“Well, two, then. Come, now!”
“No; I won’t bet,” answered Browne, grinning. “If there’s a prize ahead, there’s no telling what you’ll do; is there, Pete?”
“No; he might even make a run,” responded Billings. “But it’s going to take more than two hits to win this game,” he went on, dropping his voice, “for I’ll just tell you they’re going to pound Hugh all over the field.”
“Well, what if they do get a dozen runs or so?” said Stilson. “Haven’t we got a mighty batter, imported especially for the occasion, to win out for us?”
“Whom do you mean?” asked Billings.
“I mean the redoubtable Mr. Brewster, of course—the freshman Joan of Arc who is to lead us to vict——”
“Not so loud,” whispered Browne, glancing at Ned’s crimsoning cheeks.
Stilson swung around and shot a look at the substitute, then turned back grinning.
“Cleared off nicely, hasn’t it?” he observed, with elaborate nonchalance.
Ned said to himself, “He’s got it in for me because he knows that if I play it will be in his place.”