Sidney’s face fell. “Well, I suppose it wouldn’t last very long,” he acknowledged, sobered. “Maybe—maybe three months. Then you could go back to work again.” He brightened. “What’s the matter with doing that?” he demanded.
“I don’t believe they’d take me back,” answered Tom with a smile for the impracticable suggestion.
“Oh, you could get a job somewhere else,” answered his chum easily.
“Maybe I could and maybe I couldn’t. Anyway, I wouldn’t want to leave Cummings and Wright’s, even to play baseball! Who’d look after my sporting goods for me?”
“Oh, hang your old sporting goods!” said Sidney disgustedly. “If you had any—any patriotism, any right feeling, you’d come out and help the team, Tom! Why, say, you ought to see Pete Farrar in the box. He—he’s a—a fake, that’s all he is, a regular fake!”
“Isn’t there anyone else?” asked Tom sympathetically.
“Three or four,” said Sidney gloomily. “Bat’s trying his best to develop them, but they’re all pretty green. There’s Toby Williams. You know him, don’t you? He’s in your class. He’s the best of the lot. He pitched for the grammar school a couple of years ago, but he’s only fifteen and hasn’t much on the ball. Oh, we may pull through with what we have, but we certainly need a real pitcher. The funny part of it is that Pete Farrar thinks he’s a regular wonder, Tom. He and Frank Warner are great cronies, you know, and maybe if we had a decent pitcher Frank wouldn’t let him into the box in a big game. He seems to think Pete’s all right. Has an idea, I guess, that as long as he’s playing second it doesn’t matter who’s in the box!”
“Doesn’t seem as if Frank Warner could cover the whole field,” objected Tom.
“Oh, he thinks—I don’t know what he thinks! Bet you there’ll be a mix-up between him and Bat Talbot pretty soon. Bat won’t stand much funny-business.”
“When do you play your first game?”