“It was, Tom,” she confessed. “I’m afraid I’d never have done for a Spartan mother!”
They wanted Tom to stay and have luncheon with them, but he had to refuse and hurry back to the store, promising, however, to return for dinner. That was a very merry affair, that first dinner at home, and Mr. Morris, usually somewhat grave and abstracted, was so jovial and flippant that Tom quite lost his awe of him. Afterward the boys adjourned to Sidney’s room and had a regular “talkfest,” as Sidney called it. Of course Tom had to tell about the game with Lynton and Sidney heard it with dancing eyes and wished at intervals he had been there.
“Think of you pitching against those fellows!” he exclaimed. “Why, they must have had pretty near their regular line-up, didn’t they? Say, I guess Thorny is right.”
“About what?” asked Tom.
“About your giving up that job and playing on the team in the spring. Why, we’ve just got to have you, Tom! Farrar can’t pitch for a cent and he’s too stuck-up to take advice. We need you, Tom, and that’s all there is to it!”
“But how can I play?” Tom demanded. “Cummings and Wright aren’t going to pay me wages for being in the store only about two hours all day long!”
“We’ll have to think of a way out of it,” Sidney responded untroubledly. “There’s lots of time. Besides, something may happen. Maybe a wealthy relative will die before spring and leave you a lot of money.”
Tom smiled. “I haven’t any relatives, wealthy or poor,” he said, “except Uncle Israel. And he doesn’t intend to die, and I wouldn’t want him to.”