“Now play lively, boys,” he urged. “I want to arrange for some other games this season besides those in the league, and we want to win some of ’em.”
To his delight Tom found himself chosen by Bricktop, together with Sid and Phil Clinton. Langridge held a whispered conversation with Backus, the other captain, and was promptly chosen on that hastily formed nine.
“I’ll pitch and Ed Kerr’ll catch,” Langridge announced, as if that settled it. And it was noticeable that Backus did not make a protest, though he was as good a catcher as was Kerr.
“Will you pitch for us, Parsons, me lad?” asked Bricktop with just a trace of rich Irish brogue. “Sure and I heard what ye did, me lad, the night of the clapper.”
“Well, that was mostly luck, I guess,” replied Tom modestly, “though I’d like the chance to pitch now.”
“Sure, then, an’ you’ll have it,” replied the Irish lad with a twinkle in his honest blue eyes. “Come on, fellows. We’re last at the bat.”
“Hold me down, somebody!” exclaimed Dutch Housenlager as he turned a hand spring and came down so close to Molloy that the former captain was nearly sent over. “I’m feeling like a two-year-old.”
“That’s all right, Dutch, me lad,” exclaimed Bricktop, relapsing into a broader brogue as his feelings came uppermost. “This isn’t a stable, though, and we can dispense with the horse play until after the game if you can accommodate yourself to the exigencies of the occasion,” and he spoke much after the manner of Dr. Churchill, for Bricktop, in spite of the fact that he was a senior, “grave and reverend,” liked fun and his joke. “If you will kindly resume the upright stature befitting a human being,” he went on, “you may try to stop whatever balls come in the direction of shortstop, for there’s where ye’ll play.”
“All right,” answered Dutch good naturedly. “I’m agreeable, my fair captain. But would you mind keeping your hat on? When the sun strikes your red-gold locks it dazzles my eyes.”