“Oh, dry up, Jonesie! And credit Billings with a two-bagger, why don’t you? Say, what sort of a score is that you’re keeping, anyway?”
“This? This is the finest little score you ever saw. What did you say Billings made?”
“I said—— Good work, Charlie! Guess I’d better go out and take a hand.” The bases were filled and Billy’s good nature was restored by the prospect of adding a few runs to their meager score.
“Then you mean you won’t play us?” insisted Jonesie as the older boy pushed by him.
“Play you? Yes, we’ll play you, Jonesie.” Billy laughed. “Bring on your team!”
“Next—next Thursday?” yelled Jonesie.
“Sure thing!”
Jonesie whistled softly to himself, not at all melodiously, and scrawled strange forms on the margins of the score sheet. He was thinking. When Jonesie thought it was safe to assume that sooner or later, and probably at no very distant time, something of interest would happen at Randall’s!
His preoccupation was rudely dispelled by the sound of a bat striking a ball and the frenzied shouts of the few onlookers who had survived eight wearisome innings. Jonesie looked up to see Steve Cook legging it to first, the Popham center-fielder racing back toward the distant fence and the bases emptying. Behind first base Billy Carpenter was waving and shouting. Behind third Jimmy Buell was doing likewise. Jonesie sighed. More work for the scorer!