“Hold on!” cried Tom quickly. “Do you want me to go, old man?” and he looked sharply at Joe.
“Nonsense! Of course you know I don’t.”
“Then drop that kind of talk, unless you want a fight on your hands. You and I stick together, Hiram Shell or no Hiram Shell—and Luke Fodick.”
“Well, I didn’t know,” spoke Joe softly.
“Here, come on; let’s have a catch,” proposed Tom. “I’ve got an old ball that we used in one of the Star games. Get over there and sting some in to me. Wait until I get my glove on,” and he adjusted his mitt.
“Jove! This is like old times!” exclaimed Joe, as he lovingly fingered the horsehide—dirty and stained as it was from many a clouting and drive into the tall grass and daisies. “I wish we could go and see a game, even if we couldn’t play.”
“Same here,” came from Tom, as he crouched to receive the ball his chum was about to deliver. Joe wound up and sent in a “hot” one. It landed squarely in Tom’s glove for the first-baseman (a position he sometimes had played on the Stars) was not a half bad catcher.
“How was that?” asked Joe.
“Pretty good. Not quite over the plate, but you can get ’em there. Let ’em come about so,” and Tom indicated a stone that would serve for home.
“Watch this,” requested Joe as he wound up again and let drive.