“That’s what!” cried Phil Clinton. “I’m ready to play ’em now.”
“Same here!” cried Pete Backus, giving a great jump up into the air, seemingly to justify his title of “Grasshopper.”
“My uncle says——” began Ford Fenton, but Holly Cross gave such an imitation of an Indian war whoop that what the former coach had said was lost “in the shuffle.”
“Great work, old man!” cried Phil Clinton to Tom as he linked his arm in that of the new ’varsity pitcher.
“That was a fine catch of yours, to return the compliment,” said Tom with a laugh.
“Don’t go forming a mutual admiration society,” advised Mr. Lighton. “Play ball—that’s the thing to do.”
“It’s queer what’s become of Langridge,” remarked Tom to Sid when they were in their room a few nights later, talking over the approaching final game with Fairview. “He seems to have dropped out of sight.”
“That’s where he’d better stay,” declared Sid. “He’ll never be any more account to the team. We’ll have a new manager when we whip Fairview.”
“If we only do!”
“Oh, we will. I only hope I can play.”