“Pitching? No, sir, not much. I just started last spring. A fellow and I—he plays with the high school team—we used to pitch and catch sometimes of an evening. Then this summer I pitched in a couple of games for the Blues. They said I didn’t do so badly.”
“Want to learn more about it?”
“Yes, sir, very much. I tried to teach myself out of a book, but it’s pretty hard.”
Mr. George sniffed. “There isn’t any book that’ll teach you, son. But I can. And I will if you want me to. There’s the dinner gong. To-morrow I’ll buy us a catcher’s mitt and we’ll have some fun, eh?”
“Yes, sir, thank you. I wish, though, you’d let me buy the mitt. You see, Mr. George, I can get it at wholesale price.”
“That so?” The detective pulled a roll of money from a pocket and peeled off a five-dollar bill. “Then you get me one, a good one, son.”
“It won’t be more than a dollar and seventy-five cents, I guess,” Tom objected.
“All right, but have it good. And if there’s anything left you bring along a mask. Might as well do this thing right, eh? And we better have a new ball, too. This one’s getting played out. Here, maybe you’ll need some more money.” And Mr. George put his hand to his pocket again.
“I’ve got enough, sir, I think,” said Tom. “Anyway, it’s only fair for me to pay for something. You see, it’s me—I who am going to get the good of it.”