“You’ve got only a one-man team, John,” Brennan wound up. “Hughson’s carried the team along for years. If it hadn’t been for him you wouldn’t have won a pennant in the last ten years.”
“How about Matson?” parried McRae. “Do you remember the last game he twirled against you in Chicago?”
Brennan winced and the crowd laughed at the memory of that game, which had been a Waterloo for the men of the Windy City.
“He caught us off our stride that day,” he admitted, “and we’re aching to get at him. We’re all tuned up to knock him out of the box.”
A little more banter, and McRae rose to go.
“Sorry to have to leave you,” he remarked, “but I have an appointment to see a man about setting up a new pennant pole at the Polo Grounds.”
“I’m ahead of you there, John,” laughed Brennan. “I ordered mine before I left Chicago.”
“You’ll be sending a wire in a day or two to countermand the order,” the Giant leader prophesied. “By the way, Roger,” he went on, dropping his scoffing tone, “if you want to use the grounds for morning practice, I’ll fix it up so that you can divide the time with my boys.”
“That’s very white of you, John,” replied Brennan warmly, “and I appreciate it. But I guess I’ll stick to the regular rule and let you have it all to yourself. Thanks, though, just the same.”