“Oh, you and your team-play!” scoffed Spud. “Why can’t we learn team-play as well as they can? You wait until next Saturday.”
“Well, I’m through,” muttered The Fungus miserably. “I guess Brooksie will put in Folsom on Monday.”
“Folsom!” jeered Dutch. “Folsom can’t begin to play your game; nor Westlake, either. Don’t you be so sore, old man. You couldn’t help it.”
“Of course I could have helped it, only—well, if Brooksie keeps me on I’ll bet it won’t happen again. After this I’m going to dig my nails into it!”
“Couldn’t you have explained to them that you didn’t mean to drop that ball?” asked Molly earnestly. “That it was just a—a mistake, Fungus?”
The laughter that this question produced cleared the atmosphere not a little and by the time the bell had rung West House was a good deal more cheerful and much hungrier.
“Isn’t she the limit?” laughed Spud as they went in to the dining-room. “Asking if Fungus couldn’t have explained that it was a mistake!”
“She’s a mighty nice kid,” said Dutch.