The boys crowded together to discuss the game, but Tom had a prodigious amount of something to do at a distance. He could hear Aleck’s catcher trying to prove that the second baseman had been all wrong somewhere, and Hal’s triumphant laugh came floating down to where he stood; he wouldn’t have gone any nearer him to hear all the discussions in the world. And as for Aleck! he was sure he’d find it hard to forgive him, this time, if never before.
He managed to slip off one side of the crowd, without much notice, and made the best of his way toward home. What was the reason things always went wrong that he had anything to do with? Other boys didn’t seem to have half the trouble, or else they didn’t mind it as much. But he was sure Carter must have felt horridly to have Davis trying to make out that he had done just the wrong thing, and the rest all seemed so eager to have it proved. He wondered why there couldn’t be some pleasure in proving a fellow had done well now and then; but there couldn’t be, for nobody ever seemed to like it.
“I say, Tom,” shouted a voice behind him, and there was Aleck, overtaking him with long strides.
“I say, Tom—hallo, old fellow, you’re not drawing such a long face as that over a game of ball are you? It isn’t worth it, my man! It’s fun enough while it lasts, but nothing after it’s over.”
“I was afraid you’d think it all my fault,” Tom managed to say, though dreading even the sound of his own words.
“All your fault! Nonsense! you made as good a score as any of them, and some of the others were out on more runs than you. I didn’t play any too well myself, but ’twas the way luck would have it, I suppose, and we’ll beat them all the same next time. But I was going to say, you’ve been helping me all the afternoon, and I thought you were bothered with those examples this morning; don’t you want a lift before to-morrow?”
“Helping him!” Tom could have hugged the ground he walked on!