“Not yet,” spoke Peaches quietly. “The election isn’t until next week.”
“What’s that got to do with it? You ain’t thinking of running opposition to me; are you?”
“No,” and a bright spot burned on the fair cheeks of the light-complexioned lad.
“Because if you are you’ll have a fight on your hands,” threatened Luke. “Who’s been pitching?” he asked, his gaze roving over the crowd of lads.
“I was for our side,” replied Joe quietly.
“Oh, you—yes I heard about you!” exclaimed Luke with a grating laugh. “You’re the fellow who wants to pitch on the nine; ain’t you? Well, you want to get that bee out of your bonnet, or you may get stung, see? Hiram told me about you. Why, you are only an amateur. We want the best here at Excelsior. By Jove, it’s queer how tacky some of you high school kids get as soon as you come to a real institution. Talk about nerve, I——”
Joe fairly leaped from the bench. In another stride he confronted Luke.
“Look here!” cried our hero, anger getting the best of him for the time being. “I’ve taken all of that kind of talk I’m going to either from you or Bully Shell! Now you keep still or I’ll make you. I’ll give you the best licking you ever had; and I’ll do it right here and now if you say another word about my pitching! I didn’t come here to take any of your sneers, and I don’t intend to. Now you put that in your pipe, and smoke it, and then close up and stay closed,” and shaking his finger so close to the astonished Luke that it hit the buttons on his coat, Joe turned back and sat down.