“Laid up, I hear. Captain Seymour says this feller beats Grig all hollow. Guess they’ve got it all rigged up to throw the game for Columbia. I wouldn’t put it past that Frank Allen and his bunch of toadies,” growled Lef, still sore after his experience of the morning.
“But they say Frank ain’t going to toss ’em over to-day. Got hurt this morning in some way. One fellow told me he jumped in the river and hauled Minnie Cuthbert out. Nobody seems to know just what happened, but his arm’s black and blue where he hit a rock,” went on Bill, at the same time eyeing his friend closely, for he had heard Lef chuckle as though quite tickled.
“So that’s what happened to little Frankie, was it? Served him right. He ought to mind his own business. I reckon I’d tamed that hoss down soon if he hadn’t cut in when he did,” grumbled Lef.
“What’s that?” demanded Bill, suspiciously, and showing keen interest.
“Never you mind. Tell about it another time. I know just what Frank Allen did. He’s always playing to the gallery, you know. Then who’s going to pitch for Columbia?” asked the other, turning the question aside.
“They say Ralph West,” replied Bill.
“That country kid. Why, these heavy batters of Bellport will just eat him alive. It’s a pity they can’t give me a chance to show what I can do. I’m better by long odds than I was last year, and I held ’em down to three hits one game. Remember that, don’t you, Bill?”
“Course I do. But I’m lookin’ for that come-on. Why ain’t he showin’ up and doin’ some practicin’? P’raps he’s got the big head, and thinks he don’t need to work out any before the game?” suggested Bill, maliciously.
“I kind of guess it’s just the other way, Bill,” laughed Lef.
“You mean he’s got cold feet, and won’t show up at all. Well, that would be a joke now. What d’ye suppose they’d do in such a case, Lef?”