“That’s one on you, Langridge,” cried Phil Clinton. “That’s the time you got yours good and proper.”
Tom was smiling good-naturedly, but the other was scowling.
Tom looked Langridge straight in the eye, and the other turned aside. The country lad put back the comb into his pocket.
“What’s your name?” growled Langridge, though he knew it full well.
“Tom Parsons.”
“Where do you want to try for?”
“Pitcher.”
There was some confusion in the room, but it ceased at Tom’s reply.
“Pitcher!” exclaimed Langridge.
“I said pitcher,” replied Tom quietly.