“Yes, we must have an election for manager soon,” conceded Tom. “But first I want to see what sort of a team I’m going to have. We need outdoor practice, but if this rotten weather keeps up——”
“Hark! I think I hear the rain stopping,” exclaimed Phil.
“Stop nothing,” declared Holly. “It’s only catching its breath for another deluge.” And it did seem so, for, presently, there came a louder patter than ever, of drops on the tin gutter.
“Well, guess I’d better be moving,” announced Holly, after another spasm of talk. “What time is it by your town clock, anyhow?” and he shied a book at the alarm timepiece so that the face of it would be slewed around in his direction, giving him a peep at it without obliging him to get up.
“Here! What are you trying to do?” demanded Tom. “Do you want to break the works, and stop it?”
“Impossible, my dear boy,” said Holly lazily. “Just turn it around for me, will you, like a good fellow. I don’t see how I missed it. I must practice throwing, or I won’t be any good when the ball season opens. Give me another shot?” and he raised a second volume.
“Quit!” cried Tom, interposing his arm in front of the fussy little clock.
“That calls us to our morning duties,” added Phil, adding in a sing-song voice: “Oh, vandal, spare that clock, touch not a single hand, for surely it doth keep the time the worst in all the land.”