"But who said I could pitch, Turner?"
"Tom Apthorpe's cousin, sir; he's down for Sunday."
"But how did he know?"
"Why, sir, he knew you at college, and—"
"What's his name?"
"Harris, sir. He said—"
"Jack Harris!" The instructor's eyes lighted. He tossed the books on the desk. "Run back and tell them I'll come as soon as I leave this note at Dr. Willard's."
There came a cheer from the playground. It was not a Willard cheer.
Turner listened dismayed. "Couldn't you come now, sir?" he begged. "It may be too late. They're batting like anything. Couldn't you leave the note afterwards, sir!"
"Well, may be I could," said Curly. He dropped it into his pocket, put on his hat and strode down the aisle. "Come on, Turner!" he cried.