Laurie dropped around to the Widow Deane’s about five thirty that afternoon. It was getting to be something of a habit with him. Over a glass of root-beer he narrated to Polly the events of the morning. “He’s a perfect duffer at pitching,” he summed up finally, “and I guess I won’t ever have to trouble Pinky about him.”
“But perhaps he will learn,” said Polly hopefully. “And, anyway, he’s—he’s a changed mortal already, Laurie!”
“He’s a what?”
“I mean he’s different already. He was in this afternoon, and he had just a plain soda and only one cream-puff, and he was just as jolly as anything. Why, you wouldn’t know him for the same boy!”
Somehow these glad tidings didn’t appear to endow Laurie with any great feeling of uplift. He said, “Huh,” and took another sip of his root-beer. Polly went on earnestly.
“I suppose it’s just having something to interest him, something to live for, that’s changed him. Why, even if nothing actually came of it, Laurie, we’ve already done him a lot of good.”
“Great,” said Laurie. “I guess he’s got all the good that’s coming to him, then. He will never make a baseball pitcher.”
“But you mustn’t tell him that, even if you believe it,” said Polly earnestly. “You must encourage him, you know. We all must.”
Laurie grinned. “I’ve already told him he’s no good. I guess I told him so several times. But he doesn’t believe it, so there’s no harm done.”
“Oh, you shouldn’t have,” exclaimed Polly. “Don’t you see, if he’s to be—be taken out of himself, Laurie, he must—must have faith?”