“Glad you appreciate my abilities,” remarked Sid, with a little softening of his manner. “I’m as much broken up over it as you are. All I can say is there’s been a big mistake, and all I ask for is a suspension of judgment.”
“But if it’s a mistake, why can’t you tell?” insisted Phil.
“I can’t, that’s all. You’ll have to worry along without me. I hear Pete is doing good.”
“Oh, yes, fair,” admitted Tom, “but he isn’t as sure a batter as you are. We need you, Sid.”
“Well, I’m sorry—that’s all. It may be explained—some day, but not now,” and Sid fell to studying again.
“I don’t like this,” remarked Tom to Phil, a few days later, following some practice the day before the game with Michigan, a team that had won a name for itself on the diamond.
“Don’t like what, Tom?”
“The way some of our team are playing and acting. They seem to think any old kind of baseball will do. They play fine—at times—then they go to pieces. Then, too, there seems to be a sort of clique forming in the nine and among some of the subs. There’s too much sporting around, and staying out nights. Too many little suppers and smokers.”
“Leighton doesn’t kick—why should you?”