[396]
“Asheville, then Richmond. Anneburg is the smallest town we play.”
“Don’t think we don’t appreciate it, Swifty. Say, the Big Fellow certainly can pitch, can’t he?” Mr. Birdseye pointed toward the flinger of oranges who, having exhausted his ammunition, was now half out of a window, contemplating the flitting landscape. “How’s his arm going to be this year?”
“Better than ever—better than ever. I guess you know about the no-hit game he pitched last year—the last game he played?”
“Tell me something about that kid I don’t know,” boasted Mr. Birdseye. “I’ve followed him from the time he first broke in.”
“Then you know he’s there with the pipes?”
“The pipes?”
“Sure—the educated larynx, the talented tonsils, the silver-lined throat—in other words, the gift of song.”
“Why, I didn’t know he sang,” owned Mr. Birdseye, a mite puzzled.
“That’s it—let a fellow do one thing better than anybody else, and they forget his other accomplishments. Sing? Well, rather! And punish old John J. Mandolin, too, if anybody should ask you.”
So saying, the speaker drew forth a bulldog pipe and proceeded to load it from a leather tobacco case.