“Haven’t a chance!” cried Spike, indignantly. “Do you mean to say, Ricky, that they’ll let Weston go on losing games the way he did to-day?”
“No, not exactly. But they’ll pitch him because he will appeal to their society side, and bamboozle ’em into thinking that he has come back strong, and can sure win.”
“And if he doesn’t—if he slumps as he did to-day?”
“Then they’ll put in Avondale or McAnish.”
“And Joe won’t get a show until last?” asked Spike.
“That’s about the size of it.”
“I don’t believe so.”
“All right. Just watch,” said Ricky, with a shrug of his shoulders. “Of course,” he went on, “the coaches may wake up to the fact before it’s too late, or there may be such a howl made that they’ll have to can the society plea. But it’s a queer situation. Come on down to Glory’s and we’ll feed our faces.”
“Wait until we get un-togged,” suggested Spike, for he, too, had on a uniform, hoping for a chance to play. But it had not come.