“No, he goes there now—Sophomore I heard sis say. She was boasting about him, but I didn’t pay much attention. I meant to tell you, but I forgot it.”
“A Yale man,” mused Joe.
“Yes, that’s him, with the flower in his coat. Sort of a sport I guess. Sis said he was on the nine, but I don’t know where he plays. Like to meet him? I don’t know him myself, but I can get sis to present us. She met him at some dance this Summer, and found he had relatives here he intended to visit. She asked him to call—say, isn’t it great how the girls do that?—and he did—the other night. Then he must have made a date with her. Like to meet him? Name’s—let’s see now—I did have it. Oh, I remember, it’s Weston—Ford Weston. Want to meet him after the game?”
“No—I—I don’t believe I do,” said Joe slowly. “He may think I am sort of currying favor. I’ll wait until I get to Yale, and then, if I get the chance, I’ll meet him. He looks like a decent chap.”
“Yes, Mabel is crazy about him,” said Tom; “but all girls are that way I guess. None for mine! Well, shall we start?”
The batter was impatiently tapping his stick on the home plate.
“Play ball!” called the umpire, and, as Joe walked to his place he gave a glance toward where Mabel Davis sat with a tall, good-looking chap.
“A Yale man,” mused Joe, “and on the nine. I wonder what he’ll think of my pitching?” and, somehow, our hero felt a bit nervous, and he wished he had not known of the presence of the collegian. As he began winding up to deliver the ball he fancied he detected an amused smile on the face of Ford Weston.