“Over four hundred, sir, but we haven’t found anyone who can pitch much. That is, except one fellow, and we can’t get him.”
“How is that?” asked Mr. Cummings.
“He has to work.” Sidney grinned at Tom, and Tom coloured. “If we got him to pitch for us, we’d be all right, I guess.”
“Has to work, eh? That’s too bad. Something like Tom here, eh?”
“Very much like him,” laughed Sidney. Mr. Cummings looked around questioningly. “It’s Tom I’m talking about, Mr. Cummings.”
“Tom! Why, I didn’t know he could pitch ball.” Mr. Cummings faced Tom accusingly. “You never told me that. So you’re a young Walter Johnson, are you, son?”
“Sid’s just talking,” murmured Tom. “I pitch a little, sir.”
“He’s a dandy at it,” declared Sidney warmly, “and everyone wishes he could join the team. But of course he can’t.”
“I suppose not,” agreed Mr. Cummings. “Too bad, too.”