“Why—er—I’m pitcher on the ’varsity nine!” fairly snarled Langridge. “That is, I was last year and expect to be again. Do you mean pitcher on the scrub?”
“On the ’varsity,” spoke Tom, smiling the least bit.
Langridge shot a look at him from his black eyes. It was a look that boded Tom no good, for the former pitcher had recognized in the new arrival a formidable rival.
“Put his name down,” called Sid. “You might get a sore arm, and we’d need a substitute.”
Langridge glanced quickly at the speaker.
“His name is down,” he answered quietly—more quietly than any one expected him to speak. “Are there any others?”
No one answered.
“We’ll meet for practice to-morrow afternoon,” went on Langridge. “Of course, it’s understood that no one plays on the team who doesn’t contribute his share of expenses,” and he looked straight at Tom Parsons.
Without a word the country lad drew out a wallet, none too well filled, to judge by the looks of it.