"I was out," said Jim.
That ought to fetch him—and it did.
Al entered expectant. He was an extremely good-looking boy of sixteen, with pink cheeks, clear blue eyes, and a kink to his hair. He might have been called pretty if his shoulders were not quite so broad.
"Who win? I was north on an errand late and couldn't get a peek at an extra after the fifth." So Al apologized to his brother-in-law for his ignorance. "It was one and one then."
"The Giants win, three to two, and believe me there was a rank decision at the plate against Johnny Evers. He beefed on it proper and got chased. That's what smeared us."
"Johnny ought to learn to control himself," said Al pathetically.
"Yep. He's got too much pep—that's what's the matter with that lad."
"And all the umpires in the league have banded together against him. I heard it straight to-day. And believe me"—there was an element of mystery in the boy's voice, "there's something in it."
Jim clenched his fist and brought it down hard. "If the Cubs win out against the empires this year," he stated his proposition with a vehement brandish of his fist, "they'll be going some," but his peroration rather flattened out—"believe me."
"Yes, sir, Jim. That's no damn lie."