“He’s got it bad—poor old Sid,” added Phil. “It will all come out right in the end, I hope.”
But it didn’t seem to for Sid, since in the course of the next week, when he had written again to Miss Harrison asking her to go with him to a dance, he received in return a polite little note, pleading a previous engagement.
“Well,” remarked Tom one afternoon, when he and his crowd of players had thronged out on the diamond, “we’re getting into some kind of shape. Get back there, Dutch, while I try a few curves, and then we’ll have a practice game.”
“And pay particular attention to your batting, fellows,” cautioned Coach Leighton. “It isn’t improving the way it ought, and I hear that Boxer has some good stick-wielders this season.”
“Yes, and they’ve got some one else on their nine, too,” added Bricktop Molloy. “Have ye heard the news, byes?” for sometimes the red-haired shortstop betrayed his genial Irish nature by his brogue.
“No, what is it?” asked Phil.
“Fred Langridge is playing with them.”
“What? Langridge, the bully who used to be here?” cried one student.
“That same,” retorted Bricktop.
“Have they hired him?” inquired Holly Cross.