“Yes, and he says if you play center there’s got to be a rule that a hit to center field is good for only three bases.”
Fudge snorted indignantly. “If he ever hit a ball as far as the outfield he’d fall in a faint! When do we start?”
“I’ve got to see the other fellows yet. Harry is working in his father’s store and I don’t know whether his dad will let him play.”
“That’s so. We need him, too. He’s a peach of a baseman. Who’s going to play short?”
“I want Pete Robey to,” replied Gordon doubtfully. “Think he’d do, Fudge?”
“We-ell, Pete isn’t so much of a muchness. Why don’t you p-put him in center and let me play short?”
“Because a fellow has to have brains to play in the infield, Fudge, and——”
Fudge tried to reach him with the racket, failed and, composing his features to an expression of grave interest, asked: “Won’t it be awfully hard to find anyone to play first?”
Gordon smiled. “Never you mind about first. Get your wheel and let’s go around and see some of the fellows. We can catch Harry at the store if we hurry. I want to see Tom, too. If he won’t go into it and pitch for us we might as well give it up.”
“Oh, Tom’ll pitch all right,” answered Fudge, dropping from the tree, racket in hand. “He’d rather pitch a baseball than eat. I’ll meet you out front in two minutes.”