"Oh, Herbert knows they've given me a rotten deal," said Hooker quickly. "He's got his opinion about it. Honestly and truly, we'd both like to see Barville win."
"If that is the case," whispered Roberts, with a secretively friendly and confidential air, "you're just about dead sure to have your desire gratified. We'll have the finest high school battery ever seen in these parts. Got a new catcher, you know."
"No. I didn't know."
"Yep. He's a corker. Knows the game from A to Z, and he's coaching Sanger. You should see them work together. By the way, he comes from a town near Boston. Part of the city, isn't it—Roxbury? He knows more baseball than any fellow in these parts."
"What's his name?" asked Rackliff, lighting a fresh cigarette.
"Copley."
"What?" exclaimed Herbert, nearly dropping his cigarette. "Not Newt Copley?"
"That's him."
"Great scott! Say, he is a catcher. He's the trickiest man who ever went behind a bat. I know, for I've seen him play. He knows me, too. Say, isn't it odd that I should have a chum pitching for Wyndham this year and an acquaintance catching for Barville?"
The face of Len Roberts wore a look of satisfaction.