Jeff scrambled with the rest and emerged from the mêlée with a seasoned fielder’s mitt that had seen enough service to be as flexible and as well broken in as the most fastidious ball player could desire. Indeed, as he slipped it on, he exclaimed:
“Oh, boy! Look what I drew. That’s a regular one. Just my size, too, and—”
“Hi, Freshman, that’s my glove,” cut in an unpleasant voice, and Jeff looked up to find Gould bearing down on him, his hand stretched out to seize the glove that Jeff was examining.
Thatcher looked him over coldly.
“Oh, is it?” he said evenly. “How do you get that way?”
“Don’t get lippy to me, freshie. That’s my glove. I used it all last year. I was looking for it in the pile,” said Gould, with a show of authority.
“Oh, were you? So was I, and I found it first,” said Thatcher.
“What d’you mean?” snapped Gould, crowding close to Thatcher, with an ugly look in his dark eyes.
“What do I mean? Why, I mean to keep it. And if you don’t like it let me see you get it, you—”