"Is that the reason why you've been giving Rod Grant the cold shoulder?"
"I haven't been giving him—— What has he said to you, Eliot? Has he been tut-tut-talking about me?"
"Not a word."
"Then why should you say I'd given him the cold shoulder?"
"It was apparent to the dullest, Phil. For some time before that game you and Grant were very chummy; you were nearly always together, so that everybody noticed it. Since the game you've not been together at all, and I, myself, have plainly observed your efforts to avoid him. Now, old man, there can only be one explanation for such conduct: you're sore—sore because he succeeded in holding Barville down after you had failed."
Weakly Springer sought to protest against this, but stopped in the midst of it, fully comprehending how feeble his words were.
"It's folly, Springer," said Eliot, "sheer childish folly. We were all sorry to see you get your bumps and lose control, and I don't believe any one was any sorrier than Grant himself; for, somehow, I've come firmly to believe that he's on the square. He was reluctant about going on to the slab when I called him."
"Perhaps that was because he was afraid he'd get his, too," muttered Springer.
"Now, that isn't generous, and you know it. If the score had been heavy against us at the time, some fellows might have fancied Grant's reluctance was prompted by fear and a disinclination to shoulder another man's load in the first game he pitched. I've not sized it up as anything of the sort. You and he were close friends, and, knowing how you must feel to be batted out, he was loath to go in. You must realize it was a mighty lucky thing for us that we had a pitcher to take your place. Barville had you going, Phil, and you couldn't seem to steady down. Even old stagers get into that condition sometimes when pitching, and it's not an infrequent occurrence that a slabman who is not thought so good steps in and stops the slaughter."
"Every-bub-body seems to think Grant is pretty good," mumbled Springer.