“Sure,” assented Tom. “Say, that was a good stop all right. Have you played ball before?”
“Oh, just a little,” was the modest and rather quiet answer. In fact Joe Matson was rather a quiet youth, too quiet, his mother sometimes said, but his father used to smile and remark:
“Oh, let Joe alone. He’ll make out all right, and some of these days he may surprise us.”
“Well, that was a pippy stop all right,” was Tom’s admiring, if slangy, compliment. “Let’s go in, I may get a chance to play.”
Joe turned toward the main entrance gate, and thrust one hand into his pocket.
“Where you going?” demanded Tom.
“Into the grounds of course. I want to get a ticket.”
“Not much!” exclaimed his companion. “You don’t have to pay. Come with me. I invited you to this game, and I’m a member of the team, though I don’t often get a chance to play. Members are allowed to bring in one guest free. I’ll take you in. We’ll use the players’ gate.”
“Thanks,” said Joe briefly, as he followed his new friend.