Joe had a sudden choking fit.
“Well,” he said, “there’s no use crying over spilt milk. We ought to have made those runs earlier in the game, that’s all.”
“I felt so sorry for poor Mr. Markwith,” said Mrs. Matson. “It must have been very mortifying to have to give up before so many people.”
“Poor Red,” said Joe. “It was too bad, especially when he got away to such a splendid start. But every pitcher has to take his medicine some time. Pitchers are very much like race horses. One day no one can beat them and another day any one can beat them.”
“I think you did splendidly, Mr. Barclay,” said Clara, shyly.
“Oh, I didn’t have much to do,” said Jim. “Just the same,” he added, dropping his voice a trifle, “I’d rather hear you say that than any one else I know.”
The flush that made Clara look like a wild rose deepened in her cheeks not only from the words but the quick look that accompanied them.
“Don’t you think it might clear up yet?” she asked, changing the subject.
Jim followed her gaze reluctantly. He had something better to look at than the weather.