"Shu-surest thing you know," answered Phil, who had been cleverly led into making such a confession. "I hope Wyndham eats them up alive!"
"Your desire will be gratified. Wyndham will make monkeys of them."
"You're confident."
"Dead sure."
"I don't just see how you can be."
"I suppose you've heard how Wyndham actually buried Barville last Saturday. The score was seventeen to three—something awful."
"But Clearport came mum-mighty near beating Wyndham the week before."
Herbert winked wisely. "Maybe they did, and maybe they didn't," he said.
"Oh, but they did! They batted Wyndham's new pitcher, Newbert, off the slab."
At this Rackliff laughed. "Tell it to the marines. I happen to know Dade Newbert; we were chums. I own up I was surprised when I heard how the Porters had biffed him. Wrote him asking about it. He'd been out the night before the game—out with a hot bunch playing poker till daylight. He didn't want to pitch anyhow, but the captain just shoved him in; so when he got tired and Wyndham seemed to have a safe lead, he just lobbed the ball over and let Clearport hit. Of course he was taken out, and that gave him a chance to look on while Twitt Crowell did the heavy work."