“We were surely up against it,” replied Joe. “But to-day’s another day and we’ll hope it tells a different story.”
“By the way,” grinned Hughson, “an old friend of yours was up here yesterday.”
“Is that so?” asked Joe. “Who was it?”
“‘Bugs’ Hartley.”
The two young men gave vent to an exclamation of surprise.
“He’s a great friend of mine,” said Joe, dryly. “He met me on the street the other night and showed me that I was as popular with him as a rattlesnake at a picnic party.”
“He certainly is sore at you,” Hughson laughed. “He started in to pan you but I shut him up in a hurry. I told him that you’d always done everything you could to help him, and I hinted to him that we knew pretty well who drugged your coffee that day you pitched against the Phillies. He swore, of course, that he didn’t do it.”
“I know that he did,” Joe replied. “But still I’ve never felt so sore against poor old Bugs as I would have felt against any one else who did such a thing, because I knew that he was a little queer in the head. Even now I’d gladly do him a favor if I could. What did he come here for?”
“He wanted to get on to Boston but didn’t have the price,” answered Hughson. “He thought that if he could see Rawlings he might get a chance with the Braves for next season. And he might, at that. You know what Rawlings has done with a lot of cast-offs from other teams, and if he could keep Bugs from kicking over the traces he might get something out of him next year. You know as well as I do what Bugs can do in the pitching line if he’ll only brace up and cut out drink. So I coughed up enough to send him on and I hope he’ll get another chance.”