“If I was not good enough to associate with before,” he told himself, “I’m no better now, merely because one man of prominence walks across the yard with me.”
He had never accepted Joe Perkins’s invitation to call. He was grateful to the captain for the friendliness the latter had shown him, and continued to show him on every occasion. But Perkins believed him a coward, just as the others did. Joe repeated his invitation twice and then gave it up. Yet the more he saw of Jack the more he was inclined to doubt the fairness of the general verdict, and so, in spite of duties that took up practically every minute of his waking hours, he found time to write a letter to his cousin, Billy Cromwell, in Auburn. Eventually he received a reply. There were eight sheets of it altogether, as was natural, considering that Billy hadn’t written to Joe previously for something over six months, but only a small portion of the epistle is of interest here.
“I know Jack Weatherby very well [Billy wrote]. His folks and mine are old acquaintances. His father has a farm near here, but never has done very well with it, I believe. You know what some of our farms hereabout are; the Weatherby place is like them, only more so. Jack’s a smart, plucky youngster; a good sort all through. If you can help him along you’ll be doing me a favor. And I think you’ll like him if you know him better. And if you can get him on to the nine you’ll be doing well for the nine, I promise you. Jack’s one of those dependable chaps that you meet about once in a thousand years; if he says he’ll knock out a two-bagger, he’ll do it. And he isn’t afraid of work or anything else. That’s about all, I think. You said you wanted to know all I could tell you about Jack, and I think I’ve told it. Remember me to him when you see him.”
Joe folded the letter and put it back in the envelope.
“I never knew Billy to get taken in by any one yet,” he said to himself, “and so I fancy we’ve sized up young Weatherby all wrong. I’ll have another talk with him. Only—how to get hold of him?”
[CHAPTER VII]
AT THE BATTING NETS
Meanwhile Erskine had won a victory over Robinson, a victory which did not, perhaps, occasion as much enthusiasm as would have a triumph on the gridiron or the diamond, but which, nevertheless, pleased everybody greatly, and added new laurels to the wreath, encircling the brow of Anthony Zeno Tidball. Erskine won the debate. The result was never in doubt after Anthony delivered his argument, and when the last word had been said the judges did not even leave their seats, but, after a moment of whispered conference, awarded the victory to the visitors.