“Huh! we haven’t started yet,” retorted Tom. He turned to William Philander Tubbs, who had strolled near. “Say, Tubby, old boy, lend me your green socks for luck, will you?”
“Oh, Tom, please don’t ask me to—ah—lend those socks,” pleaded William Philander, innocently. “They are the only pair of that shade I have, and the young ladies say——”
“They can’t resist you when you have them on,” finished Tom. “All right, if you want me to lose the game, keep the socks,” and the fun-loving Rover put on a mournful look.
“But, my dear Tom, how can my socks have anything to do with the game?” questioned the dude, helplessly.
“Why, it’s a psychological phenomena, Tublets. Sort of an inter-mental telepathy, so to speak—a rhomboid compendium indexus, as it were. Of course you understand,” said Tom, soberly.
“Why—ah—I don’t think I do, Tom,” stammered the dude. “But I can’t loan the socks, really I can’t!” And he backed away with all possible haste, while some of the students poked each other in the ribs and some laughed outright.
“Now then, here is where we go at ’em, hammer and tongs!” cried Dick, as he walked to the plate. And he met the first ball pitched and lined a beautiful three-bagger to deep center.
“Hurrah! That’s the way to do it!” yelled Tom. “Leg it, old man, leg it!”
“We’ve struck our gait!” sang out another player. “Now, Tom, you’ve got to bring him home sure.”
Tom was on the alert and after one strike managed to send the ball down into left field. Dick came home and the batter got to second, although it was a tight squeeze.