“Prophetic,” he murmured. “That’s what it was, prophetic!”
Popham added another run to her tally in that first of the ninth, but Jonesie didn’t trouble to score it. He was too busy drawing a picture of Steve Cook at first on the margin of the page. It wasn’t a good likeness, but it showed a lot of action, and it pleased Jonesie. So enthralled was he with his artistic endeavors that the teams had changed sides before he realized it, and he hurriedly set down several assists, put-outs and errors wherever they looked best.
Billy was disgruntled when he got back to the bench, and he was rather rude in the way in which he thrust Jonesie aside to get his seat.
“Ah,” observed Jonesie, looking about with a gratified air, “the heroes are back again! In order to catch a ball, Billy, you’ve got to know——” But a muscular hand closed about Jonesie’s throat from behind and the remark was not concluded. Instead, “Buell at bat!” he announced huskily. “Gordon on deck! Proudfoot in the hold!”
Jonesie remained silent while Jimmy Buell fell victim to the puzzling slants of the Popham pitcher. But he felt communicative to-day, and after Buell had disconsolately reseated himself Jonesie went on brightly.
“Honest, Carpenter,” he said, “I wasn’t joshing about that.”
“About what?” growled Billy, working the fingers of his right hand experimentally to see if they were broken or merely dislocated.
“About making up a team from the lower-class fellows and showing your bunch a few of the rudiments of baseball. You see, Billy, it isn’t so much that your fellows can’t play; I think they could if they knew how; but no one has ever shown them, do you see? Now, I think—what? yes, you’re on deck, Billings!—I think that if you could only play a game or two with a team that knew a little about it, do you see——?”
“I’ll wring your neck for you in a minute,” returned Billy angrily. Jonesie silently considered the chances of Billy’s carrying out the threat. It was Billy himself who made the next remark.