"Game's over," cut in Springer. "Rain sus-stopped it."
"Rain? Why——"
"Yes; it's raining over at the Port."
"Rotten! How many innings——"
"Five; just finished the fif-fifth when the clouds started to leak."
"Oh, then it counts as a game," palpitated the interested boy. "How did the score stand? Who was ahead?"
"Oakdale, six to one," answered Springer over his shoulder as he hurried on up the street.
"Hooray!" came the elated shout of the rejoicing lad. "Then you trimmed 'em! Jinks! that's fine. But, say—say, who pitched?"
Springer quickened his stride, seemingly deaf of a sudden. He had felt the question coming, and he had no heart to answer it. It would be asked by every fellow in Oakdale who had not attended the game, and, on learning the truth, they would join in one grand chorus of acclamation and praise for the Texan. For the time being Grant would be the king pin of the town.
Reaching home, Phil slipped in quietly without being seen by his mother and tiptoed up to his room, where, in sour meditation, he spent the intervening time until supper was ready. In a vague way he realized that he had, by deserting the team, betrayed himself to all his comrades as a fellow swayed by petty jealousy; but this thought, which seemed trying to force itself humiliatingly upon him, he beat back and thrust aside, persisting in dwelling on the notion that he had been most shabbily treated by Captain Eliot.