“Quit!”
“Yes, sir. I almost lost that game to-day for them, sir. I guess I ain’t cut out for a pitcher, after all.”
“Pshaw! That’s foolishness! You can’t expect to be in top form every day, son! No one can! Don’t let me hear any more talk from you about quitting!” And Mr. Cummings, tossing aside the menu, looked quite fierce. Tom smiled feebly.
“I guess they won’t want me, anyway,” he muttered. “I—I was perfectly punk!”
“What of it? There’s another game coming, isn’t there? What was the trouble to-day, Tom?”
Then Tom told about Uncle Israel’s illness and how anxious they had all been; how he had decided to accompany the team at almost the last minute and had rushed to the train and, finally, had had to foot it for a mile when he got to Petersburg.
“Well, Great Scott!” exclaimed Mr. Cummings. “I should think you might have an off-day after that! Why, walking a mile in the hot sun is enough to put any pitcher off his game! What the dickens did you do it for?”
“There wasn’t any other way to get there.”
“Then you should have told Mr. Talbot about it and he would have let you off or had you rest up for three or four innings, anyway. It was a piece of foolishness, Tom, and you deserved to get knocked out of the box.”
“Yes, sir. And I was.”