“Huh,” said Babe. “Where’s Cecil?”
“He ain’t coming,” replied Ginger. “He’s resigned.”
“Resigned, eh? Which hospital is he in, son?”
Ginger disregarded the question. “Who’s the feller that hires the bat boys?” he asked.
“Son, are you laboring under the mistaken impression that this job brings in real money?” asked Babe.
“No, sir, I ain’t looking for any money, but it seems like if the boss would say it was all right for me to be—”
“I get you. Come along. Oh, Bert! Meet my particular friend, Ginger Burke, Bert. Ginger’s the new bat boy. The former incumbent has been forced to resign. Ill health, I believe.”
“Why, I didn’t know that,” said Bert Naylor, puzzled. “Well, it’s all right, I suppose. You say you know this kid, Babe? Well—” The manager observed Ginger sternly through his glasses. “We don’t pay anything, you know. If you want to—to—if you want the place, all right, but we—er—we don’t pay anything.”
“Now you’re all right,” said Babe as Naylor hurried off. “You’re official bat boy, son, with the inestimable privilege of writing ‘B. B.’ after your name. I would like to know, though, how you induced Cecil to resign. Did you crown him with a brick, or just—ah—” Babe delivered an imaginary upper-cut against an imaginary adversary. But Ginger only shook his head.
“There wasn’t no trouble,” he said evasively. “I—I just talked to him.”