“Except pastry at the Widow Deane’s, Kewpie.”
Kewpie ignored the interruption. “Well, anyway, I’ve been thinking that if I could get into baseball it would be a mighty good thing for me. Sort of keep me in training, you know. I—I’m likely to put on weight if I don’t watch out. You understand.”
“What’s your line?” asked Ned innocently. “Short-stop?”
Kewpie grinned. “Pitcher,” he said.
“Really? Why, I didn’t know you were a baseball pitcher. Ever worked at it much?”
“Sure,” said Kewpie. Then his gaze wavered and he hedged a trifle. “Of course, I’ve never tried for the team or anything like that, but last spring we had a scrub team here and I pitched on it—generally. I’ve got something, too, let me tell you.” Kewpie’s assurance returned. “All I need is practice, Nid. Why, I can pitch a drop that’s a wonder!”
“Too bad you didn’t go out for the team this year,” said Ned. “I understand Mr. Mulford won’t take any fellows on who didn’t report early.”
Kewpie’s dejection returned and he nodded. “I know,” he answered. “That’s why I wanted to get Nod to—to sort of speak a good word for me. You see, if I can show him I’ve got something on the ball and he tells Pinky, why, I guess Pinky wouldn’t want to lose me.”
“Why don’t you speak to Pinky yourself?”
“Oh, you know how coaches are. They don’t believe what you tell ’em half the time; think you’re just stringing ’em to get on the squad.”