“You’re welcome to it,” laughed Joe.
“No,” and the other spoke half sadly. “Dad doesn’t believe in a college career any more than you do. When I’m through at Excelsior Hall he’s going to take me into business with him. He talks of sending me abroad, to get a line on the foreign end of it.”
“Cracky!” exclaimed Joe. “That would suit me down to the ground—that is if I could go with a ball team.”
“So you haven’t gotten over your craze for baseball?” queried Tom.
“No, and I never shall. You know what I’ve always said—that I’d become a professional some day; and I will, too, and I’ll pitch in the world series if I can last long enough,” and Joe laughed.
“But look here!” exclaimed his chum, as they swung down a quiet street that led out into the country; “you can play baseball at Yale, you know.”
“Maybe—if they’ll let me. But you know how it is at those big universities. They are very exclusive—societies—elections—eating clubs—and all that sort of rot. A man has to be in with the bunch before he can get a show.”
“That’s all nonsense, and you know it!” snapped Tom. “At Yale, I warrant you, just as at every big college, a man has to stand on his own feet. Why, they’re always on the lookout for good fellows on the nine, crew or eleven, and, if you can make good, you’ll be pitching on the ’varsity before the Spring term opens.”
“Maybe,” assented Joe with rather a moody face. “Anyhow, as long as I’ve got to go to college I’m going to make a try for the nine. I think I can pitch a little——”