Hughson got up and relinquished his seat to McRae.
“Sit down here,” he said. “I’ve been chinning with Matson until he’s black in the face and he’ll be glad to get rid of me.”
He grinned at Joe’s laughing disclaimer and made his way up the car while McRae slipped into the vacant seat.
“There goes one of the finest men that ever stepped in shoe leather,” he remarked, as his eye followed Hughson’s tall form up the aisle.
“Isn’t he a prince?” said Joe, eagerly. “You don’t know whether to admire him most as man or player.”
“He’s just about a hundred per cent. in both,” agreed McRae. “He’s been the mainstay of my team for the last ten years. There isn’t enough money in the league to buy him from the Giants. He’s the only man on the team who doesn’t have to go through the regular schedule in the training camp. I let him come along just as he likes, for I know he’ll be fit as a fiddle when the season opens. I don’t mind telling you that I consulted him as to getting you from St. Louis, and it was largely on his advice that I put through the deal.”
“Even his opponents like and respect him,” said Joe. “In swinging round the circuit last year I never heard any one say a word against him. They all agree that he’s a credit to the game.”
“Well, now, how about yourself?” asked McRae, as his keen eye swept over Joe’s athletic form. “You look as though you had been taking care of yourself this winter. Some of my players are hog fat when they report in the spring, but I should judge that you wouldn’t have to lose more than five pounds or so to get down to your best playing weight.”
“Just about that, I guess,” replied Joe. “I’m weighing about one hundred and seventy now, and I always feel most fit when I tip the scales at one hundred and sixty-five.”
“Been doing anything outside the rings and dumb-bells?” McRae inquired.