“You’re dippy! I haven’t made an error to-day! You rub those out, Jonesie, or I’ll kick you back to school!”
“My mistake,” replied Jonesie untroubledly, canceling the dots. “Say, Billy, why don’t you have a good team?”
“The team’s all right,” answered the captain, mollified as the untruthful periods disappeared. “We’ve had perfectly rotten luck to-day.”
“Oh, sure!” Jonesie’s tone was maddeningly sarcastic. “Blame it on the luck, Billy. Say, honest, Billy——”
“Don’t you be so fresh with your ‘Billys,’ kid,” advised the other, prodding Jonesie’s spine with the toe of his shoe. Billy was a senior, and at Randall’s seniors exacted proper respect from lower-class fellows.
“My mistake, Mr. Carpenter,” corrected Jonesie sweetly. “I was going to say—Proudfoot up! Billings on deck!—going to say that I could make up a team of lower-class fellows that would beat you all around the block, Bil—er—Carpenter.”
“You could do wonders,” responded the captain derisively. “Suppose, though, you credit that Popham first base with a put-out if you’re not too busy talking nonsense.”
“No trouble at all,” murmured Jonesie, placing a period in the wrong space and so adding to the glory of the Popham left-fielder. “The trouble with this bunch of yours is that they can’t bat, can’t field and can’t handle the ball. Aside from that, though, Billy, they’re certainly a fine lot. Who threw that to first?”
“Why don’t you watch the game and find out?” snarled Billy.
“Call this a game? It—it’s a farce, that’s what it is, a blooming farce!” Jonesie gave the assist to the shortstop on a chance and chattered on. “You see, Bil—that is, Mr. Carpenter—in order to play baseball you’ve got to know more than the ball.”