“I couldn’t play Wednesday,” said Tom. “I’ll have to work. I’m only taking a week’s vacation.”
“Won’t they let you off for the afternoon if you ask them?” demanded Walter.
“I—I wouldn’t like to ask,” replied Tom. “Not so soon after vacation.”
Walter was mutinous. “What’s the good of being able to pitch the way you can if you don’t do it?” he asked. “That makes me tired!”
“I’m real sorry,” said Tom apologetically. Walter sniffed.
“I thought, anyway, you’d play in the field for us. Say, I tell you what I’ll do, Tom. I’ll go around and see Cummings myself. I’ll tell him we need you that afternoon. He’s a good sort and——”
“I—I’d rather you wouldn’t, please,” begged Tom. “I’d play for you in a minute if I could. But they’ve been mighty nice to me and it don’t seem fair to ask for an afternoon off so soon after a whole week’s vacation. If I could, I’d be playing baseball all the time. I’d rather do it than—than eat, I guess!”
“Well, if Thorny can’t pitch Wednesday,” returned Walter doggedly, “you’ll just have to, work or no work. And that goes, doesn’t it, Thorny?”