“Yes, sir.” Sidney was in perfect agreement. Mr. Cummings was silent a minute. Then, “I’d like to see you pitch, Tom,” he said.
“It would be quite a treat,” said Tom flippantly. He was a bit embarrassed and the flippancy was meant to disguise the fact. Sidney, who had started to say something, closed his mouth and got up.
“That’s three out. I’ll have to go. If you stay till we’re through, Tom, I’ll go back with you.”
Tom looked doubtfully at Mr. Cummings. “What inning is it?” he asked.
“Third. We’ll only play six, probably. It won’t take long. Better see it through.”
“Of course we will,” replied Mr. Cummings with cheerful decision, stretching his legs comfortably over the back of the bench in front. “This is a holiday with us, Morris. Nothing to do till to-morrow!”
Sidney laughed and hurried away into right field and Mr. Cummings turned to Tom. “How long you been pitching?” he asked.
“Just since last year,” responded Tom. “Sid showed me a little about it and then I got a book and studied it. Now there’s a man at my boarding-house who used to play professional ball; pitched on some of the minor league teams for eight years; he’s teaching me a lot.”
His employer observed him admiringly. “Tom,” he said, “you’re a smart kid, aren’t you? How old are you?”
“Sixteen—and a half.”