“Just a moment, please,” said Hanson; and when the hubbub had suddenly ceased, “the training-table will start in the morning at Pearson’s,” he announced, “and the following men will report there for breakfast: King, Knox, Gilberth, Billings, Stiles, Motter, Bissell, Lowe, Northup, Smith, Griffin, Mears, and Weatherby. Later, about the middle of the month, more men will be taken on. At present these are all we can accommodate. Breakfast is at eight prompt, and we want every man to be there on time. That’s all.”
After he had gone out those of the fellows remaining began an interested discussion of the announcement. Jack, pulling on his shoes, listened silently.
“Where were you, Jimmie?” asked King.
“I’m one of the ‘also-rans,’ I guess,” answered Riseman, a substitute fielder, sadly.
“Beaten by a freshie,” called a fellow across the room. “Fie, fie, for shame!”
“Who’s the freshie?” called some one else.
“Weatherby,” answered two or three voices. “Weatherby, the brave!” added another. An admonitory “S—s—s—sh!” arose from Jack’s vicinity, and King whispered around the corner of the next alley: “Shut up, you fellows; he’s over here.” And then another voice, one which Jack instantly recognized as Gilberth’s, drowned King’s warning.
“Do you suppose Hanson expects us to sit at the same table with that bounder?” he asked loudly.
Jack’s face paled, and he bent his head quickly over the shoe he was lacing. “He knows I’m here,” he told himself grimly, “and pretends he doesn’t. If he says ‘Coward,’ I’ll—I’ll—” A lace broke in his hand. King suddenly began talking very loudly to Riseman about the baseball news from Robinson, but above that Jack heard Gilberth’s voice again: