“Had to bone on trigonometry, I guess,” replied Peaches.
“Does he play on the team?” Joe wanted to know.
“Yes, we all do. George is short, I’m on third, and Teeter holds down first sometimes. But you never can tell what Hiram is going to do. He and Luke are always making shifts, and that’s what lost us the Blue Banner last season. The fellows would no more than get familiar with their positions than Hiram would shift ’em. Oh, he runs things to suit himself.”
The hour of ten boomed out from the big school clock and the visitors left.
“Spring fever!” exclaimed Joe one day, as he and Tom came from a physics lecture.
“Yes, I’ve got it, too,” admitted Tom. “It’s in the air, and I’m glad of it. What’s that Shakespeare says about ‘now is the winter of our discontent?’”
“Oh, cheese it! Don’t begin spouting poetry. Besides I’m not sure it was Shakespeare, and I don’t give a hang. All I know is that Spring is coming, and soon they’ll begin getting the diamond in shape.”
“Precious lot of good that will do you—or me, either. Hiram is as down on me as he is on you.”
“I know it, and I was going to speak of that, Tom. There’s no use in your losing a chance to play on the nine just because I’m on the outs. Why don’t you cut loose from me? You can get another room, and maybe if you do——”