.
The “Millers” were good losers and cheered the visitors heartily when the contest was over, and their captain, the tall, mustached pitcher, shook hands with Tom Pollock and hoped his ankle wasn’t hurt much. Tom was able to reassure him. Then a request was made for a second game at Amesville, and Sam Craig agreed to see what could be done about one. High School journeyed home at dusk, very well satisfied with an almost errorless performance—Buster Healey had alone sinned—and very hungry. Joe was wedged in between Jack and Walter Cummings in the trolley car going back, with Frank Foley directly in front on the next seat. Jack, who had outshone himself that afternoon in left field, was feeling especially cheerful and, before they had been buzzing across country very long, began to heckle Handsome Frank, to the amusement of the others within hearing.
“Say, Frank,” he began, leaning over, “we’ve got a fellow working for us at the news-stand who makes you look like a faded leaf, old top. Honest, Frank, he’s got it all over you as a swell dresser. You’ll have to look to your laurels right smart. That’s no josh, either. Why, that fellow’s got a pink-and-green-striped shirt that would simply fill you with envy!”
“Hello, Jack,” was the response. “You jabbering again?”
“Yep, jabbering again, Frankie. Listen. You’re months behind the style, old chap. They’re not wearing those all-leather shoes any more. You want to get some with cloth tops. They’re the only proper dress for the Johnnies. I’m afraid you haven’t read your fashion journal this month!”
“The trouble with you and Faulkner,” replied Frank over his shoulder, “is that you dress so like tramps that when you see a fellow with a clean collar on you don’t know what to make of it!”
That produced chuckles from the nearby seats. Jack smiled serenely. “Yes, there’s something in what you say. That’s where you have it on the rest of us, Frank. Your collars are so plaguey high that no one can see whether they’re clean or not on top! But what I’m telling you about the cloth-top shoes is right as rain. They’re positively the last cry. Get after ’em, Frank.”
“Don’t worry about my shoes,” was the reply. “Look after your own, Jack. There’s a place down town where you can get them shined for a nickel. You and your partner had better drop in there some day.”
“They’d never do Jack’s for a nickel,” remarked Buster. “His feet are too big.”
“Oh, I shine mine at home,” said Jack cheerfully. “I save a nickel every week or two, you see. When I get a quarter saved up I’m going to get one of those manicures like Frank’s. They’re great! Every time he puts his hand up you get blinded.”