“You’ll let your friends ride free, won’t you?” Terry inquired.
“Yes, but I shan’t have any then. It’ll cost too much.”
“All that doesn’t cause me a flutter,” said Hal. “By the time Tolly’s out of college I’ll be dead.”
“Don’t you believe it,” Joe chuckled. “It won’t take him two weeks to get through college—if he once gets in. It’ll be a case of ‘Howdy do, Mr. Tolliver. Goodby, Mr. Tolliver!’”
“Huh!” grunted Tolly. “That’s all you know about it, Joey. I can get in any college I like, and——”
“Yes, but suppose they found you?” said Hal.
“I’m getting letters every day from all the big ones: Harvard, Yale, Princeton, Cornell——”
“Vassar,” suggested Joe helpfully.
“That’s what comes of being a real ball-player,” concluded Tolly. “Everyone wants you.”
A groan of derision arose. “A real ball-player!” said Hal. “You poor fish, you never caught a ball but once in your life, and then you couldn’t get out of its way!” Hal rolled over a little so that he could see Terry. “You never heard about that, did you, Terry?” he asked. “It was last Spring. Tolly was trying for the nine and the coach sort of let him hang around and look after the bats and keep the water bucket filled, you know. The only trouble was that he was so small that fellows were always falling over him, and finally Murdock, who was captain then, decided to get rid of him. But Tolly hid behind the bucket and Murdock couldn’t find him, and one day we played Spencer Hall and a fellow named Williams, the regular left fielder, was sick, and another fellow got spiked or something and there was only Tolly left. So Murdock called him and Tolly crawled out from under a glove——”