Whereupon Miss Betty made up a jingling tune to go with the words, and taught it to every one to use as a cheer.
“Let’s have a bit of practice.” The editor was in rare good humor, for they usually practiced in the late afternoons. “But, since I seem to recall a certain mishap, I suggest we step outside for our practice.”
He meant the time that they had had a few “passes” right there in the big editorial room, one day when work was slack, and Chub had missed a ball. The glass in the ticker, which reeled out yellow lengths of news bulletins, had been broken since that day.
They went through the windows to the grassy place by Joan’s home. Em scurried out of the way at the first ball.
Joan sat on her own side steps and looked on. How handsome Tim was, in that gray uniform and cap! Chub sat beside her, both of them engrossed in watching the men making catches and putting out imaginary opponents. “We have to beat the Star,” she vowed.
Suddenly, Mr. Nixon, who was captain by courtesy, called Tim. “Lefty here and I have been watching you play, Tim. You’re fast and sure. I believe I’ll put you in as shortstop.”
Tim grinned. Every one seemed delighted. Miss Betty was loud in her exclamation. Only Mack was silent. He appeared peeved. Why should he care whether Tim was on the team or not?
“No clews to the mystery,” Chub said glumly. “I’ve been watching for developments every minute. Maybe we’ll get some at the picnic.”
“Maybe.” Joan hoped so, because she did want to solve the mystery and make it up to Tim for having got him into such a mess with the Albert Johnson story.