“But the guy that’s playing the position now is nearly as good,” I objected.
“Don’t believe it. He couldn’t be. Shut up and let your betters talk. I guess we can pull it off, Joe. Don’t you worry, kid. Just leave it to Gus and me. Only, for the love of little limes, if you do get in Saturday don’t mix your signals the way you did yesterday in practice!”
“I won’t,” said Joe, earnest and grateful. “Honest, fellows, if you’ll let me in for the second half—”
“Hold on!” said Babe. “That’s a big order, kid. I didn’t say anything about getting you in for a whole half. Be reasonable!”
“Yes, but don’t you see, Babe, if I get in at the start of the last half I can explain—I mean the folks’ll think I’m being saved for the Munson game the week after, but if I only play for a quarter, say, they’ll get on to the whole gag!”
“Kid, you’re a wonder,” said Babe admiringly. “All right, we’ll do the best we can. Mind you keep this to yourself, though. No talking!”
Joe agreed and was so grateful and relieved that he tried to make a speech from the doorway, but Babe shut him up. Just as he was closing the door, though, Babe called after him. “Say, Joe,” he asked, “have you got a photograph of the dame?”
Joe said he hadn’t, and went on out.