“Billy’s the best pitcher we’ve had since I can remember,” said Tom. “I’m glad we’ll have him again next year.” Tom gave a final pat with his brush, dropped it into the paint pot and sighed. “That’s all done. How does it look?”
The boys drew back and observed their handiwork critically.
“Sort of thin in places, isn’t it?” asked Willard. “Under the front seat there——”
“The varnish will bring that out all right. I wonder if varnish is harder to put on than paint.”
“I hope not!” Willard groaned. “If I could afford it, Tom, I’d hire a painter to do the rest of the job.”
Tom laughed. “Oh, you’ll feel better by Monday. Let’s go and wash up. Will you have some dinner with me?”
“No, I told mother I’d surely be home. Why don’t you come over and eat with me? Then we’ll be all ready to start for the field.”
“I’ll ask if I may,” answered Tom, as they clattered down the steep stairway to the carriage house below. “Sure your mother won’t mind?”
“Not a bit. She’ll be glad to have you. Isn’t this enough to turn you gray?” And Willard paused at the carriage house door and viewed the confusion dejectedly. “Two weeks ago we had a perfectly good car, Tom, and now look at it! You needn’t tell me that Jimmy or anyone else knows how to put all those things together again!”