She had made a really brilliant play. To their amazement, others equally as brilliant followed it. Then all at once there came a slump. Harriet Burrell played worse than ever. It had come to the point where she could not even hit a ball, much less deliver it properly.
“If there were a lake handy, I’d jump into it and drown myself,” George confided to Billy.
“Go jump in the spring. A good ducking will do you good. Your face is as red as a lobster. You couldn’t be any hotter if you had been playing a championship game yourself.”
“A championship game!” groaned Baker. “Don’t mention it!”
“Do you know anything?” demanded Sam, coming up at that juncture.
George shook his head.
“No, I’m a driveling idiot. I always knew something was wrong with me, but until this thing came up I never knew exactly what that something was. Now I do.”
“Glad you’ve got a clear understanding of yourself,” answered Sam. “It will be the best thing ever for what ails you. But you were mighty slow in getting wise to yourself. Even Tommy could tell you. She could tell you what you have done in this matter, too.”
“Eh? What I have done?”
“Yes.”