“That doesn’t mean anything,” Mr. Cummings laughed. “He probably doesn’t know where it is and is looking all over town for it! Come on, Tom.”
So Tom, wanting to refuse but not liking to, put his cap on and joined the senior partner. “I’m in baseball togs, sir,” he said. “I guess it’ll look sort of funny, won’t it?”
“What of it? You ought to be proud to be seen in that uniform, Tom. Mustn’t forget you’re a hero, you know.”
Tom smiled crookedly. “I guess you haven’t heard much about the game, Mr. Cummings.”
“Oh, yes, I have; a little, anyway. I ran across Mr. Talbot at the barber’s.”
“Then you know I’m not much of a hero, sir.”
“Eh?” asked Mr. Cummings with elaborate carelessness. “Oh, you mean because you had an off-day in the box? Pshaw! that happens to all of them, Tom. The best pitchers in the Big Leagues get theirs just about so often.” They turned into a restaurant and found seats at a small table. It was a much more fashionable place than Tom was accustomed to and he felt rather ill at ease until he had seated himself and so hidden most of his attire behind the tablecloth. “Yes,” continued his companion, taking up a menu, “I’ve seen more than one top-notcher get slammed around the lot for keeps, Tom. What do you say to a chop and some shoe-string potatoes and a salad? Sort of hot to eat much, isn’t it?”
Tom murmuringly assented, and Mr. Cummings gave the order.
“You had an off-day, Tom, that’s all. Next time you’ll go in and hold ’em tight. You see if I’m not right.”
“There won’t be any next time, Mr. Cummings. I’ve quit.”