“Well, let the slaughter go on,” remarked Tom, as he came in with his men, to see what the seventh inning held in store for them.
“I guess you’d better let Evert pitch the rest of the game, Mr. Leighton,” said Tom, as he sat down on the bench beside the coach. “He can’t do any worse than I’ve done.”
“Nonsense! Things may take a turn even yet, though I admit they look rather bad for us. I hope——”
But Mr. Leighton did not finish. There seemed to be some dispute with the man on guard at the players’ gate.
“No, you can’t go in,” said the official. “How do I know you are a member of the Randall team?”
“Why, of course I am!” cried a voice, and, at the sound of it, Tom looked up quickly.
“Sid Henderson!” exclaimed the captain.
“Oh, Tom! Tom!” cried Sid. “Am I in time?” and he pushed past the gate tender.
“In time? Yes, to see us walloped,” answered the captain bitterly.