There was a hand on Tom’s shoulder, and he felt himself wheeled suddenly around, to be confronted by Langridge. The pitcher had brushed his uniform and looked particularly handsome in a well-fitting suit, while there was a healthy glow to his face.
“Perhaps you’d better repeat over again, Parsons,” he said somewhat sternly, “what you were just saying to Miss Tyler about me. I didn’t catch it all!”
“I—er—I——” Tom was choking, and the girl bravely came to his relief.
“We were just talking about you,” she admitted with a nervous little laugh. “I was saying how disheartening it must be to pitch through a hard game and then lose it. And Tom—I mean Mr. Parsons, but I always call him Tom, for I’ve known him so long—he was just saying—er—he was just saying that you were rather—well, rather a flirt. I believe that was it, wasn’t it, Tom?” and she looked quickly at him, but there was meaning in her glance.
Langridge kept his hand on Tom’s shoulder and the two looked each other straight in the face unflinchingly. Miss Tyler lost some of her blushes and her cheeks began to pale. Then Tom spoke quietly.
“If you wish to know exactly what I said,” was his quiet but tense answer, “I will tell you—later,” and he swung on his heel and started down the grandstand steps.
For an instant Langridge stared after him. Then, with a little laugh, he turned to Miss Tyler.
“Poor Parsons is sore because he’s been suspended,” he said. “He can’t even pitch on the scrub. But how pretty you’re looking to-day, Miss Madge.”
“Miss Tyler, please,” she corrected him.
“Mayn’t I even call you Miss Madge after I’ve been defeated in the game?” he pleaded, and he looked at her boldly. “It would be—er—well, sort of soothing to me.”