“Oh, any one. We played about thirty games last summer and won more than half. We go away for a lot of them. We went as far as Bridgeport once. We played twice at New Haven and once at New London and—” Johnny stopped and pushed a slice of lemon around the bottom of his glass with the straw. “Say, what’s the name of the big fellow who’s playing left—no, right guard for us?”
“Renneker,” said Slim. “First name’s Gordon. What about him?”
“Nothing. Gordon Renneker, eh? Does he play baseball, do you know?”
“No, I don’t, Johnny. Want him for the Crescents next summer?”
Johnny shook his head. “I was—I was just wondering. You see, there was a fellow played on this New London team—the Maple Leaf it was called—looked a whole lot like this chap.”
“Maybe it was he,” said Slim cheerfully, setting down his glass with a regretful glance at the empty pitcher. “Maybe baseball’s his real game and he got mixed.”
“This fellow’s name was Ralston, George Ralston,” replied Johnny, frowning. “Sure, though, he was the dead spit of Renneker.”
“I’ve heard of fellows changing their names before this,” said Leonard. “Perhaps, for some reason, Renneker didn’t want to play under his own name. Was he good, McGrath?”
“He was,” answered their host emphatically. “He played first, and he had a reach from here to the corner of the porch and could hit the cover off the ball every time. He played fine, he did. Kind of a lazy-acting fellow; looked like he wasn’t much interested. And maybe he wasn’t, if what they told us was so.”
“What was that?” asked Slim, smothering a yawn.