“All right—I—I apologize,” said Sam in a low voice. “The runner was safe I guess.”
“You’d better be sure about it,” said the captain of the Whizzers, in a peculiar tone as he looked at Sam.
“Oh, I’m sure all right.”
“And you’re sorry you hit our umpire?” persisted the captain, for Sam’s apology had not been very satisfactory.
“Yes. You needn’t rub it in,” growled the pitcher.
“Then why don’t you shake hands with him, and tell him so like a man?” went on the home captain.
“I won’t shake hands with him!” exclaimed the small umpire. “I don’t shake hands with cowards!”
There was another murmur, and the trouble that had been so nearly adjusted threatened to break out again. But Darrell was wise in his day.
“That’s all right!” he called, more cheerily than he felt. “You fellows beat us fairly and on the level. We haven’t a kick coming, but we may treat you to a dose of the same medicine when we have a return game; eh, old man?” and he made his way to the opposing captain and the manager and cordially shook hands with them. There was a half cheer from the Whizzers. They liked a good loser.
“Yes, maybe you can turn the tables on us,” admitted the other manager, “but I hope when we do come to Riverside you’ll have a different pitcher,” and he glanced significantly at Sam.