“No, he’s taking some sort of a course at Boxer Hall, I believe.”
“A course in concentrated meanness, I guess,” suggested Tom, as he thought of the dastardly trick Langridge had tried to play on Phil during the previous term.
“Well, no matter about that,” came from the coach. “You boys want to improve your batting—that’s all. Your field work is fair, and I haven’t anything but praise for our battery.”
“Thanks!” chorused Tom and Dutch Housenlager, making mock bows.
“But get busy, fellows,” went on the coach. “Oh, by the way, captain, what about a manager?”
“Election to-night,” answered Tom quickly. “The notice has been posted. Come on, we’ll have a scrub game. Five innings will be enough. There ought to be——”
“My uncle says——” began a voice from a small knot of non-playing spectators.
“Fenton’s wound up!” cried Dutch, making an attempt to penetrate the crowd and get at the offending nephew of the former coach.
“Can him!” shouted Joe Jackson.