“What did Frank mean by that?” asked Skeets curiously.
“Oh, it’s about that Tom Hicksley,” Fred replied. “Frank has heard that he’s a good ball player, and if he is, he wants him on the nine. He heard Bobby and me talking of the scrap we had with him this morning, and he doesn’t want trouble in the team.”
“Maybe Frank’s right, at that,” conceded Skeets. “But I don’t know that it’s good dope to have a fellow like that on the nine, no matter how good a player he is. He’ll be wanting to run things and perhaps break up the whole team.”
“We’ll hope not,” said Bobby. “At any rate, there’s no use worrying about it yet. He may not be so good a player as Frank has heard he is, and may not play on the team at all.”
“We’ll have to look over our baseball togs and see if they’re in good shape,” said Fred. “I know the spikes on my shoes need sharpening.”
“And I’ll have to pound that new baseball glove of mine until it’s good and soft and has a big hollow in the middle,” added Bobby. “We mustn’t overlook the least thing that’s going to help us to win.”
“Won’t the Clinton boys open their eyes if we can tell them when we go home for the summer vacation that we’re the champions of the Monatook Lake League?” gloated Fred.
“Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched,” laughed Sparrow. “It’s a long time yet before the end of the season.”
“It’s all over but the shouting, the way I look at it,” persisted Fred defiantly.
“Don’t wake him up, he is dreaming,” mocked Skeets.