“Tuesday? He hasn’t anything from eleven fifteen to twelve, sir.”
“Good. Tell him to be over at the field at eleven twenty. You’ll catch for him? I hope this isn’t just a flivver, my boy, for from present indications we’re going to need pitchers next year.”
“Wouldn’t we be able to use another this year, if we had him?” asked Laurie, grinning. Mr. Mulford smiled responsively.
“Hm, we might, and that’s a fact,” he acknowledged. “Well, have your champion on hand to-morrow morning, Turner.” He hurried on into the gymnasium, and, after a thoughtful stare into space, Laurie followed him.
“Next year!” scoffed Kewpie when, after practice, Laurie reported the gist of his talk with the coach. “He’s crazy! What’s the matter with this year? I’ll bet you I can pitch as good ball as Orville Croft right now.”
“And that wouldn’t be saying much, either,” assented Laurie.
“Well, they’ve got him on the team,” grumbled Kewpie. “Pinky’s got a nerve if he thinks I’m going to wait around for a whole year after the way I’ve been working all spring!”
“Yes, he ain’t so well in his nerve,” mused Laurie. “Ought to see a doctor about—”
“Well, didn’t you tell him I wanted to play this year?” demanded Kewpie impatiently. Laurie shook his head.
“No, you see, dear old lad, I didn’t want to overtax his brain. You know how these baseball coaches are. They can wrestle with one idea, but when it comes to two at the same time—” Laurie shrugged eloquently. Kewpie viewed him doubtfully.