Tom rather liked the way this strange man talked, though it was not without a tinge of suspicion that he accompanied him along the street, casting furtive glances at his luxurious attire, wondering how such as he could climb a tree.
“You couldn’t shin up no tree,” he presently ventured.
“Oh, couldn’t I, though?” laughed his companion. “I’ve shinned up more trees than you’ve got fingers and toes.”
“When you was a kid?”
“I’m a kid now, and don’t you forget it. And I’ll give you a tip, too. Grind up some bark in your hands—it works fine.”
They walked on silently for a little way; an ill-assorted pair they must have seemed to a passer-by, the boy hitching up his suspender as often as it slid from his shoulder in his shuffling effort to keep up with the alert stride of his companion.
“Trouble with stone-throwing is that there isn’t any skill in it. You know what Buck Edwards said, don’t you? He said he’d have learned to pitch much easier if it hadn’t been for throwing stones when he was a kid. He used to be a regular fiend at it, and when he came to passing curves he couldn’t make his first finger behave. You think Buck can beat that pitcher the Prep. boys have got?”
“Dem High School guys is all right.”
“Well, Buck’s a good pitcher. I don’t suppose I’ve thrown a stone in ten years. But I bet I could practice for ten minutes and beat you out. You smoke, don’t you?”
“N-no—yeer, I do sometimes.”