“I thought our Cresville boys wouldn’t be able to pull up, after the Red Sox got that big lead on ’em, but they certainly played their heads off.”
“They sure did. The pitcher won the game for them with that last wallop of his!”
“That’s right,” remarked a stout lad, one of a group of three who were walking slowly across the green diamond at the conclusion of a ball match.
“The umpire made some pretty rank decisions,” added the boy who had made the first comment, glancing across in front of his companion, who, in the middle of the trio, separated the two speakers.
“You’re right,” commented the stout youth.
The two exchanged looks—queer glances, and, as if by mutual consent, gazed up at the face of their chum who walked between them. Then the stout lad winked.
“What’s the matter, Jerry?” he asked. “Didn’t you like the game?”
“Game? What game? Oh, yes—sure I liked it!” was the hurried response, as though the speaker’s thoughts had been far afield when the import of the question was grasped. “It was a good little game,” went on the lad in the centre of the trio. “Too bad our boys didn’t win, though!”
“Too bad!” echoed the stout lad. “Why, what——”