“So we did have, but Tuckerton and Sandrim have pulled up on us, and it’s almost a tie now. Yes, we’ve got to make a clean sweep from now on or we’ll not be in it.”
“Well, we can do it,” declared Pete vigorously.
“Sure,” asserted Whistle-Breeches, as if it was the most simple thing in the world.
“Oh, certainly, my lords and gentlemen,” added Bob Chapin half-mockingly. “Just sit here and figure it out by averages and percentages.”
“Dry up!” advised Cap. “How’s your arm holding out, Bill?”
“Oh, I guess I’ll manage, though we’re going to have a grandstand finish this week.”
“How about your eyes,” asked Whistle-Breeches. “Can’t you get along without the glasses yet, Bill? I’m always afraid a ball will crack into them, and then you would be out of it.”
“That part never worries me,” said Bill. “I’m so used to ’em now that I’d feel lost in the box without ’em. They certainly were a great thing, and I—”
He paused suddenly, and hurriedly crossed the room to where his uniform was picturesquely draped over a chair. Rapidly the pitcher felt through the pockets, and a look of alarm came over his face. He began tossing aside a multitudinous collection of articles on his bureau.
“What’s up, something bite you?” asked Pete.