“I gave you golf balls?” Durant looked at him again. “Why, yes, now I do recall. Burton Keating hit you with a long shot.”
“Yes—yes, that was the time,” Jimmie exclaimed, pleased that he had not been quite forgotten.
“Well now isn’t it strange,” said Durant with a queer smile, “how our every little act comes back to haunt us?”
“Mis—mister Durant,” Jimmie burst out again, “will you do me a favor?”
“Gladly. Name it.” The great one smiled.
“Autograph a baseball for me,” Jimmie’s tone was eager.
“Is that all? I shall be glad to do that,” laughed Durant. “In fact, I’ll do more. I’ll pass the ball down the line to all the members of the team and have them sign it.”
“That—ah—that will be swell!” said Jimmie.
“But these pictures?” Durant’s voice took on a puzzled note. “How could you take them? I can’t say I saw you on the diamond.”
“I’ll say not,” exclaimed Jimmie. “It isn’t allowed. Wait! I’ll show you.” He was away and back again in the same moment.