“I know. I guess he will let me. He ought to.” Harry observed the yellow slips in his hand somberly. “I’ve been working pretty hard, I tell you.”
“I should think,” suggested the irrepressible Fudge, “that if you worked late to-night you could sand enough sugar to last the week out!”
“Say, they’re not going to let you play, are they, Fudge?”
“How could they do without me?”
“It’ll be a peach of a nine!” jeered Harry. He was only a year older than Fudge, but pretended to regard that youth with amused toleration, and so caused Fudge deep annoyance at times.
“Well, we’ve got eight good ones,” responded Fudge sweetly. “If we could only find a fellow to play second base, we’d be all right.”
“It’s a wonder they don’t put you there.”
“Oh, I was offered the position, bu-but I didn’t want it. I prefer the outfield. There’s more re-re-responsibility there.”
“You’re a wonder!” said Harry. “What would you do if a ball came your way? Hold your mouth open and try to swallow it?”
“You wa-wait and see! If I co-co-couldn’t catch a b-b-ball better th-th-than you——”