“I am not. You’ve bled me enough.”
“Oh, I’ve bled you enough; have I? I’ve bled you enough, my fine bird! Well then, you wait! You’ll see how much more I’ll bleed you! You’ll sing another tune soon or I’m mistaken. I’ve bled you enough; eh? Well you listen here! I ain’t bled you half as much as I’m goin’ to. And some of the others are goin’ t’ come in on the game! You wait! That’s all!”
And he uttered a lot of strong expressions that the ground officer hushed by hustling him off the field.
Joe took no part in this. He stood quietly at the side of Pop as though to show, by his presence, that he believed in him, trusted him and would help him, in spite of this seeming disgrace.
They were alone—those two. The young and promising pitcher, and the old and almost broken down “has-been.” And yet the “has-been” had won a hard-fought victory.
Pop Dutton glanced curiously at Joe.
“Well?” he asked, as if in self-defence.
“What’s the answer?” inquired Joe, trying to make his tones natural. “Was it a hold-up?”
“Sort of. That’s one of the fellows I used to trail in with, before you helped me out of the ditch.”
“Is he a railroad man?” asked Joe. “I thought he said something about the railroad.”