“Hello, Tom! How do you do, Mr. Cummings? Is this a holiday?”
“It is for us, Morris,” chuckled Mr. Cummings. “Tom and I sort of sneaked off. Are you playing?”
“Yes, sir, but I don’t bat for awhile yet,” replied Sidney, taking a seat beside them.
“Then suppose you tell us what’s going on. Who’s that at bat now?”
“That’s Sam Craig. He’s our catcher. We’re having a practice game with the scrub team, sir. The tall chap at the end of the bench is Frank Warner, our captain. And that’s Mr. Talbot standing behind him. He’s our coach, you know.”
“Good, is he?”
“Yes, sir, one of the best. Everyone likes him. Craig has fanned. That’s Pete Farrar coming up now. He’s our best pitcher.”
“Then I suppose he can’t hit,” said Mr. Cummings.
“Not very well. Nor,” added Sidney smilingly, “pitch much, either. He’s the best we have, though.”
“Tom was telling me you were hard-up for pitchers. Can’t you find a good one in all that crowd? Why, you must have three or four hundred boys in school, haven’t you?”