“We start north to-morrow,” went on McRae, “in two lots, playing minor league teams on the way to keep in practice. The regulars will go along with me, while Robbie will take the second string men and the rookies. We’ll jog along in easy fashion and hope to reach the Polo Grounds in the pink of condition.”
By this time Joe had found his voice. He smiled broadly.
“That’s mighty good of you, Mac,” he said. “I suppose you want us then to go right through to New York.”
“That’s the idea,” replied the manager. “Robbie will see to your transportation this afternoon.”
But just here, Robson, who had been watching the boys’ faces, broke into a laugh.
“For the love of Mike, wake up Mac!” he adjured his friend. “Don’t you know that Joe lives only a couple of hundred miles from here right over the border? And don’t you remember those two pretty girls that were with us on the World Tour? And didn’t we hear Joe telling Jim a few days ago that his sweetheart was visiting his folks? And here you are sending the lads straight through to New York with never a stop on the way. Mac, old man, I’m ashamed of you.”
McRae grinned as he looked at the faces of the young men—faces that had grown suddenly red.
“Robbie hit the nail on the head, did he?” he said, with a chuckle. “Well, I’m Irishman enough to have a soft spot in my heart for the lads and their colleens. Fix it up, boys, to suit yourselves. As long as you report on time, that’s all I ask. Get along with you now, as Robbie and I have got to fix up our routes.”
Joe and Jim were only too glad to “get along,” and after thanking McRae hurried to their room, where they indulged in a wild war dance.
“Glory, hallelujah!” shouted Joe. “A whole week or more to ourselves, and home only two hundred miles away!”