“There’s a wrench in my tool bag,” interrupted Joe. “Shall I get it for you?”
“No, thanks, you stay by Prince. I can find it. You haven’t been in town long, have you?” asked Darrell, as he was working away over the nut, which was a little tight.
“No, about a week. I was at the Resolute ball game though.”
“You were? It was a shame it broke up the way it did, but I don’t think it was our fault, though Sam Morton is pretty quick tempered.”
Joe had good reason to know that.
“No,” he answered from the darkness near the horse’s head, “it was the fault of the Resolutes all right. They ought to have been satisfied after pulling the game out of the fire the way they did.”
“I should say so! They never ought to have won it, and they wouldn’t have, only Sam sort of—well they got his ‘goat’ I guess.”
“Yes,” assented Joe, while Darrell went on fumbling with the wrench and nut.
“Do you play at all?” came the manager’s voice from the vicinity of the flickering light.
“Oh, yes,” and Joe’s tone was eager while his heart was strangely beating. It was a chance he had never dared hope for, to have the manager of the Silver Stars ask him that.