"It isn't," Greg returned promptly. "I'm never secretive against you, Anstey, old man and the only reason I don't talk at once is that I don't know just what I want to say. But remember—-8.15. By that time I think I shall have solved myself into a highly talkative goat yearling."
Rap-tap! at the door, and Furlong and Dunstan dropped in.
"Want to tell you what I think about your pitching, old ramrod," announced Furlong.
"It's rotten!" glowed Dunstan cheerfully "And your shortstop work,
Holmesy——-"
"What kindergarten nine did you play with last?" insisted Furlong.
"I was just making up my mind not to pitch again this season," grinned Cadet Prescott.
"Why not?" Furlong demanded.
"Milesy," laughed Dick, "you should never go out on a kidding expedition until you're sure you're josh-proof yourself. Do you think anything less than the coaches and the team captain could stop me from pitching? But I sorry for Ken, if I'm to supplant him."
"You needn't be. Kennedy is glad. He hopes to make the cavalry, and he says he wants to train that wrist for wielding a sabre."
"Can you two near-plebes find time to drop in this evening, at just 8.15?" demanded Greg.