"Like automobiles," observed Herbert, after letting a little smoke drift through his nose, "they're all right when they go, and a perfect nuisance when they don't. Now look at yourself, Roy, old fellow. Your hands are covered with grease, and you've got a black streak across your nose, and you're all fretted up."
"Drat the old thing!" snarled Hooker, giving the rear tire a kick. "It's just simply contrary, that's all. There's only one person in town who knows anything about gas engines, and he's Urian Eliot's chauffeur. I suppose I could get him to tinker this contraption up if I only was chummy with Roger."
"Anyway," said Herbert, "I should think it would shake one up fearfully riding over these rough country roads. We have some roads around Boston."
"Oh, a fellow can pick his way along pretty well after our roads get settled. Of course, they're no macadamized boulevards. It's lots of sport, and one can get around almost anywhere he wants to go. As long as I'm not going to be on the baseball team, I might use it to run over to Barville or Wyndham or Clearport to see the games."
"So you're going to chase the games up, are you?" laughed Rackliff. "I thought perhaps you'd be so sore you'd keep away from them."
"What, and lose the chance of seeing Oakdale beaten? Why, I wouldn't miss that first game with Barville for anything."
"But you don't have to go out of this town to see that game. Give it to me straight, Roy, is that fellow Sanger really much of a pitcher? Of course, I know Roberts would blow about him, but what do you think?"
"He was green the first of last season, and with a poor catcher to hold him he didn't show up very strong; but it's a fact that Wyndham, the fastest team in these parts, only got three clean hits off him the last game he pitched."
"Well, he'll have a catcher that can hold him this year," declared the city lad. "Newt Copley is a bird. He can throw to bases, too; it's rank suicide for runners to try to steal on him. Then you should see him work a batter. Gets right under the man's club and talks to him in a low tone, telling him how rotten he is and all that, until he has the fellow swinging like a gate at every old thing that comes over. And the way he can touch a bat with his mitt and deflect it on the third strike without being detected by the umpire is wonderful. He's great for kicking up a rumpus in a game; but he enjoys it, for he'd rather fight than eat."
"He hadn't better try anything like that on Rod Grant."