“Oh, never mind. Let’s forget it and see the game. Come on.”
It wasn’t so easy for Tom to forget it, however, and all the way out to the field he was quiet and depressed. Willard and Jimmy Brennan talked baseball with enthusiasm, Jimmy being a “fan” of the deepest dye. They reached the entrance quite early and while Willard was searching for a mislaid half-dollar near the ticket window some of the members of the high school team passed. Among them was George Connors, a big, good-looking, dark-complexioned chap of eighteen, who was Audelsville’s catcher. Willard and Tom both spoke to George as he passed, but all they received in return was a scowl, and Tom turned inquiringly to his friend.
“What’s the matter with George Connors?” he asked. “He looked as though he wanted to bite me.”
“Me, too,” answered Willard. “I guess he’s down on us on account of his father. I suppose his dad’s been calling us names for interfering with his business, Tom.”
“Oh, that’s it?” he nodded understandingly. “I didn’t think about that. Yes, I dare say we’re in wrong with the whole Connors family, Will.” He followed Willard and Jimmy Brennan through the gate and found a seat with them on the left field bleachers. “I was thinking, coming out here, Will,” he continued as he pulled his hat down over his eyes and prepared for hot weather, “that we might do pretty well bringing folks out to these games. We could make two or three trips without missing any trains.”
“I don’t believe many of these folks would pay a quarter to ride out,” Willard objected.
“We might take them both ways for a quarter,” answered Tom. “You see if we’re out here we’ve got to go back anyway, and we might as well take passengers. Suppose we try it the next time there’s a game?”
“All right. We won’t make much, though, I guess.”
“I’ll tell you how you might make some money,” observed Jimmy Brennan. “There’s a big picnic two weeks from to-day at Wyman’s Grove. Why not take folks out to that? It’s nearly two miles out there and you could easily get a quarter each way.”